Page 35 of The Pocket Pair

Wow. I guess doing one brave thing a day makes me mouthy.

Mr. Silver doesn’t argue with what I said—not even the AI part, which should have sparked some kind of response. Instead, he puts his hands on his hips. “Do you want the space or not?”

“How much would I need to pay you?”

If he looked mortally offended a moment ago, he looks immortally offended now. Like he was so offended he died, and now is so offended, he returned as the undead.

“You don’t need to pay me. I’ll text you the address and the garage door code. Move your things in whenever it’s convenient for you. And if you don’t want a free space to paint, that’s your poor choice.”

And before I can pass out in a dead faint from shock, Mr. Silver turns away. “Set up the wine table. Guests will be arriving soon.”

Okay, then. THAT’s more like it.

* * *

An hour later, I am seriously regretting my wardrobe choice. Lindy looked very dubious when I asked to borrow a dress for tonight. She has a few inches on me in height and I have more than a few on her in the hips and chest regions. When the fabric fit over my hips and backside without any tearing sounds, Lindy wanted to call Winnie to see if we were dealing with a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants magical situation.

But there is nothing at all magical about the way the dress—which fit just fine when I stood still or spun in front of a mirror—tugs and pulls as I move around the gallery. The hemline goes up. The neckline goes down. It’s like my belly button is some kind of vortex, sucking all the fabric toward my middle.

After one too many of the male patrons seemed more interested in gazing at me than the paintings, Mr. Silver asked—more like commanded—me to stand behind the reception table and pour drinks.

I’d be more frustrated if I weren’t relieved to have the barrier the table provides. Also, Mr. Silver has been glaring at the men, not me, so it feels like protection, not punishment. Almost—ALMOST—like a sign of concern or care. Just like offering me the use of his studio.

If I believed in astrology, I’d be looking up what the heck is happening to the planets and stars today. Because my boss is totally out of alignment.

A broad chest suddenly blocks my line of sight.

I give myself exactly three seconds to examine the starchy, white shirt with pearl snap buttons. My eyes snag on the badge, a brass star inside a circle on one side of a broad, broad chest. The pearl buttons and badge together make for a dead sexy set of accessories.

But it’s the man wearing them who makes it hard to swallow and a little hard to breathe.

I finally let my eyes meet his, hoping I’m exuding a calm I definitely don’t feel. “Hello, deputy. Fancy meeting you here.”

In a room full of cocktail dresses and suits, Chevy should look out of place. Sheet Cake’s police uniforms are as Texas as it gets: the aforementioned pearl snap button shirt (which also comes in khaki or blue), a pair of blue jeans, and a leather belt with a Texas-sized brass buckle. Footwear for Chevy is a worn pair of cowboy boots, and let’s not forget the suede ten-gallon hat perched on his head.

The very first time I saw him in uniform, my childhood-turned-teenage crush immediately graduated into one of those sure-to-wreck-your-life infatuations.

“Evening, Tiny.” He tips his cowboy hat, and be still, my stupid heart!

My cheeks heat like a convection oven. Butterflies take flight in my stomach like traffic control has ungrounded them all after a thick, morning fog and then released them all at once. It’s butterfly chaos in there.

I fumble for an internal override button and am pleased enough with the response I manage. “What brings you into this fine establishment? Looking for a new piece to add to your collection?”

Look at me! Acting normal, normal, normal.

But then Chevy flashes me a smile that demolishes my manual override. The button melts right into the console. My knees tremble and knock against the table.

“I’m in the market for something,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “I’m just not sure what.”

Oooh! Pick me! Pick me!

But he’s gazing at the paintings. Right—he’s in the market for something to go on his walls. Because this is a gallery.

I’ve been in Chevy’s neat-as-a-pin home enough times to know his walls are definitely in need of something. While the updates he did inside are impeccable with the refinished hardwoods, fresh light paint, and modern fixtures, his decor makes minimalists look like hoarders. The walls are bare, the windows have blinds but no curtains, and the only personal touches are a few throw pillows Winnie bought for him and a framed photograph of his mother in his bedroom.

Not that I’ve spent any significant time in his bedroom! I just happened to peek in once when Winnie was living there and Chevy was on duty. Curiosity made me do it. His room was as devoid of decor as the rest of the house—not so much as a tiny dust bunny and no frills—except for the photo. I can’t decide if he’s a minimalist or just needs help with the finishing details of a house he so beautifully restored himself.

Even if he needs art and color on his walls, I know these paintings are not exactly in sheriff salary price range.

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