Page 49 of The Pocket Pair

He grins, and my heart feels like it was just given a hug by two defibrillator paddles. “It’s what my mama always said instead of BS. She said even saying the initials were like cussing.”

Neither Winnie nor Chevy talk much about their mom. I don’t say much about mine either, but that’s because she’s not worth a single-syllable word. But Mrs. Boyd was the best kind of mother. Sweet and tender, yet full of vibrant life. Fun. Dependable.

Losing her hurt more than having my own mom walk out. I can only imagine how it felt for Chevy and Winnie. And I have to imagine because, again, neither one ever said much, grieving in their own very different, but both private, ways.

Just like they both stuffed their feelings about their father down deep. I study Chevy, wondering what it would be like to find out your seemingly loving parent had a whole other family. It makes me want to head over to the cemetery and stomp right on Mr. Boyd’s grave. Or maybe leave a bag of coal in lieu of flowers.

How did Chevy turn out to be such a good, trustworthy man after that trauma?

He stands up, dropping my feet back to the couch. Disappointment hits me like a cinder block.

That is, until Chevy bends down and scoops me up in his arms, the blanket still tucked around my body like I’m a burrito. I let out a surprised squeak and wiggle, trying to free my arms from the blanket.

Chevy tightens his grip, grinning down at me. “Nope. You’re not escaping, Tiny.”

I’m not trying to escape, dummy. I wanted to wrap my arms around you like a clinging vine to a tree so you can never let me go.

“Is there an extra charge for bedtime delivery services at this hotel?” I tease.

“This is a home, not a hotel. But I do accept tips. Not the monetary kind.”

“Tips like … don’t eat yellow snow?”

He chuckles. “Why is that always the one people start with? Who’s eating all this yellow snow anyway?”

“A very good question.”

When we get to my door, I am SO tempted to wedge my legs against the door jamb so Chevy can’t walk me inside. I am NOT ready to stop being cradled to his chest like a human burrito. Instead, I try to surreptitiously burrow in a little deeper, relishing every moment.

“And here we are,” Chevy says, trying and failing to maintain a believable British accent.

“Are you trying to be a butler?”

“Alfred has always been my favorite character in any Batman movie.”

I cackle at this, which means I’m wholly unprepared when Chevy tosses me on the bed.

I’m sure Chevy didn’t mean to do so with such force. He was being playful. I KNOW he didn’t intend for me to bounce once, then roll right off the side and hit the floor.

Because I’m still burritoed in the blanket, I can’t catch myself, which means my face whacks right into the hardwood floor. Inexplicably, my elbow jabs my stomach, knocking the wind right out of me.

“Tiny!”

Chevy is kneeling beside me in an instant, turning me over. He yanks the blanket off, examining me for injuries. Despite the ache in my head and my inability to breathe, I love being the object of his full attention.

Worth it!

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Are you okay? Val? Val!”

My breath returns with a gasp. It’s been years since I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, and I’d forgotten the panic that comes while waiting for my lungs to resume their full function.

Chevy picks me up again—hallelujah!—and this time sets me carefully on the bed.

“Sorry,” I gasp. “I knocked the wind out of myself.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.”

His face is a giant letter of apology, and his eyes snag on my forehead. Everything happened so fast, but based on the throbbing ache, I whacked it pretty good. Chevy winces.

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