Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“A jackass.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. I forgot.”

“And you could bring me a bottle of Jack. After all, I’m helping her pick up all the pieces of her heart that you so thoughtlessly threw against the wall. So thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

She scowls. “Really?”

“Look, I’m doing my best here,” I say with a chuckle. “Give me some credit.”

Her arms cross over her chest as she considers this. “Fine. I’ll give you some credit for at least sort of taking responsibility. That’s it. That’s all you get.”

“Good enough, I guess.”

With a satisfied nod of her head, she starts to turn away, but then she stops before she gets too far. “One more thing,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “Don’t tell Navie I was here.”

I blink once. Twice. Three times.

Navie? Bartender Navie? Navie-Who-Works-At-My-Cousin’s-Bar Navie?

My friend Navie?

Navie knows Dylan? And Dylan doesn’t know me?

Am I being set up here?

I grab at my temple with my right hand.

“You won’t, right?” Dylan asks when I fail to answer.

“Yeah. Sure. I, um, I won’t say a word,” I say, trying to piece all this together.

Her shoulders relax, the V-neck dropping low enough to see the cleavage that I would enjoy any other time except right now when I’m mentally marinating Navie knowing Dylan and Dylan thinking I’m some other guy.

I run a hand down my face and, once again, regret not going back to bed.

“It’s a shame you’re such a jackass,” she says.

I drop my hands. “Well, thanks. But I’m not one really.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Suit yourself,” I say. “But tell Navie that if she needs to talk—”

“Nope. If you want to talk to her, you do it. Be a man. Prove me wrong.” She walks toward her car again. “And bring back her pots and pans. Do you hear me?”

“If I can find them.”

She stops at her car and flings open the door. Her eyes narrow again. She’s so damn cute, and this entire thing so bizarre that I can’t take it. I laugh.

“If you don’t find them, I’ll come find you,” she says.

“Could you warn me first? And let me schedule that into my day because I’m running about a half hour behind right now.”

She fights a smile as she climbs into her car. She pulls away just as quickly as she arrived, and I’m left standing next to old man Dave’s truck, wondering what the hell just happened.

Two

Peck

I tug my hat down to block out the early evening sun. Stepping over a broken piece of sidewalk that the town of Linton hasn’t bothered to fix in at least fifteen years, I make my way toward Crave.

My cousin’s bar is my usual haunt after work, and today is no exception. What is different about today, though, is that I have a reason to be here besides not just wanting to be alone.

My face breaks into a grin as I remember the little spitfire. Her finger pressed against my chest as she leveled warnings makes me laugh. But as entertained as I am with Dylan’s moxie, an uneasiness settles over me when I think of Navie.

I would like to think Navie and I were close enough that I’d know if she was seeing someone seriously enough for them to steal her cookware. And I’d really hope she knows she could ask me for help if she needed it because if this guy is the jerk that Dylan seems to think he is, then what else has he done?

The door chimes as I tug it open. Eighties rock music is playing on the speakers, letting me know my cousin Machlan, the owner of the bar, is still here. Pieces of streamers and popped balloons are stuck on random nails and pictures from Machlan’s birthday party that got a little out of control last weekend.

“Hey,” Machlan says from the other side of the bar. “You’re in here early.”

“Long day.”

I plop down on a barstool. Machlan slides a beer down the bar, and I catch it with one hand.

“Tell me about it,” he says. “Hadley woke up mad at me for something I did to her in her dream last night. And then Navie was an hour late and about as happy with me as my girlfriend for some unknown reason. I can’t win.”

I take a long sip of beer. The glass has the perfect level of dew on the outside. Setting it back on the bar, I look at my cousin. He doesn’t seem to know things he’s not telling me, but Machlan is good at hiding shit.

“What’s going on with Navie?” I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

“Fuck if I know. I’ve learned it’s best not to ask.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on the counter. His lips turn up into a smirk. “Tad was in here earlier looking for you. Said something about gas cans and a note left scrawled on a two-by-four in spray paint last night?”