Page 40 of The Pocket Pair

Val leans her hips back on the bed, finally turning back to offer me a shy smile. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that we are in a bedroom. Alone. I’m also still shirtless, which I’d forgotten until Val’s eyes briefly dip down.

I’m not a particularly shy man. Even without the six- or eight-pack of abs that the Grahams come equipped with in all standard models, I’m broad and solid. Strong and capable. Never shy.

But with Val just a few steps away, I feel exposed. It takes effort not to swipe the white duvet off the bed and wrap it around myself like a poofy toga. I swear I hear an echo of my mama’s voice, scolding me not to entertain girls in my bedroom, most especially not with the door closed. Never with my shirt off.

With sudden and striking clarity, I can picture Mama right here, wagging her finger at me and reminding me about house rules while apologizing to Val for me being an oaf. In my mind, Mama’s face is as it was before she got sick, pink cheeks and bright blue eyes colored with happiness and a little bit of mischief.

It almost takes my breath away.

“Are you okay?” Val turns the question right back on me, and I realize I’m swaying where I stand.

I turn on my heel and force myself to walk—not bolt—out of the room. Her room.

Val has a room now. In my house. Mi casa is her casa and all that. No biggie. It’ll be just like having Winnie—

NO IT WON’T.

Because there is nothing remotely sisterly or even friendly about the feelings that keep bubbling over, no matter how forcefully I slam the lid on the pot.

Friend, friend, friend, I chant.

Nope, nope, nope, some devilishly delighted voice in my head sing-songs.

And then I picture Winnie standing there, all smug, holding up that stupid pinky, reminding me of my promise to try.

Surely, though, Winnie didn’t mean for me to try with Val. Not after her threats about my manhood.

I realize I’m standing in the middle of my own hallway, one foot in the air because apparently all these voices in my head are enough to halt my gross motor functions and make me freeze mid-step.

Now is not the time to examine my feelings or remember why Val and I cannot be a thing.

Because from where I stand—one foot still mid-air like some kind of shirtless man imitating a flamingo—the reasons are starting to seem awfully flimsy. Except when I remember how many people keep telling me I’m just like my dad. That’s why—he’s why.

“Chevy? Are you—”

“I’m just dandy.”

Just DANDY?

Who talks like this? I force my feet to keep walking and flash Val a smile over my shoulder.

“Lemme get dressed and we’ll head back over to get the rest of your stuff in my truck. Does that sound good?”

I make it to my room before she answers, slamming the door closed and leaning against it, my breath coming fast. No sense in pretending I’m cool. If freezing in the middle of my hallway didn’t clue Val in, saying I’m just dandy had to do the trick.

But her voice is soft and sweet as she says, “Thanks, Chevy.”

I hear Val’s reply through the door like she’s right next to me, practically whispering in my ear. This house is the opposite of soundproof. Noises travel from end to end like a game of telephone between two cans and a string. Recently, I bought a sound machine just so I wouldn’t have to hear Winnie’s hushed, flirty phone conversations with James late at night.

Now, I’ll be using it to cover up any sound reminding me that a woman I definitely have feelings for—feelings I will absolutely NOT act on—sleeping right across the hall.

CHAPTER 12

Val

I am having a moment. A moment of total domestic bliss. If I tilt my head, squint my eyes, and do a little bit of pretending, I can pretend that Chevy and I are a real couple, doing our weekly grocery shopping together.

“What do you normally eat for breakfast?” I ask Chevy, leaning on the handles of the grocery cart as I try to catch his gaze.

---