Crazy: Gibson Boys Book #4

by Locke, Adriana

  “I wish there wasn’t a Molly spell,” I admit. “If there wasn’t, I’d be all over that. He’s … like sunshine. He makes you feel good.”

  She snorts. “I bet he’d make you feel real damn good.”

  I hit her with my shoulder.

  “You need to take a chance,” she says.

  “You’re right. I do. I deserve to be happy and in love. Or just to screw around if that’s what I decide to do. But … I owe it to myself to do that with someone who’s safe to do it with.”

  She cocks a brow. “Define safe.”

  “Do you know why Charlie left me?”

  “Yup. Because he’s a narcissistic asshole.”

  “Maybe, but he’s also a decent guy. And while I’m angry that he betrayed me to do it, he really just did what he thought was right for him. And I give him kudos, quietly,” I joke, “for doing it when he did and not dragging it out.”

  She scoffs. “Your logic is irritating.”

  I grin. “So the answer to my original question about why Charlie left me is that he went back to his first love.” My smile falters. “How do you really argue that?”

  A flash of understanding billows through Navie’s eyes. She nods, her lips parting.

  I stand. Tossing the clothes I want to purchase for my new job over my arm, I look down at my best friend.

  “If I start a new relationship, I want to do it with a man who’s free and clear. One who doesn’t have some deep connection with someone else that I have to worry they’ll rekindle. I just want it to be easy. I don’t want to have to fight for a position.”

  She nods again. Getting to her feet, she sighs. “I get that. I really can’t argue it.”

  “Right? There’s nothing to argue. And with Peck … he’s a great guy,” I admit sadly. “If all we can be is friends, then I’ll take it. I’d much rather have that then try to embark on some journey that’s doomed before it even starts.”

  Navie throws her arm over my shoulder as we head to the cash register.

  “If there’s one thing I know for sure about Peck, it’s that he’s not disappointing.”

  “Not yet. But everyone will disappoint you at some point.”

  “Hey,” she says, shoving me gently. “I take offense to that.”

  “I didn’t mean you.”

  “You better not have.”

  I place my items on the counter and return the attendant’s smile. She rings me up, and I hand her my credit card.

  “There is an alternative,” Navie says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I could hire an assassin.”

  I laugh. “She’s kidding,” I tell the woman working the register. “Thank you.”

  I take my credit card and receipt. Navie grabs my bags. Together, we head into the early afternoon sun.

  The air is not too warm and not too cool. The sun is bright as if luring me into happy thoughts.

  “You need to stop overthinking everything,” Navie says. “You just think and think and think, and before you know it, you’re worrying about situations that you’ll never even encounter.”

  “Overthinking prepares me.”

  “No, overthinking ruins you.” She steps away from my trunk as it pops open. “You’re so used to being the adult. You’ve parented your mother and your siblings your whole damn life. Just … be a twentysomething for a while. Cut yourself some slack.”

  She tosses my bags in, and I close the lid.

  “I don’t know how to do that,” I admit. “It seems … irresponsible.”

  “You know how to take chances. You moved here on a whim, basically. You danced on a bar last night. You moved in with a man you just met.”

  “True …”

  “So why don’t you take chances when the result could make you really happy?”

  “Living here does make me happy.”

  She glares at me. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t write people off just because you had a bad similar experience. So Charlie didn’t pick you. Seriously—good for you. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that same situation with every guy you meet.”

  “So I’m not the proverbial rebound girl?” I grin. “I’m not the time-killer?”

  “Just … shut up.” She laughs. “What’s wrong in that head of yours?”

  “A lot. And on that note, I gotta go. I have a bunch of errands to run today.”

  “Like what?”

  I think back through the list of things I need to do. “Well, I need to run to the post office and drop off some envelopes. I need to do some non-foods and non-clothing shopping.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Bathroom stuff. Notepads. Dish soap.”

  She nods. “There’s a place on the other side of Merom. Follow this street to the right, and you’ll see it in a couple of miles.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I work tonight,” she says. “Come see me if you get bored.”

  I climb in my car. “Thanks for coming by today.”

  “I was no help, but you’re welcome.” She heads across the parking lot. “See ya.”

  “Bye, Navie.”

  She walks away like she has no care in the world, but that’s not true. She has more cares and problems in her life than I do.

  No one knows that, though. She hides things so well. In some ways, we are so similar.

  I came to Linton to support Navie, not just because of the Logan business, but because I knew she needed me. But now I think we simply needed each other.

  Daily phone conversations, watching movies and then calling each other to rant or rave at the best parts, and planning trips together we’ll never take helped us stay close when she moved here. And while I’ll never be grateful Logan hurt her or that my family and Charlie about broke me, those things did get me here. Thankfully.

  I close the door and turn on the engine. Instead of pulling out, I turn up the radio. An old country song that I remember my nonna playing, about a man loving a woman forever and ever, flows through the cab.

