Page 76 of The Pocket Pair

“Yeah, well. That’s because they didn’t know him. And they don’t know your big, soft, marshmallow heart either.”

Winnie doesn’t seem to notice me writing while she speaks, and when I hold out a ticket, she gapes at me. “What is this?”

“That’s for going fifty-five in a thirty. You can make a copy and frame it up on the wall next to the one I gave your boyfriend last month.”

And while Winnie’s still standing there, shocked into uncharacteristic silence, I take off. Leaving her and her nosy questions that force me to think too hard behind.

CHAPTER 22

Val

It’s official. I hate airports. Sure, I’ve only set foot inside an airport twice, but that’s enough to form a very solid opinion. Hate.

Overhead, the speakers crackle to life paging some passenger who hasn’t made it to their gate. A woman sprinting for the ticket counter almost takes me out with her rolling bag. Chevy makes a rough sound, glaring at the woman’s back as he takes me by the shoulders and steers me out of the middle of the concourse.

It’s all I can do not to melt into his touch, into the feel of those big hands splayed protectively over my shoulders. And it’s impossible not to add this gesture of protectiveness to the mounting list of evidence that Chevy and I are heading toward something new. Something bigger. Something I’ve almost not even allowed myself to dream about. The protectiveness. The chivalry. The flirting. The cessation of constant friend reminders. The almost kisses.

The problem, though, with loving small gestures is that I start to see them everywhere. And right now—they’re all just that. Tiny actions that might mean something, but I won’t know what until there are words to define them.

Or, you know—a kiss. That could certainly tell me something.

Chevy steps back, dropping his hands, and I sigh.

“Val? Are you still with me?” Mari’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

“I’m here.” Sort of. Marginally. And this makes a fresh wave of grief now mixed with guilt flood my system. “Sorry.”

“It’s time,” Mari says.

“Is it?” I ask weakly. “Because I think I just heard them announce a delay and—”

Mari pulls me into a hug, the kind that feels like a real, forever goodbye embrace. But this is NOT a forever goodbye. I’ll see Mari again. Soon.

But this is big. It’s one of those moments that you know draws a solid line in your life between before and after. I’m still not fully able to grasp the concept of Mari living anywhere but in Sheet Cake. Or maybe I don’t want to.

“You’ll see me soon,” Mari says, laughing, when I refuse to let her go.

“Yeah.” I squeeze her harder, trying to picture us hugging like this in a rainforest with monkeys chittering away—which is how I always picture Costa Rica.

I suddenly feel like I cannot possibly let her go. Would Chevy arrest me if I tried to kidnap Mari and keep her here? Or would he help me get her back in his car and stuff her in the trunk?

I hope Mari doesn’t notice the way I’m starting to shake.

“Valentina,” she warns. “I still have to get through security.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t even gotten my hug yet,” Chevy says from behind me.

One of Mari’s hands lifts from my back. I know without looking that she’s probably waving him over.

“Come, come. Might as well make it a group hug.”

And then Chevy’s arms come around us both, making me feel small and protected. Cherished. Safe.

Making me feel all sorts of other things too. Non airport-appropriate kinds of things.

Non-friend things.

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