Page 23 of The Pocket Pair

“I just keep waiting for you to blast some kind of terrible music to annoy me.”

He’s not wrong to expect this. In high school, his dad forced him to give Winnie, Lindy, and me rides to school in the old truck Chevy still sometimes drives. He’d blast country—classic country, he’d point out, like it matters—and sing along loudly and off-key. Whichever of us was closer to the radio would switch it to the pop station to get him riled up by the tinny, catchy beat from a boy band.

It’s a familiar game. But I’m not in the mood for games tonight.

“I thought some quiet would be nice,” I tell him.

A thoughtful hum is his only response, and I want to yank him by his shirt collar and ask him what that sound means. But I don’t.

“My head is too loud lately,” I say instead. Then I wish I’d kept my mouth shut because what a thing to say!

But Chevy doesn’t laugh or give me a weird look at this confession. He says nothing, though his hands flex. Knowing he carefully and lovingly restored this Mustang makes his big, strong hands on the steering wheel sexier. Even with the bandages.

Especially with the bandages. I can’t help smiling, which Chevy of course notices.

He wiggles the fingers on his right hand. “You know I’m gonna take these off the second I get home in favor of a more studly option?”

I laugh. “Do they make studly bandages?”

“Maybe Old Spice got into the first-aid game, and I’ve got a Kraken first aid kit to match my Kraken deodorant.”

“You wear Kraken deodorant? What does a Kraken even smell like?”

And before I think twice about it and realize how supremely STUPID this is, I lean my face over to Chevy’s armpit and take a big sniff.

Mistake. Big mistake!

Not because it smells BAD—in fact, sea monster plus Chevy is now my all-time favorite scent—but because once I realize how weird I'm being, I freeze. Right here with my nose in his armpit.

Retreat is the logical option. But I’m not always logical.

And now, knowing my cheeks are going to be a dying of embarrassment red, I can’t make myself move. I am COMMITTED.

“Uh.” Chevy shifts, and I know he’s glancing down at me, though I don’t look up. I CAN’T look up. “Are you … sniffing my pits?”

“Pit. Singular.”

Because yes—let’s debate semantics rather than my ridiculous behavior.

As casually as I can, I sit up, moving back over to my side of the car. To hide my blush, I take my hair down, feigning a casual refresh of my messy bun, when what I’m really doing is using a hair curtain to hide my embarrassment. Never have I been so grateful for my long locks.

I just … smelled Chevy’s armpit.

This has to be a violation of at least nineteen friendship codes and best friend’s older brother codes and not revealing your crush codes and maybe even health codes.

Also, now I’m going to fall asleep dreaming of his scent.

Old Spice, you’ve got this thing on lock. Props to you.

“It’s been a long day, and I can’t vouch for my level of freshness,” Chevy says.

Oh! Maybe he’s embarrassed thinking he smelled bad rather than uncomfortable because I just got all up and close with his armpit.

“You smell great. I mean, your deodorant smells great. On you,” I say, wishing I could hit the restart on my brain, which has obviously forgotten how to function. But this is more like one of those fasten-your-seatbelts kind of moments, because my idiocy shows no signs of slowing. “It’s no wonder Old spice has a corner on the man market.”

He makes a choking sound, which turns into a laugh. “The … man market?”

“You know what I mean.” Laughing, I swat Chevy’s arm, not realizing how flirtatious my words and actions are coming out until he shoots me a surprised look, which quickly shifts to a smile and a wink.

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