  Relaxing back in my seat, I listen to the words.

  Is that possible anymore? Or is it always the survival of the fittest?

  My phone dings beside me. I pick it up and smile.

  Peck: Dinner at seven. Be hungry. ;)

  Me: I’ll bring dessert.

  I laugh.

  Almost typed I’ll be dessert.

  I toss my phone in the cup holder and head across town.

  Nineteen

  Peck

  “All right. Let’s not fuck this up,” I whisper.

  The items I bought at the grocery this morning are spread on the table. Packets of steak, giant potatoes that I’ll smash with butter and bacon and cheese and chives, and the requisite salad fixings are all displayed in a neat little line for my dinner with Dylan.

  I run my hands down the sides of my pants. Sweat from my palms skid down the denim.

  “Ugh,” I groan. Heading to the sink, I wash my hands.

  My stomach has been clenched since I came in from the barn and heard Dylan in the shower. I stood in the kitchen and listened to the water trickle through the pipes in the wall and imagined her standing under the spout.

  Wet. And naked.

  She’s been out for a while now—probably upward of an hour. I told her dinner wasn’t until seven, but the longer it takes her to come out, the harder it is to fight my nerves.

  “There’s no reason to be nervous,” I lie to myself. “You’re just being polite.”

  I’d like to politely stick my—

  “Hey, Peck.”

  I wheel around to see her standing in the doorway. A long, brick red dress hangs lazily off her frame, showcasing the delicate curve of her shoulders and dipping sweetly at her waist. Her hair is down, brushing against the middle of her back, and if she has a stitch of makeup on, I’d be shocked.

  She’s never looked prettier.

  “Hey,” I say, runnin
g my hands down my jeans. Again. “You, um, you look really pretty.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Thanks. I went shopping with Navie today to grab a few things for my new job and had to have this. It’s just so comfortable.”

  She enters the kitchen, the fabric flowing around her. The room fills with the scent of oranges from her perfume.

  Standing next to me, she takes in the ingredients. “What are you making?”

  “Steak. Potatoes. Salad.”

  “I love steak,” she says. “And I’ve never met a carb I wasn’t friends with.”

  I laugh. “Awesome.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You totally don’t have to help.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and grins. “I know. But I want to. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah. Having you in the kitchen with me sounds like a terrible time,” I tease.

  “Oh, does it?”

  “Just awful.”

  She grins. “Well, I’ll put some music on to help fill all the weird moments of silence that are sure to plague us, considering it’s going to be such an awful experience and all.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to dance again?”

  Her face turns the same shade as her dress. The flush steals my breath as I imagine what she would look like on her back, legs spread, coming all over my tongue. Or on her knees as I take her from behind—

  Fuck. Stop. You’re cooking dinner, Ward.

  “I’m always on the verge of breaking out into song and dance,” she says, recovering quickly. “You never know.”

  I turn back to the table so she doesn’t see my reddened face. Or my hard-as-nails cock. Because I’m imagining her dancing against me again, feeling every beat, every pulse of her skin against mine.

  Holy shit. Stop.

  Tonight is about dinner. Not seduction. Because after I left her with nothing but a smile last night, she probably has no idea that I’ve been fantasizing about her every minute since. And I’m still not sure what I’m doing. Is this a risk I should be taking?

  “Can you get a gallon storage bag for me? And the foil? They’re below the sink,” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  When she walks by me, barely brushing against my arm, it sends a shot of energy through my body. Picking up the three kiwifruits on the table, I try to ignore the goose bumps on my skin.

  I grab a little cutting board and a knife. When I arrive back at the table, Dylan is there with the bag.

  “What are you doing with kiwifruit?” she asks.

  “Patience.” I peel and slice the fruit and plop it in the bottom of the bag. After giving it a quick mash, I add some olive oil and apple cider vinegar. The steaks go in at the end.

  I zip the top.

  “I’m so, so confused,” she says.

  “The kiwifruit will tenderize the steaks. It’s so much better than the alternatives of tough meat or overly salty meat.”

  She snorts. “True. I don’t like my meat salty.”

  I laugh out loud. “Good to know. Good to know.”

  The oven beeps, alerting us that it’s finished pre-heating. I hit each potato with a knife, creating little holes in the skin, and then set them on pieces of foil. I have Dylan add a spoonful of butter on top and then wrap them up.

  “You have very odd cooking skills,” she says, watching me put the potatoes in a baking dish. “Who taught you to cook?”

  “No one, really,” I say. “I just kind of … I don’t know. I thought about it.”

  I put the dish in the oven and close the door.

  “What about your mom?” she asks. “Does she cook?”

  Leaning against the counter, I look at Dylan. “I don’t know if she does now. I’d have to know where she is to know if she cooks. But she never did.”

  Her face wobbles. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I just saw you with Nana and assumed that your family was picture-perfect.”

