Page 100 of The Pocket Pair

Mistake! Because now, I’m in striking distance. Chevy clasps my hand and—well, folks, that’s the end of my ability to hold back. I let him link our fingers, then don’t stop him when he—oh no, oh no, BIGGER MISTAKE—lifts my hand to his mouth for a kiss.

Only, he misses my hand and kisses his knuckles instead. His brow furrows and he turns our hands, trying again. He still gets his own hand.

Oh, my heart. This man is THE man I want. He’s it for me.

Except I have to remember that he wants a break. At least, the Chevy not on painkillers does. This version of him is flirty and sweet and determined—trying until he finally places a sloppy kiss on my fingers.

For the sake of preserving what’s left of my heart, I should move away. I should go. I mean, no one knows this yet, but I’m leaving tomorrow. Actually, Mr. Silver, of all people, does because I had to ask if he would arrange for Tank to pick up my paintings. But I didn’t tell anyone else. I’m scared I won’t go through with it if I do.

“Blue paint,” Chevy says triumphantly. “You’ve got blue paint right here.”

So I do. “Yep.”

“I love finding paint on you.”

He really needs to stop with the sweetness. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans his face into our clasped hands and closes his eyes.

I wish things were different. If I just close my eyes, I could forget yesterday even happened.

Yesterday? Nah. Never heard of the guy.

The thing is—Chevy could have DIED. I don’t understand how the cannon went off but it’s a CANNON and being hit by anything at close range is not good. The idea of losing Chevy only highlights the ways I’ve already lost him.

I feel my face stinging, but I don’t try to fight the tears. Why bother?

His eyes open suddenly, still hazy and heavy lidded. “I got shot by a cannon,” he says, sounding like a little boy telling his mom he got to meet his favorite superhero at a convention.

“I heard. With a Dr Pepper can, no less. Solid choice of sodas.”

His eyes brighten. “Maybe they’ll put my face on the can?”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath. But you’re really okay?”

“Doc says I’ll be just fine.” Chevy angles his head, trying to peer down at his chest. “I’ll have a wicked scar though. The can gave me a lassie—a laser—a lizardation?”

I can’t help but smile, despite every moment here making my heart feel like it’s cracking open more. “Laceration?”

He nuzzles into our clasped hands, then frowns when he realizes more of his cheek is touching his knuckles. He lets go. And though I shouldn’t, I cup his cheek. He pushes into my hand like a needy cat, and though I REALLY shouldn’t, I start playing with his hair. His eyes flutter closed again.

“They say ladies like scars. Do you like scars, Tiny?”

I want to kill Winnie for not being here. For sending me to this hospital room when I’m feeling so emotionally fragile and Chevy is being all endearing after what could have been a terrible accident but now will live on as a joke or meme.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m more than okay now that you’re here.”

“Chevy,” I groan. “You can’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true. You’re my favorite person.” He lowers his voice and tilts his head, his lips brushing my palm. “Don’t tell Winnie. She probably thinks it’s her.”

Breathing steadily takes so much effort. Almost as much effort as it takes to hold in my tears. The only upside is that in Chevy’s state of mind, he doesn’t seem to notice my attempt not to fall apart. And I’d bet money he doesn’t remember this later.

By then, I’ll be a country away.

“I won’t tell,” I manage to say, and my laugh is at least fifty percent a sob.

“Am I your favorite?” he asks, opening his eyes a slit and giving me a boyishly hopeful look on his face that is TOO MUCH.

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