Page 37 of The Pocket Pair

“Usually?” I ask. “You’ve never come to an event at the gallery before.”

“I’ve watched you at a few of these events, talking up the paintings.”

Chevy has … watched me?

I lose the ability to speak, too overcome by the weird signals I feel like I’m picking up. My radar must be broken. I’m picking up something from another channel or hearing nonexistent voices in the static.

Aren’t I?

Chevy tilts his head as though confused by my uncharacteristic silence. “That’s you in your element—talking about all the fancy art stuff I don’t understand. Why are you playing waitress tonight?”

I’m saved from having to answer when Mr. Silver steps up to the table.

“Excuse me,” he says, eyeing the wine in Chevy’s hand as though considering whether or not to snatch it from him. “Is there an issue, officer?”

With slow deliberation, Chevy turns to my boss. The two men are a study in contrasts. Chevy with his stocky build and warm, playful air, and Mr. Silver as thin and sharp and cool as his name.

“No issue.” Chevy takes a slow sip. “Just thought I’d stop in and check things out.”

I swear I see Mr. Silver’s lips twitch. One does not simply walk into a gallery and check things out, I imagine him saying in Boromir’s voice, and wow—this is my second Lord of the Rings moment of the night. Clearly, I’m jonesing for a rewatch of my favorite movies.

“We have the proper licenses necessary, I assure you.”

“I know. I checked.” Chevy takes another sip of wine, holding up his pinky as he does. I barely manage to hold back a snort. “I was just hoping Valentina”—I cannot fight a whole body shudder when he says my full name—“could show me some of the paintings.”

Mr. Silver’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Chevy. “Of course.”

Before my boss changes his mind, I step out from behind the table. And if I’m not mistaken, Chevy’s eyes widen a little again as he takes in the full effect of the dress. Maybe it didn’t end up working so well for adding bravery, but if it makes Chevy look at me like this, I’ll call it a win.

Taking his arm, I tug him toward a painting at the back, away from other people. I attempt to locate words about the painting of a very angry looking man whose skin is painted in shades of green. The name on the card is “Dissonance.”

“Huh,” Chevy says. “I don’t think I’d have chosen that name.”

I grin. “I think a better title would be ‘Angry Alien Loses Library Book and Must Pay Outrageous Fine.’”

Renaming paintings is a game I like to play, especially if I’m feeling resentful about my paintings NOT being good enough for the gallery. Chevy laughs so hard that I have to take his wineglass to keep him from spilling. I take a sip, wondering if this will calm my nerves or make me loopy.

“Now that’s a painting I’d buy,” he says. “Where would you reckon I’d hang it?”

I tilt my head. “Perhaps over the toilet in your master bathroom.”

He laughs again, steering me toward the next painting. “How about this one?”

The canvas is brightly colored with various circles intersecting and overlapping. “This would work well in your dining room. I call it, ‘Ordered Lobster; Got Fruit Loops Instead.”

His laughter emboldens me—or makes me giddy and stupid—and we move from painting to painting this way. By the time we reach the last landscape, most of the other guests are gone, and Mr. Silver is packing up the wine and clearing the table. That’s my job, but if he’s not complaining, I’m not about to help.

In a softer voice than he’s used all night, Chevy says, “I actually wanted to stop in to check on you, Tiny.”

“Check on me?”

“Well, to check on us.”

“Us?”

I really, REALLY like this two-letter word when the pronoun refers to Chevy and me. Me and Chevy. US.

“I wanted to be sure we’re okay. That I didn’t cross a line or anything.”

---