Page 8 of The Pocket Pair

“And on your way home from what, Chevrolet?”

He shrugs, leaning on a shelf with a casualness that seems a little too casual. “I needed some fresh air, Winchester.”

“Austin air isn’t as fresh as Sheet Cake air.”

Chevy inhales audibly. “I don’t know. Smells fresh to me.”

“It smells like CVS.” Winnie pauses, then pokes a finger into her brother’s chest. “Were you on another date with another horrible woman?”

My reaction to Winnie’s words is instant and visceral, like someone just took a blowtorch to my gut. Chevy’s blue-gray eyes meet mine over Winnie’s shoulder. Can he tell what I’m feeling by whatever look is on my face? I sure hope not.

I can’t help it if the thought of him dating other women—even though he does date other women and dates them a lot—makes me want to find the aisle for anti-nausea meds. He certainly has never shown any sign of jealousy over any of the guys I’ve dated. None of whom have even remotely helped eradicate the feelings I have for Chevy.

The feelings I don’t think he knows about. I mean, the whole town seems to, but Chevy never treated me differently than Lindy. Honestly, he treats the three of us as though we’re ALL his sisters.

Gross.

If Chevy knows about my feelings, he would avoid me, right? Or keep more of a distance, put me more at arm’s length.

But with the way he’s still staring at me now, looking almost apologetic, I have to wonder.

Does he know?

And if so, HOW EMBARRASSING. I’m going to need more than anti-nausea meds. I’m going to need a new identity.

Do they sell those at CVS?

“Well?” Winnie demands.

“I was on a date, but it’s over.”

So, it was a date. Triple ugh. The blowtorch to my guts feeling is now more of a rusty chainsaw to the heart.

And now I’m picturing Chevy in his faded jeans and boots, tousled brown hair, tucked in shirt stretched wide across his broad chest, on a date with someone else. He’s flashing that crooked smile at her across a candlelit table, his teasing voice turning flirtatious. He’s wrapping her in a hug against his big frame, maybe leaning in for a kiss at the end of the night …

“But it’s only six-thirty.” I didn’t mean to say this out loud. I definitely don’t want more details about this date. But aren’t most dates starting right now, not ending?

“We didn’t click,” Chevy says with a shrug. “Ended before it began.”

Is it bad that I feel a swell of triumph? In my mind, I’m blowing celebratory horns and shooting confetti cannons. Even though I’m still slightly ill at the idea of him having a date planned at all. Which is stupid. Sometimes I wish my imagination weren’t so vivid, that my feelings for everything weren’t so BIG.

Winnie stretches out her fist toward Chevy, then slowly extends her pinky finger. “You remember this?”

Chevy glances away, his jaw tight. Knowing Winnie and her penchant for treating pinky promises like treaties signed in blood, I’m guessing there’s some promise she’s holding her brother to. A promise about … dating?

“You said you’d try,” Winnie says, waving her pinky finger. “We’d try.”

“What are they trying?” Lindy hisses from behind me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. But oh, how I wish I did.

Chevy’s eyes meet mine, briefly, like the brush of a fingertip over my skin. It has the same effect, sending a wave of goose bumps along my arms. If I’m not imagining it, the tops of his cheeks flush as he returns his full focus to his sister.

Recovering, Chevy’s features relax, and he locates his signature crooked grin. I wonder if I’m the only one who notices how it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m here, aren’t I? In CVS and not on a date? So, you can put that pinky away.” Chevy reaches out and folds Winnie’s finger down with the rest, then pats her hand.

“You’re still an idiot, making idiotic choices.” Winnie reaches out and flicks her brother right in the forehead. He blinks, looking momentarily stunned.

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