Page 86 of The Pocket Pair

CHAPTER 25

Val

If last week I thought Winnie and James walking each other home a million times was disgustingly adorable, I’m not sure what to say about Chevy and me saying goodnight outside each other’s bedroom doors a million times every night.

Starting to date a guy you’re already living with has its own set of complications. It’s a lot of togetherness, which—believe me—I don’t mind a bit. Especially because, with his odd work schedule and my rush to finish paintings for Tank, we don’t see each other half as much as I’d like. If we weren’t sharing a house, I’m not sure we would see each other.

But the house sharing is complicated too because of the whole sleeping situation. I’m not ready to jump from years of pining and just friendship into a relationship and then jump right into Chevy’s bed.

And yet … I have to rethink that every night when he’s kissing me up against the wall outside my room. Or pressed to the doorframe to his room. Then back to my room. We have quickly become the disgustingly adorable ones, and I love it.

I pull away from Chevy’s mouth, where I’ve been lost for a while now. Kissing my way up his neck, I have to pause for an enormous yawn. His hands, buried into my hair the way they often seem to be, pause.

“Sorry,” I say with a giggle, kissing the edge of his jaw. “I’m just”—another yawn—“a little tired.”

Chevy’s strokes turn softer and slower in my hair. “I should get you to bed, Tiny. Do you have to work early?”

He presses whisper-soft kisses along my cheek and up my temple, making it hard to think about things like schedules. Days. Work. Anything at all but him, pressing me up against my closed bedroom door. When his teeth lightly graze my ear, he must realize that I’m not able to focus, because he pulls back, resting his forehead on mine.

“I go into the gallery at noon, so I need to paint in the morning.” I still have a dozen or so paintings left for Tank’s lofts before I leave for Costa Rica. Which is something I don’t even want to think about. Not when I’ve got the person I’ve wanted for so long finally wanting me back.

We haven’t talked about it yet and we desperately need to, but I’m too afraid. Things feel so perfect now, but also so new and fragile. I’m just getting used to this; I’m not ready to think about that. And Luis Henry, Mari’s artist friend, is flexible. He said anytime. So I’m going to stretch this out a little longer if I can.

“I’d like to see your paintings,” Chevy says.

“You’ve seen them.”

“Not enough,” he says. “I want to see them all.

This makes a huge smile stretch across my face. Which then gets eaten up by another yawn.

Chevy steps back now, and I feel like all the cells in my body scream in protest, wanting him back, wanting him nearer. “Can I stop by tomorrow morning before my shift?”

“I would love that,” I tell him, desperately trying not to get weepy and teary. I think Chevy’s seen quite enough of me crying lately, thank you very much.

“Then it’s a date,” he says. “Now, to bed with you, woman.” Opening my bedroom door, he practically shoves me inside, then closes it again behind me. I can still see the shadows of his feet outside though.

I press both palms flat against the door. “Chev? You still there?”

“I’m here.”

I can almost imagine him standing just as I am, forehead and hands against the door mirroring me. It has my mind spinning out to some distant—or not so distant?—future. I’m thinking of weddings and those photos capturing the moment where a bride and groom stand on opposite sides of a door before the ceremony. Not wanting to see each other yet but anticipating what’s to come.

My heart speeds up at the thought. I barely swallow back an I love you. It gets caught in my throat as stupid happy tears threaten again.

“Goodnight, Chevy,” I say instead.

“’Night, Tiny. I hope you have sweet dreams. Of me, obviously.”

Laughing and wishing I could linger, I step away from the door and head to bed, hoping for exactly the kind of dreams Chevy wants for me.

* * *

“I like the direction you’re going.”

I jump at the sound of Mr. Silver’s voice, turning to look at the man who crept into the studio like a silent, art-appreciating assassin. Or maybe like a cyborg or body-snatching alien, as I’ve never heard Mr. Silver compliment my work. Every so often, he’s stopped by, giving some constructive feedback. Nothing mean, but also nothing complimentary.

“The color and the composition—very strong,” he adds, as I try not to faint from shock.

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