Page 36 of The Pocket Pair

“See anything you like?”

His gaze snaps back to me so fast I startle a little. He does a quick scan of my face, then his gaze dips for the first time. His eyes widen as he quickly glances at the rest of me.

My bare legs, hidden behind the table, erupt in goose bumps.

When his eyes return to mine, I swear, the blue of his irises has been almost swallowed up by black. But surely he’s not looking at me like that because I’m something he likes? I am basically the equivalent of a goal post cemented into the ground of his friendzone. Always have been.

I swallow when he doesn’t look away but continues to smolder. Always will be?

Chevy says nothing, and I don’t even remember my question. Did I ask a question?

When in doubt, run your mouth—that’s my motto.

“Want a drink? We don’t have beer, but there's red and white wine. How cute are these little plastic wine glasses, right? I had to put all of them together earlier. The stem comes separately in the box so I had to snap them in place. Can you even drink on duty, or—”

“I just got done with work, and I’ll take white.” A slow smile plays on his lips. “The sweeter the better.”

Why does everything he’s said since walking in the door tonight seem to hold double meaning?

Oh, right—that’s just my very fervent plot of wishful thinking sprouting weeds again. I better pluck them all up before they take over.

“One sweet white wine, coming right up!”

I fill one of the small plastic cups I was just babbling about with moscato and order my hands not to shake. They don’t.

I am a veritable pillar of strength.

Until I hold out the plastic wine glass. And then my whole arm starts trembling so badly I nearly dump all the wine out on the table.

Chevy’s hand finds my elbow, steadying me as he plucks the glass from me with his other hand. “You okay there, Tiny?”

I’m torn. I’d love nothing more than to let Chevy hold my elbow forever, his grip warm and safe. But I can’t keep fanning the flames of my feelings for Chevy with all the touching this week. The faking. The … flirting?

My feelings burn hot enough on their own without extra oxygen. Or lighter fluid. Last night’s five minutes of fake boyfriending has clearly thrown off my entire equilibrium.

Oh, and let’s not forget I’m supposed to move into his house tomorrow. How on EARTH will I hide or stifle all this attraction under the same roof as the man?

I jerk my arm back as delicately as I can. “I am all good. Peachy.”

Chevy takes a sip of wine, his eyes on me the whole time, bright with amusement. Not attraction! I tell myself sternly. I’m acting like a fool, and he thinks it’s cute because he doesn’t know WHY I’m behaving this way.

He licks his lips as he lowers the glass, and I force myself to maintain eye contact, only watching the motion with my peripheral vision. The man has perfect lips. Not too thin with a little extra plumpness on the bottom. Plus, no matter what time of day it is, he’s got the right amount of stubble framing his mouth.

When I kissed his jaw last night—-a bold and stupid and amazing move—it felt exactly as I always dreamed it would. Velvety with a delicious little bite.

What I still don’t know is how that stubble would feel as his soft lips press against mine.

“So, what’s the deal?” Chevy asks, interrupting my kissing daydream and making me startle, knocking into the table again.

No deal. I have zero deals. Especially not one where I’m trying and failing to remember how to behave around you.

“Deal with what?” I ask.

“Usually you’re out here.” He gestures toward the room, where more than a few patrons are eyeing his uniform.

Whew. He’s not some kind of mind-reader privy to my inappropriate thoughts.

But wait …

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