Page 80 of The Pocket Pair

“Does this mean …?” Winnie trails off, raising her eyebrows as she brushes powder over my cheeks.

“It doesn’t mean anything—yet. But I think maybe something’s happening. Maybe.”

“I hate maybes,” Winnie says. “You should take that maybe by the horns and make it an absolutely yes.”

Winnie probably would do just that. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough to make the first move. Or to bring up the question of whether something is changing between us.

Once my face is done, I let them dress me in some of Kyoko’s clothes, which are a bit more to my taste than Winnie’s style. According to Kyoko, I look more like an actual human and less like roadkill now, so I’ll take it. But the OC runs back under the bed when we leave the bathroom, so it’s a toss-up.

The party has grown while we were sequestered in Winnie’s room. “Whoa. Where did all these people come from?”

Winnie stretches out her hands. “I wanted Kyoko to get the full Sheet Cake experience.”

“This is certainly … that.”

Judge Judie is holding what looks to be a serious discussion with Tank Graham near Winnie’s sectional sofa. James is glowering from a chair, beer in hand. Collin is engaged in a fight with the mysterious and terrible girlfriend we’ve all heard about, and Wolf Waters is playing bartender at Winnie’s kitchen island.

One person is conspicuously missing.

“If you’re looking for my brother,” Winnie says, nudging my shoulder with hers, “he’s on the balcony.”

I glance away. “Maybe I should get some food or—”

“Nope. You should get out there. And go after what you want.”

“Win, I’m still not sure that anything’s happening there.”

Winnie gives me a knowing smile. “Well, I’m sure enough for the both of you. Maybe it’s time for you to make the first move. And I will be the happiest person besides the two of you when Chevy gets his head out of his emotionally stunted—”

“Got it. Thanks, Win.”

“Go get him, tiger.” Then, as though thinking better of her words, she makes a face. “Forget I said that.”

Chevy is alone on the balcony. It’s cold, but clear, the air is fresh and invigorating as I step onto the balcony, closing the door behind me. Chevy’s leaning on the black metal railing, looking out over the twinkly lights stretching across Main Street. I hope Tank keeps them up all year long. They’re quaint and really do a lot to show off the hard work he’s been investing to get downtown Sheet Cake back up and running.

It also sets a mood. Maybe THE mood? I’m not so sure after Chevy saw me totally fall apart today. Then again, he never looked shocked or horrified. Only concerned about me.

Maybe this is the true test of love—if a man is still interested after watching you leak tears while sobbing loudly for hours.

“Hey.”

He turns, a lazy spin, and leans his butt up against the railing. Lifting a beer to his smiling lips, he says, “Hey, Tiny.”

How can men just … do that—look effortlessly sexy in a T-shirt and jeans while leaning casually against anything at all? Chevy would look just as good if he were leaning up against one of the fake animals on a kids’ carousel or a scarecrow in a cornfield.

Meanwhile, I just had to have two women work on me to get me looking like I hadn’t spent the day crying.

“You okay?” he asks while I’m still pondering the inhumanity of it all. “You’re looking a little less puffy.”

A little less puffy. All those creams and the stinky serum Winnie insisted I put under my eyes, and I look a little less puffy?

I want to lean over the balcony and scream with outrage. But I resolve to be a mature human who has come to terms with how troll-like I look when I’ve been crying. So, I just stand there, not screaming, but also not answering because what can I even say? I take a step back, because maybe the right thing to do here is to run the other way.

“Aw, I was kidding. Come here.”

Before I can make my great escape, Chevy sets his beer down on a table and tugs me toward him. Not just toward him, but into him, curving his arm around my shoulders the way he did at the airport right after we held hands.

I take a deep inhale, relishing in Chevy’s clean scent and his warm chest. “Have you recovered yet?” I ask him.

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