  I take in the concern embedded in her eyes. There’s distress in those gorgeous greens because she’s worried about me.

  No one worries about me. It’s not something I think a lot about, but I am aware of it. I’m Peck—the guy who will figure it all out. That guy who’ll be okay. The guy who’s just a goofball at the end of the day, so nothing really gets to him, right?

  Wrong. Shit does bother me. I just don’t go telling the world about it.

  Because the world thinks it already knows. It assumes. Dylan assumes too. But the difference is that she cares when she gets it wrong. It bothers her.

  Huh.

  “My family is great,” I say. “It’s just that my parents weren’t … that great.”

  The vacancy inside a piece of my heart that’s never quite been filled—the one that I become hyper aware of around my birthday or Mother’s Day or the few days a year when I’m basically snowed in. My mother used to love those days. She’d make Vincent and me hot chocolate and snow ice cream, and we would light a big fire in the fireplace. The house always felt like a home on those days.

  On other days, it didn’t. It was very much my father’s house, and we were allowed to stay there. A constant reminder was hauled our way that as soon as we were of legal age, they were getting the hell out of there and living their life.

  They didn’t even wait that long.

  “My dad always resented Vin and me,” I say. “I think he had these big ideas for his life, and then Mom got pregnant, and he felt stuck here. With us.” I shove off the cabinets, a lump in my throat.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Not your fault. Not mine either.”

  Dylan bites her bottom lip. “No, it’s not. But I can be sorry for you. I know what it’s like to not really have the greatest parents in the world. It sucks. My mom is … a handful. And my dad doesn’t give a shit.”

  “My mom cared. I think she knew Dad had a lot of mental issues and got sucked into that.” I shrug. “It’s her choice. Maybe he needs her more than we do. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

  Her laugh is soft and light. “How are you even a real person?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  I pull the steaks from the bag and pat them dry. They probably needed another ten minutes or so, but I need to keep moving.

  She leans against the end of the table and watches me get them situated on a tray.

  “You just told me that you don’t even know where they are, and you’re like, ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ How are you not bitter about it?” she asks.

  Because I’ve had too many years of disappointment. My expectations have been adjusted back to zero.

  “Bitter?” I shrug. “A part of me is, I guess. Vincent definitely is. But I figure everyone does what they have to do. I can’t make their choices for them. I can only make mine.”

  “You’re way more of an adult than I am. I’m bitter. And angry. And frustrated.”

  I look at her. And beautiful.

  “At least you’re honest with yourself,” I say.

  “But how did you learn to let that go?”

  I grin. “The truth?”

  “The truth.”

  “Little League.”

  “What?” she asks with a laugh.

  “It’s true. When I started, I was terrible. I mean, awful. Vincent and Machlan were on my team, and both of those bastards were awesome. And then here I come. I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  She giggles.

  “I had a coach my second year pull me to the side and tell me something that just stuck with me.”

  She waits for me to continue. When I don’t immediately, she motions for me to hurry up. “Come on. Share this golden information.”

  “He said that every time I let a strike go by, I was fixating on it. That I didn’t have a shot in the dark at the next pitch because I was worrying about missing that first one. And he was right. I went to the plate knowing I sucked a
nd expecting the worst. As soon as that first pitch came, I was already so amped up and scared shitless that I swung. Missed. And then I stood there and berated myself over it as the next two strikes went by.”

  “So you just extrapolated that over your life? Or what?”

  “Well, I was twelve.” I laugh. “So not immediately. But eventually, I did. And it worked. Helped me not to hold on to a lot of shit.”

  “See? I didn’t play softball. I was a cheerleader.”

  I nod in appreciation. “I bet you gleaned a few valuable lessons from that too.”

  “Oh, totally,” she says, nodding empathically. “Like how I don’t look great in white and olive green. And not to trust the girl who likes your boyfriend to be your back spotter.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “The short version: concussions.”

  “Ouch,” I say, flinching.

  “Yeah.”

  I pick up the tray and head for the door onto the patio. “Be right back.”

  The charcoal is nice and hot. I empty the chimney full of coals and add a few new briquettes. Once the grill is ready, I place the steaks on the grill.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Dylan’s watching me. I know it. And instead of it making me nervous … I like the feeling of it. I like the idea of it. Of her beside me in the kitchen as we prepare dinner while listening to music and talking about our lives. When have I ever had this?

  Maybe I’d cook more if this was the case.

  I grin and shut the lid.

  She has a bowl out and is making the salad when I step back into the house.

  “I thought I’d go ahead and get this ready,” she says. “How many tomatoes do you want me to put in it?”

  “However many you’d like,” I say from the sink. I rinse my hands and then grab a towel. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Well, do you like a lot of them or not so many?”

  “I don’t really even like tomatoes,” I admit.

  She sets the knife down. “Then why did you buy them?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t they go in a salad?”

  She cocks her head to the side. Lifting a cucumber, she holds it in the air. “What about these?”