Page 48 of The Pocket Pair

But I should get home to make absolutely sure the smart thermostat is working. I wouldn’t want Val to freeze to death her very first night in my house. I can’t act on any feelings I may or may not be having, but I can at least commit to keeping Val safe and warm.

CHAPTER 15

Val

When I hear keys in the door, I wake up groggy and foggy on the couch. Criminal Minds is paused on the screen, covered by a message from Netflix asking me if I want to keep watching. For once, I really don’t. I’ve had enough serial murders to last me a lifetime. After Winnie left, I put it back on.

What time is it?

Chevy gives me a soft smile as he walks in, locking the door behind him. I hope the relief isn’t super evident on my face that he’s alone.

“I thought I told you not to wait up,” he says.

His voice is gentle, wrapping around me warmer and softer than the throw blanket I pulled over my legs earlier. It’s one I brought from my place because Chevy doesn’t believe in throw blankets. He has exactly two pillows on the couch Winnie bought for him. One of which is still on the floor from where I threw it at her head earlier.

“Mmm,” is the only answer I can manage as I burrow deeper into the couch cushions. “I didn’t wait up. I was sleeping. I like your couch.”

Chevy sits down on the other end of the couch. I try not to faint with shock as he lifts my legs and settles underneath them, putting my feet into his lap. This is like every Christmas present and birthday gift I’ve ever wished for all rolled up into one.

Especially when he starts lightly rubbing my feet.

I try not to react in any way, afraid any movement or the sound of contentment I REALLY have to work to hold back would scare him into stopping. Or declaring this a friendly foot massage.

Then I think about Winnie’s worries, which I can’t help but share. Chevy has reminded me multiple times this week about friendship.

But he’s also rubbing my feet. And Winnie made such a point about him adjusting the thermostat for me. His thumb brushes over my ankle and I shiver. Don’t read into it, I tell myself, like I don’t already have a wall set up in my mind with all the clues thumbtacked up and connected by red string, trying to solve this mystery of how he really feels about me.

“How was your night?” he asks.

Now, THAT’S a loaded question considering the conversation I had with his sister.

I stick with the facts. “I binged Criminal Minds and ate ice cream out of the carton. Pretty lame,” I add.

“Sounds better than my night.”

Which was spent … how? I can’t ask. I won’t ask. I guess I can console myself with the fact that if it was a date, it doesn’t sound like it went well. And now he’s here, rubbing my feet, not with someone else.

Chevy gives my feet a squeeze and I swear, I feel it in my heart. “I should have stayed home with you.”

“Yeah?”

He keeps his gaze on my feet, resuming the massage. “I wanted to give you space. To unpack or just feel at home.”

You make me feel at home. I’m glad I at least have the wherewithal to keep that confession inside.

I shift so I’m on my back, looking up at his face. “I don’t need space.”

I definitely don’t WANT space. What’s the opposite of space? Industrial strength super glue? That’s what I want.

“Good to know,” Chevy says with a chuckle. He clears his throat and gives my toes a squeeze. “We should get you to bed.”

Yes. WE should.

But with his big hands gently massaging my feet and his presence warming me, I don’t want to move. “I’m not tired,” I mumble, my voice the very definition of tired.

“I call poppycock.”

“Poppycock?”

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