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Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

Page 21

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“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Hey, Nana,” he says into the device. He nods once, twice, and then three times. “No. No, no, no. Don’t do that.” He sighs. “Don’t. I’ll … I’ll be right there. Just sit still, for the love of God, and don’t touch anything.” His eyes find me. They’re defeated. “Love you too.”

My spirits fall as I realize he’s leaving.

“I hope everything is okay,” I tell him.

“I hate this because your cooking is awesome, and I didn’t quite mind bantering with you either.” He smiles. “But my nana has mixed up all her meds. She had a heart attack not that long ago, and I need to get over there and re-sort her pills before she kills herself.”

The affinity he has for her melts me from the inside out. Even the way he talks about her—as if she’s the best thing ever—makes me wish I could tag along and meet the woman who makes a man like him care for her that much.

“Go,” I say. “It’s fine. Honest.”

We both get to our feet quietly. Peck bumps the table as he gets his hat off the back of the chair and the silverware clatters together. The sound feels hollow, and I realize how empty this room is going to feel in a few minutes.

“I’m really sorry about this, Dylan.”

“Don’t be. I tell you what. I’ll bring you lunch tomorrow. Leftovers, though. Nothing fancy.”

His face lights up. “I’ll tell you what. To make up for this, I’ll help you move in tomorrow.”

“No,” I say, flabbergasted at the offer. “Everyone hates moving. I’ll just be cleaning tomorrow mostly anyway.”

He heads to the door. “I’m a great cleaning guy. Okay, that’s not true.” He chuckles. “But you have to let me help, or else I’ll feel really …”

“Guilty. You’ll feel guilty.” I fist pump in the air. “Thank your nana for turning the tides my way.”

He pulls the door open and laughs. “Vine Street. Just passed Gone with the Wind. Right?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, following him a couple of steps out of the apartment.

He faces me head-on. It doesn’t feel awkward like it can sometimes when a guy is leaving after dinner. It feels like I’ve known him forever. Yet when I think about it, I really know nothing about him. I have the comfort level with Peck to ask him whatever I want—for him to offer to help me move—but have all these questions I’m curious to have answered.

So odd.

And so great too.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says softly. “It was delicious, and I look forward to eating more of it tomorrow.”

With a final simple smile, he turns the corner and is gone. And even though I’m now on my own for the evening, I don’t feel alone. My heart is full, and my soul is … content.

If this is any indication of what it’s like to be around Navie and her friends—potentially my friends—I just might be okay.

Eight

Peck

“There it is,” I say, passing the house with the balcony.

I pull up Dylan’s driveway and hop out of the truck. My boots dig into the soft lawn on the side of the gravel driveway leading up to a cute little house. It’s pale blue with dark blue shutters that could use a good coat of paint. There are flower bushes—roses, maybe—underneath the front windows, but they’ve seen better days.

Despite needing a little sprucing up, the place isn’t bad. The roof looks solid. The windows look like they’re in good shape, and it even has a small attached garage.

Dylan’s car is pulled up to the open garage door.

“Hello?” I call out.

Taking a quick gander around, I don’t see her.

I stand in the middle of the driveway and breathe in the clean air in hopes it settles me a bit. I’ve fought myself all morning not to get here too early. After I drank my coffee slowly, I took the longest shower of my life, then checked on Nana, left Vincent a voicemail, and did a quick scope of Crank to ensure Walker didn’t need me.

Not that it would’ve mattered if he did. It just killed time.

Leaving early last night was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because Nana royally screwed up her meds. If I hadn’t shown up, lord knows what would’ve happened. It was bad, too, because I kept wondering if it would be kosher to show back up at Navie’s.

Dylan is just … cool. Easy to talk to. Pretty to look at. Funny as hell. Wanting to spend more time with her isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever had to justify.

I head up the driveway and enter the garage.

“Dylan?”

The bay where you’d logically park a car is half-filled with trash. Flies buzz the white and black bags that are piled mostly on the far side. I head farther into the room and climb two block stairs and give a door a little knock.



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