Page 93 of The Pocket Pair

And as fast as she rushed in, Val rushes out. I feel like the wreckage left the morning after an F4 tornado ripped through a small town.

Charlie blinks at me. “You’re in a relationship?”

I nod, barely moving. “Yep.”

His eyes dart around the room, like he’s collecting data and still not coming up with a final conclusion. “Wow.”

“Be careful or I’ll get a complex about my good looks.” I force a grin that wouldn’t fool any of my friends. I’m not sure if it will fool Charlie either.

“I just mean … I haven’t been able to really date ever since I found out.” He shakes his head, looking down at his empty coffee cup. “I’m angry with him. Angry with women. Angry with you. Angry with myself.”

I know the feeling, even if I’ve done my best to pretend I don’t feel anything.

Maybe I should tell him that I understand. It might make me feel better to open up because even more than Winnie, I think Charlie would get it. But I don’t say anything at all.

Things I’m only now realizing I shoved down deep instead of actually dealing with are bubbling up like some kind of backed up sink. My thoughts are muddy and sticky and heavy, while my heartbeat seems to have slowed, thudding in my ears like the ticking of an oversized doomsday clock.

I find myself rubbing my cheek where Val kissed me, like I’m trying to wipe off a stain.

You’re in a relationship?

I don’t even want to think about Val right now, the very person who consumed my every waking thought for days now.

Was I really just humming? That feels like a different day, different life, different man.

Charlie’s face swims before me, and I squint. Doesn’t help.

“You okay?” he asks.

No. “Yes,” I grit out.

Charlie stands. “I should go.”

He is my half-brother. My blood. My family. I should stop him. Or exchange phone numbers. Emails. Something.

I don’t, though. A tingling numbness spreads through my limbs while I stay seated in the uncomfortable metal chair. Charlie leaves, maybe saying goodbye. If he does, I don’t hear it. I do see him scrawl his number on a piece of napkin and shove it across the table.

I’m not sure how long I sit. Staring. Forcing myself not to think.

“Chevy?”

I look up, and Grant stands in the doorway. With great effort, I stand. Put on a smile that might be passable. Remind myself to be cool, man. Be cool.

But it all falls away as Grant blinks his golden retriever eyes at me and asks, “You have a half-brother?”

CHAPTER 27

Val

While I’ve gotten used to Chevy sitting at the island, watching me cook as I talk his ear off, tonight is different. First, Mr. Clean Freak kicked off his boots and left them in the middle of the living room instead of lined up neatly by the door. Somewhere, a pig sprouted wings and flew. And then, rather than greeting me with the kind of kiss that could make a girl burn dinner, he barely reacted as I kissed him—okay, maybe he flinched, but that can’t be right—and slumped onto a stool.

I burned dinner anyway. I’m too distracted by his uncharacteristically silent demeanor and the rigid line of his shoulders. Tonight, my talking isn’t the typical flow of words because I like talking. It’s more like word vomit. And I’ve got a bad case of the talking flu.

“Sorry about this. I guess we’ll just get takeout if that’s cool. My treat! Anywhere you like. Burning happens to the best of us. Once when I was in, like, seventh grade, Mari left the stove on too long and it—”

“When do you leave for Costa Rica?”

The question is jarring. Not only because we haven’t discussed this yet, but because of his tone and how he’s asking.

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