Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

It’s very Navie, very calm-in-the-storm. She always has a way of doing that. Riots and chaos can be going on, and Navie is the one in the middle doing yoga.

We met on the first day of kindergarten and bonded over chocolate pudding as finger paint. We were virtually inseparable until she left to come here.

I was devastated when she left, but I understood. If my family is difficult, hers is toxic. Seeing her so happy and adjusted here makes the months I spent without her okay. I’m just glad to be here with her, my only real friend, now too.

I study the length and try to guess how many steps it would take to get from one to the other when a movement catches my eye outside the window. I slink over to the curtain.

Logan walks up to the front door with a big box in his hand.

“Victory is mine,” I whisper as I reach for the door handle. I yank it open. “Well, hello there.”

He grins over the top of the box. His teeth are white and straight, his hat pulled down over his forehead.

“I was going to leave this here,” he says, tapping on a box of pots and pans.

He’s the enemy, Dylan. Be strong.

He shoves the box toward me. “Since you opened the door, here you go.”

I take the box and set it inside. I should flash him a tight smile and close the door, but I’m only human. Besides, I’m not the queen of karma, so I should probably have manners.

For karma’s sake.

“I’m happy to see you bringing those by,” I say, clearing my throat. “Even though they aren’t her old ones, they’ll do.”

“I couldn’t find the old ones.”

“Pawned them.”

He fights a laugh. “I’m doing the best I can here, okay?”

I lean against the doorframe and take him in. He’s so disarming with his blond hair poking out the sides of his cap and tall, lanky frame. And no man should have lashes that long. It’s just not fair.

But it is proof that everyone is a disappointment. I’ve speculated for years that no one actually cares about other people anymore, and this Logan thing proves it. By looking at him, you’d think he was the kind boy-next-door type when, in reality, he’s a hedonistic jerk. It’s very disappointing.

It’s either that, or I set my standards way too high.

Like top of the ozone layer too high.

“Navie will appreciate you being a man about this after all,” I say.

“Yup. Logan is a real winner.”

I arch my brow. “Third person? Really?”

“I didn’t take the pots and pans, Dylan,” he says with a sigh.

“Then what happened to them? A burglar broke in and ignored the television and her computer and the cookie jar of cash that probably holds thirty bucks, but still? Not plausible, Logan. But why you’d want them, I don’t know. Was it to get back at her in a way she’d think about every day? Is that it? Are you so in love with her—”

“With Navie?”

“Obviously.”

He laughs. “No. She’s like my sister.”

My brain scrambles. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Forcing a swallow, I eye him carefully. “I have a lot of questions as to why you’d sleep with someone who’s like your sister and then steal from her, but I’m not sure I want the answers.”

“Good,” he says, leaning forward. “Because if I start giving you answers, you’re gonna feel really stupid, and I don’t want to see your pretty little face all scrunched up in embarrassment.”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

He shrugs, the corner of his lips tugging to the sky.

He’s lit from behind by the setting sun and a sky full of vibrant rays. It’s like he’s the center of a painting, the star of a poster from some Hollywood romantic comedy, and I can barely take it.

I have to look away.

And berate myself for thinking this about a guy who screwed over my friend.

“I forgot your Jack,” he says. “I can bring it by later. Thinking maybe you need it.”

“Nah, I’m good, Chef Boyardee. I shouldn’t drink anyway. Drinking puts me in all my feels, and that’s not the place for a sane girl to be.”

“You mean you’re sane?” he teases.

I level my gaze with his and try not to laugh. “Yup. You don’t even want to see me really mad.”

“Does smoke come out of your ears and everything?”

“Yup.”

We both struggle to keep a straight face. In seconds, we’re laughing.

The sound of our voices mixing together sets a too-comfortable ambiance on Navie’s front porch. It shouldn’t be this easy to be friendly with Logan, and I shouldn’t be questioning how he could possibly be such a jerk to Navie, but I am.

I’m a traitor.

A traitor who can’t quit talking.

“Did you get that truck done?” I ask.

“Yup. And I paid the guy back for the gas. Just mentioning that so you don’t think I’m a thief.”