Page 12 of The Pocket Pair

My neurons are firing with the frantic energy of children at a birthday when the piñata finally breaks.

“Val!”

Lindy’s voice is more than a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. It’s like being dropped into the Arctic Ocean. I jump back from Chevy, grateful it’s Lindy, not Winnie, standing there impatiently.

“We’re gonna be late,” she says. “Come on.”

I take off without looking back, not even when Chevy calls, “Thanks for fixing me up, Dr. Tiny.”

His words make me think about playing doctor, which is NOT where my thoughts need to be. Especially as Lindy yanks me aside before we reach Winnie’s car.

“What was that?” she hisses.

I can’t answer, because honestly, I have NO idea.

CHAPTER 4

Chevy

“Do you think I have a weak chin?”

Patrick Graham asks this absurd question with a completely straight face, and I do my very best not to punch him right on the chin in question. I think I’ve done enough punching for the night.

After driving back from CVS with a lot of unanswered questions swirling in my head (Namely: who’s pregnant? And: what the HECK was that moment between Val and me?), I met up with the Graham brothers to provide a much-needed distraction from the weirdness of my week.

It’s mostly working. We’re hanging out at Pat’s newly renovated house while his daughter, Jo, sleeps upstairs. If anyone has noticed me being quieter than usual, no one has said a word.

“Your chin could launch a thousand ships, Patty,” I say, and his oldest brother, James, snorts.

It’s true, though. His whole jaw is, in fact, what a romance novel would describe as “able to cut glass.” I know this because my sister, Winnie, left her books all around my house during the (thankfully) brief time she stayed in my guest room. I picked up one—okay, a few—to see what all the fuss is about.

Turns out, romance novels aren’t so bad. But the heroines all have a type: a man with a good, strong jaw and muscular forearms. With zero hope of ever having a six pack and a jaw that will never cut through anything at all, I’m more side character material. The funny one. The friend.

Pat puts a hand over his heart. “Aw, Chev. I should put that on a business card. Or maybe just a t-shirt.”

“I don’t know.” Collin, the middle brother, sets his bottle down and grabs Pat’s face in his hand, turning it left and right like he’s examining a horse until Pat swats him. “Some neck yoga might help.”

Pat rubs a hand over his jaw. “Neck yoga?”

“Or face yoga?” Collin frowns and pulls out his phone. “I forget what it’s called, but I saw it on an Instagram ad.”

Not one of the Grahams needs whatever face yoga is. All three brothers could all be cover models or romance heroes with their deadly sharp jaws (for glass cutting), broad shoulders (the better to carry you with, my dear), and muscles that look like they were ordered straight from a catalog (in size Extra Large and Extra Cut). Even their dad, who is in his fifties, still looks this way. It’s genetic superiority at its finest.

And because Tank, Collin, and Pat played pro football and were wise with their finances, they’re loaded. Which is why they’re here at all—Tank purchased Sheet Cake, Texas, treating the revitalization of our town like some kind of HGTV special.

If the Grahams weren’t such decent guys, I’d hate them all. Instead, I decided to adopt myself into their family. If you can’t beat them, better attach yourself to ‘em like a tick.

“No.” James scowls at Pat and Collin. “No face yoga.”

“You say no to everything.” Pat leans closer so he can look at Collin’s phone.

“No is your favorite word,” Collin adds.

Pat chuckles. “It’s your theme song.”

“Your brand promise.”

“Your aura.”

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