Page 68 of The Pocket Pair

Right now, though, despite the aching throb in the back of my skull, my head feels nice. All fuzzy and floaty, my thoughts like bubbles rising slowly to the surface before they pop—forgotten a second later.

Maybe that concussion conversation wasn’t just nonsense.

But it got me here. And right now in Chevy’s arms, I’m alllllll good.

“You need to unhand me, woman,” Chevy says lightly, and I realize he’s trying to settle me in the seat while I’m trying to set a world record for how tightly someone can cling to another person.

I giggle and let go of the death grip I have on his neck. “Fine.”

“Are you in pain?” he asks as he tucks my legs into the truck and settles me on the seat.

“Nah. Mostly I’m sleepy. And my butt hurts. Can you have a butt concussion?” I ask.

“No.”

“You sure? Buttcussion sounds totally legit.”

“No,” Chevy mutters, as he leans over me, trying to fasten my seatbelt. I am no help, limp and boneless and with what I’m going to insist is a buttcussion. “But I’m starting to think we should go to the hospital to have your head checked.”

I grab his forearm. “No hospital. No doctors. Promise?”

He sighs, not pausing in his search for the buckle. “We’ll see. I’m gonna have to keep a close eye on you.”

I like the sound of that! I grin, barely stopping myself from nuzzling his cheek. I mean, it’s right there!

Instead, I just study his handsome profile. “You take good care of me, Chevrolet Boyd.”

The click of my belt is loud in the silence that follows my statement. Chevy freezes in place, only his eyes flicking my way. They’re so big and blue. So warm. So close.

If I just lean forward …

In a flash, Chevy’s gone. My door closes practically in my face—rude!—and then he’s climbing into his side of the truck.

“Boo,” I say, but he ignores me.

“Let’s get you home.”

“Home.” I sigh, happy again at the sound of that. Home with Chevy. Yes. I lean against the door. I like the way the cold window feels when I press my face to it. Cold is nice.

I must fall asleep because the next thing I know, my door opens and my top half practically tumbles out into Chevy’s arms.

“Whoa, now,” he says, like I’m a spooked horse, not a woman with what’s likely a mild concussion who was just startled awake. One of his big hands grips my shoulder gently as the other unbuckles my seat belt. Then Chevy’s picking me up again. I wrap my arms around his neck and close my eyes, listening for the thud of his heartbeat.

“You okay, Tiny?” Chevy asks as he climbs the front porch steps. “Or maybe after that basketball game, I should start calling you Scrappy.”

“I like when you call me Tiny.”

My thoughts meander over to what Lindy said about me being the only one Chevy graced with a nickname.

I wonder about the other things she said too. Could Chevy have feelings for me? Ones he’s been burying or denying for … reasons?

Lindy said Winnie warned him off. Maybe she and I need to talk so she can unwarn him. Or warn him ON.

But if that’s not the reason … do I want to know why he’s resisting?

Thinking makes my brain throb, so I tell my thoughts to take a hike.

I keep my eyes closed as Chevy walks us to the house. This allows me to maintain the dreamlike feeling of this moment, where I can pretend that Chevy isn’t carrying me just because he’s concerned I’m injured. Or that this isn’t his house, it’s our house, and we’re coming home for the night.

---