Page 51 of The Pocket Pair

Let’s not forget giving her a noogie in the grocery store.

Who even am I?

The only thing that’s clear this morning is that I am a man running on not enough sleep. I spent most of the night tossing and turning and trying not to think about Val. Trying not to replay all the stupid things I did yesterday. Like tossing her, which I feel horrible about. Then there’s the moment when I thought about kissing her. Followed by my hasty exit and … the finger guns.

“You are a fool,” I tell myself, dipping my face under the showerhead. “An idiot.”

Here’s the thing: I don’t understand why I’m struggling so hard to quell an attraction that didn’t exist—or maybe I pretended didn’t exist—for years. Years!

Val has been living here less than twenty-four hours and already, she’s under my skin like the sexiest kind of splinter. It felt so normal, so RIGHT to grocery shop with her and then put things away in my kitchen. To come home after a long and lonely night to rub her feet on the couch.

Despite what impression I’ve given publicly by my penchant for dating, I’ve never brought a woman I’m dating back here. There’s no one I’d want to have in my home. But Val … she feels like she belongs.

The second we were done putting away groceries yesterday, I had to leave my house for fear of doing or saying something I shouldn’t.

Like, for example: telling her not to go to Costa Rica. Asking her to stay here with me—indefinitely.

Or: kissing her while she has a loaf of bread in her hands.

Nothing says romance like making out while holding sandwich bread!

Maybe I should establish a no kissing policy in my house. Except that would let her know I’m thinking about kissing her.

But a policy or a set of rules might actually be a good idea. Just like in my freshman dorm, we had to sign a roommate contract with expectations and rules for the room. Things like what time you could play music, who cleaned up what, and also … what to do if one of us brought a woman back to the room.

I swallow. Surely that won’t be an issue, will it? There’s no way I can stomach seeing Val with another guy in my own house. Yep—we definitely need to establish rules. And that for SURE will be on there.

I hear Val moving around in the kitchen and remember her promise to make me stuffed French toast. My stomach growls at the thought, even though I’ve never heard of stuffed French toast, nor do I know what it’s stuffed with.

I only know that I can’t seem to get into the kitchen fast enough.

The sweet smell of vanilla hangs in the air as Val moves around my small island with confident grace. She looks good in a way I’m not prepared for with her messy bun, pajama pants and T-shirt, all topped with an apron of mine double knotted around her waist.

I suddenly understand the appeal of a football player seeing his woman in his jersey. Not that I wear my apron enough to make it any kind of equivalent. I actually can’t remember the last time I put it on. But seeing Val wear anything of mine gives me a warm rush of a feeling, along with one word, echoing like a drumbeat in my head: Mine. Mine. Mine.

Trying to ignore my caveman tendencies, I take a seat on a stool across from where she’s whisking something. “Morning.”

“Hey!”

Her smile is wide as she glances up at me. She’s got a white streak of flour on her cheek that’s downright adorable and a prominent bump on her head, which is not, especially considering I was the cause.

She must see me looking because she reaches up to touch the knot. She grins. “You like my horn?”

“Your horn?”

“Yep. Now I’m a unicorn.”

I just stare. Because what can I say to THAT? “I just feel bad. I’m not sure what I was thinking, throwing you like that.”

What I was thinking at the time was what a bad idea it was to carry Val to bed. Or to be anywhere near a bed with her. When I tossed her, I was thinking: Abandon ship! Run for your life! Mayday!

“Few people in the world could pull off a horn, Tiny. But you manage to do it. You truly are a unicorn.”

Too far? The way her cheeks pinken as she glances away assure me that I REALLY need to find the medium setting. I’m running hot then running cold. I need to locate a solid lukewarm for our interactions.

“I don’t know how you like your coffee.” She fills a mug and slides it my way. “I should since you know how I take mine. Is that part of your police training—paying attention to details like that?”

Yes … but that’s not why I know the way Val pours a vat of cream into her coffee. I choose to skip right over the question rather than incriminate myself with just how many details I know about her.

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