Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“I left a damn note, and I returned the gas cans. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Maybe that you broke into his barn,” Machlan offers.

“I did not.” I look at Machlan. He’s still wearing that stupid smirk. “What? The door was open. That officially makes it not a break-in.”

“Pretty sure Tad and all relevant legal definitions don’t agree with that assessment.”

“Well, common sense does. Think about it. I didn’t have to break anything to enter, and I returned everything—except the gas, but there wasn’t much in there, really.”

Machlan doesn’t look convinced.

“Besides,” I say, “he would’ve given to it me if I’d have asked.”

“Which is what you should’ve done.”

I shrug, taking another drink. It was a couple of gallons of gas. If Tad is really that pissed about it, I’ll just remind him of this the next time he calls me with a broken down tractor at dark.

Machlan chuckles. “Well, you owe me twenty bucks for the gas. I paid him to keep him from coming to find you.”

Eyeing him curiously, I tip my bottle from side to side. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He rolls his eyes as he starts to respond, but he’s interrupted by a loud crash from the storeroom. It’s followed by a loud string of profanities before Navie comes marching into the room.

Her hair, streaked with bright pink strands, is a haphazard mess on top of her head. She comes to a halt in front of Machlan.

“If you want me to serve tequila tonight, you’re gonna have to get it off the top shelf yourself because I’m not screwing with it. I almost just died.” She gives Machlan a don’t-mess-with-me look before flipping her gaze to me. Her irritation eases a bit. “Hey, Peck.”

“Navie,” I say with a tentative nod.

She flips me a forced smile before refocusing on my cousin.

“Why does he get a smile,” Machlan says, pointing at me, “and I get yelled at?”

“Because Peck didn’t set a death trap for me in the storeroom,” she replies. “And he’s cuter than you. And nicer. And—”

“And I sign your check,” Machlan counters.

“And I’m cuter.” I grin as they both look at me. “What? She said it. Not me.”

Machlan sighs, handing Navie a white bar rag. “I beg to differ on that, Peck.”

“It’s true,” Navie says. “I’d be all over him if he didn’t feel like my brother on some level. That and he has that thing for Molly McCarter. That makes me a little concerned about his well-being.”

She rolls her eyes so hard that it has to hurt.

“Never understood the Molly thing either,” Machlan says.

“Let’s keep my girl out of this,” I say. “She’s never done anything to either of you.”

“Because I keep my pants zipped up when she’s around. Otherwise, there’s no doubt she’d have done things to me that she’s done to every other guy who lives in this half of Illinois,” Machlan says. “When are you going to let that whole thing go?”

I take a drink of my beer and set it down with a thud. “Never.”

The two of them go into an already-heard, overly tired tirade about Molly. They share a venom with the rest of the town against the woman I’ve always defended.

Molly was my first crush. Since the first night she crawled in my bedroom window when we were six, I’ve had a soft spot for her. It’s crazy, I know, and the sentiment hasn’t exactly been reciprocated, but I can’t help it. I like her. Period.

Machlan looks at his watch. “I’ll go get your tequila, but then I gotta head home. Add twenty to Peck’s tab for gas.” He shoots me a look before heading toward the storeroom. “Behave.”

I take another drink as Navie pulls out a white takeout box from Carlson’s Bakery from behind the counter. She sets it on the bar.

“I know it’s bad manners to bring food from one establishment into another, but this sandwich is my breakfast, lunch, and probably dinner,” she says, “so I don’t care.”

I lean against the counter and study her. Besides her annoyance, there’s no sign she’s been through something like Dylan described.

Dylan.

I grin.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks, picking the onion off her sandwich.

“Oh, nothing. Why didn’t you just cook?”

“Busy.”

Unhelpful.

“Do you usually cook?” I ask, prodding a little harder.

She quirks a brow as she shoves a bite of turkey and cheese into her mouth. “Sometimes.”

“What’s your favorite thing to make?”

“What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?” She rips a napkin out of a container in front of me. “Why do you care what I like to cook?”

“Gee, take it easy,” I say, leaning back. “Just making conversation.”

And probing you for information, but I’ll keep that to myself.

Her face falls. She tosses the wadded-up napkin on the counter. “I’m sorry. Bad day.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” She takes another bite, a bigger bite, to keep from talking. “I’m fine. I’m always fine.”