Page 99 of The Pocket Pair

Right now, not even the tattered state of my heart matters, because when push comes to shove, Chevy still owns whatever shreds are left of it.

* * *

The hospital is a shiny cube in the new part of Sheet Cake, and I definitely break some laws to get there quickly. It takes a few arguments, several smallish lies, and one threat to find Chevy. I might have said I was his sister. (Ew.) But I’m a woman on a mission, and I can’t fully breathe until I open the door and see Grant standing by his bedside.

Chevy looks … alive. And that’s the best thing I can say. Right now, I’ll take it.

His shirt is gone, and his whole chest is wrapped in bandages. He’s blinking sleepily, and there’s something that looks like blood on his chin. Grant, who looks more than a little relieved to see me, has blood all over his shirt.

“What happened? Is he okay?” I ask Grant, trying to ignore the adorably sleepy smile Chevy’s giving me. And the resulting feelings unfurling in my chest without permission.

Relieved. You are ONLY allowed to feel relieved.

“Valentinnnnnnnna,” Chevy singsongs. “My love.”

Grant gives me an apologetic look. “He’ll be fine. But he’s a whole lot loopy between coming out of the anesthesia and the pain meds.”

I’m trying to ignore the way Chevy’s looking at me. It’s not him. It’s the meds smiling and looking me up and down appreciatively. And it’s my stupid ovaries responding with glee.

“I got shot,” he says. “I deserve a medal. Will you pin a medal on me, Tiny? But not on my chest. It’s all busted up.”

“You let him get shot?!” Eyes wide, I stare at Grant.

“Not with a gun.”

“Oh, good.” I sag, my hand pressing against my sternum, like it has any ability to slow my racing heart.

“With a cannon,” Grant says.

I smack him in the arm, and he winces. “You let him get shot with a cannon?! That’s so much worse!”

“It wasn’t loaded,” he says, like this makes it all okay. “Mrs. Fleming doesn’t even have cannonballs.”

I cross my arms, wishing I could shoot Grant out of a cannon. “So, why is he in the hospital? Why did he just have surgery if it wasn’t loaded?”

“Dr Pepper, baby,” Chevy says. He laughs, then groans, then laughs again.

Grant rubs the back of his head. “He was struck by a can of Dr Pepper—or, the shredded pieces of a can of Dr Pepper. Shards of aluminum came apart and embedded in his skin. Turns out, none of them went too deep, except one. That’s why they put him under. They were checking to make sure it didn’t damage any tissue or, uh, organs.”

Suddenly, Grant looks a little green. How can a cop get squeamish? Isn’t there some class on getting used to blood and guts as part of their training?

“My organs are just fiiiine,” Chevy says, winking.

I can’t help it. I giggle. The heartbreak and stress and emotional turmoil of the last twenty-four hours has left me raw and hollowed out. Whatever cord held my emotions in check has frayed and now snapped.

I giggle again. Then I snort.

Grant eyes me with suspicion and inches toward the door. “Now that you’re here, I should probably, uh, head back to the station.”

“Workman’s comp, boiiii,” Chevy says, then tries to lift his hand, flashing a peace sign, only to be stopped by a sling holding his arm in place. Probably to stop movements just like this one. “Am I in a straitjacket?”

“Nope.”

“Why can’t I move me?” he whines, looking so pitiful that I can’t help but step closer to the bed. I catch a flash of movement as Grant darts out and slams the door. I’m not sure if it’s my presence or the talk of Chevy’s injury, but the man departed like he was on fire.

I stop right next to Chevy’s bed, curling my hands into fists at my side so they don’t go rogue and do something like smooth out his tousled hair or take his hand.

“Come here,” he says, and I take the teensiest step closer.

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