Page 43 of The Pocket Pair

Ruffles my hair.

Nothing says friend of my little sister quite like a noogie. And just like that, I’ve been punted back toward the friend zone.

CHAPTER 13

Val

Chevy disappeared the minute we finished unloading the groceries, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s avoiding me. Which I REFUSE to take personally. Living with people and sharing spaces can be weird. He and I spent most of the day together, which is more time than we’ve ever hung out. Maybe he just needed a break.

I mean, to ME, it felt like something I could very much get behind. Together in the kitchen, we fell into an easy rhythm, moving around each other without needing to even communicate in words. I tossed the bread; he caught it and put it away with a wink. He handed me frozen pizza and our fingers touched; I cleared space for it in the freezer while my hot cheeks cooled. And when he brushed against my back while passing me, goose bumps appeared all the way up my arms like they were super eager fans doing the wave in a sold-out stadium.

We talked about nothing and everything—laughing and teasing the way we normally do. For a little while at least, he stopped dropping those we’re just friends! bread crumbs. It made me happy. It made me feel—for the first time since Mari told me she was leaving—safe. Like I have a home. The ache in my chest was both pain and pleasure.

Until Chevy put the last box in the pantry and then bolted out the front door, calling out, “Make yourself at home and don’t wait up!”

It stung. Like, an angry beehive swarming on you kind of sting.

The last part is what really got me. He doesn’t want me to wait up. Does that mean he’ll be home late? Or … not at all? Does he have a date? Will he bring someone back with him?

There is no way I can live here if it’s going to be a front-row seat to Chevy’s dating life. Wolf’s bunker—here I come!

To distract myself from thoughts of Chevy out with someone else right now, I put on a show with absolutely zero (or maybe point one percent) romance—Criminal Minds—and eat ice cream straight from the carton. Have I been simmering in jealousy like it’s a slow cooker recipe? Perhaps.

A knock on the door makes me jump. Because who would be knocking on Chevy’s door after nine o'clock at night?

Possibly a serial killer who knows I’m home alone, ditched by the man who clearly had enough of me today.

Unlikely. This is Sheet Cake. If there were a serial killer, he picked the wrong town. Nosy people on Neighborly would have him caught before he even attempted murder.

Another thought strikes fear straight into my heart like a bolt of lightning. Maybe it’s a woman here to see Chevy. I swallow, frozen in place by this MUCH more terrifying thought.

Give me a serial killer! Please!

But it’s Winnie’s voice I hear along with another, harder knock. “Little pig, little pig, let me come in!”

The moment I unlock the door, Winnie practically dives inside. I hadn’t realized the temperature drastically dropped since this afternoon—the mild winter days we’ve had lately were swallowed up by a bitter, frosty chill. I guess the wind I heard whistling against the eaves earlier was a cold front moving in.

“Sorry. I couldn’t find my key,” Winnie says, striding through the room with the comfort of someone who used to live here.

I sink back down into my spot on the couch, waiting for the inevitable inquisition. I’ve known Winnie would want to talk ever since I saw the look on her face when I said I was moving in with Chevy. I don’t know exactly what this conversation will be like, considering the last time she warned me away from him we were both in high school.

“Did you turn this up?” Winnie’s peering at the smart thermostat on the wall. She taps it, giving me an accusing look.

“I don’t even know how to work the thing.”

“Interesting,” Winnie says.

Is it?

Winnie tosses her leather jacket on the back of an armchair, then turns all her attention to me. Leaning forward, hands clasped. Eyes narrowed. As always, she’s impeccably dressed with her blond hair in a high ponytail, a black pencil skirt, tights, and motorcycle boots that somehow work for her mix of modern and 1930s fashion icon.

Me? I put on pajamas at five o’clock.

“So, you moved in with my brother,” she says.

“I did. Yes.”

We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time. And then I throw a pillow at her face. She’s too startled to even catch it, and it falls to the floor, pulling a few flyaway hairs out of her ponytail.

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