Page 59 of The Pocket Pair

He clears his throat again, then switches from tapping the pen to drawing violent little circles that look like they’ll rip right through the page. “Like … you having Winnie and Lindy sleep over?”

“Nope. Like one of us bringing someone home after a date.”

Not like I make a habit of this. Chevy and I are opposites in this—I’m the serial monogamist while he’s the casual dater. But if he wants to make rules, we’re gonna MAKE RULES.

Let’s see how long it takes you to sweat, Chevy.

“I don’t think that will be an issue for me,” he says slowly.

“It might be an issue for me.”

The point of the pencil breaks off on the page, and his eyes snap to mine. “You’re planning to bring guys home with you?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Is that a problem?”

His nostrils flare the slightest bit, and it reminds me so much of Winnie when she’s mad. “No,” he says, but the words sound like they’re being forcibly yanked out of him. “That’s fine. Just have your guests follow these same rules.”

“I’ll make sure they’re fully dressed—at least outside the bedroom. Same for you?”

Can Chevy tell this is all just talk? That I would never bring some guy back over here, even if that was something typical for me. Which it absolutely is not.

But he doesn’t seem to realize I’m just messing with him. Trying to push him toward some edge of something. Jealousy, maybe? Okay, yeah. I’d like to see him jealous, the way I feel imagining him even on a date, much less bringing someone else home.

He shakes his head. “Getting that specific about overnight guests isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“It’s not for me.”

“Why not, Chevy?”

He sets the broken pencil down, then closes the notebook before catching and holding my gaze again. “Because you are the only woman other than my sister who has ever slept in this house.”

Oh. Oh.

This knowledge is almost too much for me. I shouldn’t take this to mean I’m something special, because it’s not like I’m sharing his bed. Just the friend in the guest room.

And yet … this knowledge does something to me.

Knowing Chevy hasn’t ever brought a woman back here makes my jealousy disappear like fog in the bright light of his confession.

“I’m not going to bring anyone home either,” I whisper. Opening the notebook, I pick up the pencil and erase the last rule he wrote about guests. “So, no need for a rule at all.”

“Are you sure?” His question sounds like a challenge.

I set down the pencil, briefly running my fingertips over his knuckles, already healed with new, pink skin in place of the cuts and scabs. “There’s no one I want to bring home,” I tell him, feeling the uncomfortable itch of vulnerability.

Because the only man I want is already here, I think but don’t say.

Can he read it in my eyes? My skin feels as thin and transparent as a piece of plastic wrap.

“Then I guess we’re settled,” he says.

“I guess we are.”

“If anything changes …” He trails off, and I know there’s only one rule he’s talking about. Or, rather, a non-rule, since we took it off the list.

“It won’t,” I promise.

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