Page 26 of The Pocket Pair

When he pulls up in front of my garage apartment at Mari’s, he gives my knee a single squeeze before pulling away.

I hop out of his car, then turn back, leaning down to give him one last look.

“Goodnight, Tiny,” he says with a slow smile, showcasing his dimples.

And I’m totally blaming those dimples for this. “I shouldn’t say anything, but I know you won’t stop thinking about it until you know. I wasn’t the one buying the pregnancy test,” I confess. “Neither was your sister. But if you mention anything to anyone, I’ll … I’ll …”

His smile melts into an earnest expression, tugging at something in my chest. “Thank you for trusting me. For what it’s worth, I trust you too.”

And with those words washing over me, I slam the car door and dart for my studio so I can release all my big feelings by way of paint and canvas.

CHAPTER 8

Chevy

I wish I’d thought to take a picture of Grant’s face when I walk him into Wolf’s bar for the first time.

Suffice it to say, the newest deputy and recent transplant to Sheet Cake was shocked first. Thrilled second. His big brown eyes wide with wonder like a little league kid walking into a pro baseball stadium to watch their favorite team.

Backwoods Bar is little more than a metal shed in the middle of a field where Wolf Waters slings beer and Sheeters enjoy drinks, conversation, and dancing out back when it’s not too cold. I can hear a little George Strait trickling in even now. The bar is Wolf’s way of really leaning into the fact that he’s the black sheep of the otherwise wealthy, snobby, and downright cantankerous Waters family.

“A secret bar is really a thing?” Grant asks, glancing around. “It’s like a speakeasy.”

I bark out a laugh, and Wolf makes a face. “Speakeasy—that’s a little too fancy for me. Don’t you need a password to get in or something? I’d never remember, then end up locked out of my own bar. What can I get you?”

Grant glances at me.

“Can you handle your spice?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes … but how is that a factor when we’re drinking beer?”

I turn to Wolf. “Two of those Dark Horse jalapeños, if you’ve got ’em.”

Wolf reaches into the cooler under the piece of plywood serving as bar, handing us each a dripping bottle with no label. Grant eyes it suspiciously, and I slap him on the back. “Come on.” To Wolf, I say, “I’ll settle up when we go. And I like the ’stache. It suits you.”

Wolf rubs a hand over his mustache, which is bushy enough to make Tom Selleck proud. Maybe even jealous. I can’t decide if it’s a better look than the long beard Wolf used to sport or if he looks like a walrus.

Maybe, I decide, it’s both.

Wolf’s voice startles me back into the moment. “When the winds of change are blowing, brother, the best thing you can do is hoist your sails and let them carry you along.”

I’d rather drop anchor and ride out the storm below deck, hoping for the best on the other side. But I don’t argue, and Grant looks at Wolf like he’s some kind of life coach.

“I’ll take that advice into consideration.”

Grant and I settle on two rickety stools around a table that’s an old, oversized barrel. I hold out my beer, and he clinks the neck against mine.

“What are we drinking to?” he asks as I’m taking my first sip.

The jalapeño infused beer leaves my lips and tongue stinging pleasantly. “Don’t know,” I answer honestly. Usually, I’m the one who’d have some kind of clever answer stored away, ready to fire off at any given moment.

This week, though, my brain feels thick and soupy. No thanks to the letter, the latest of half a dozen I’ve received lately from someone I definitely don’t want to hear from. Each one is a reminder of my dad, and I could do with less of those.

“All right then.” Grant takes a swallow—perhaps bigger than he should have considering this is jalapeño beer—and his eyes start to water. He gets it all down, then sets the bottle on our table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wow,” he says, coughing.

“You should try my sister’s jalapeño vodka,” I tell him. “Talk about a kick.”

“And she’s the one dating James Graham?”

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