Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

She’s not easy to get along with. There are things about her that even I don’t love. But underneath her attitude is a person who needs someone to care about her. I promised her one day a long time ago that I would always give a shit.

It’s a promise I won’t break.

“I have things to do today, you know,” I tease.

“I’m calling bullshit because you planned on helping me today.”

“And now I’m not and could go by Crank and help Walker rip a tranny out of a SUV. Or go check on Nana or have a drink at Crave.”

“At this time of day?” she asks.

“Are you judging me?”

“Maybe.” Her cheeks split with a smile. “What’s the rent?”

“Whatever you want to pay. Honestly, the room is just sitting there.”

“Four hundred a month then. That’s what I was going to pay here.”

I laugh. “Yeah. No. How about we just talk about it later? See how you like it and how it works out?”

She wants to argue with me, but she can’t. I’m her only option, and I’m not upset about that.

“Fine,” she says with a grin. “I would love to stay with you for a while.”

I look at the sky and sigh. “Like you’re doing me some big favor.”

“Oh, but I am,” she says cheekily.

“Only if you cook a lot. Can we add that to your rent? Like you have to make dinner when you can so I don’t have to go find it every night.”

She laughs. “You never cook?”

“Never. If I can’t get Nana to make something, I go to one of my cousins’ houses. If they’re not making food, I just go buy it somewhere.”

“That’s a waste.”

“It was. Now I have you.”

We exchange a smile.

The air between us picks up, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of cat pee our way. We both make a sour face.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

“I need to talk to Mark and get my security deposit back.”

I head to my truck. “Follow me. We’ll take care of that together in case Mark has anything to say. Then we can head to my house.” I pop open the door when I’m stopped by Dylan’s voice.

“Hey, Peck.”

“Yeah?”

She smiles. “Thanks for this. All of it.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

There’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She climbs in her car instead.

It’s for the best. I need to figure out what the fuck just happened anyway.

Nine

Dylan

“If I had known you were a hoarder, I wouldn’t have invited you to come here,” Peck says. He wipes his brow with the back of his head. “If I see another box labeled ‘Not Sure’ …”

He leans against the wall of the barn. My things, in boxes laden with my generalized description of the contents, are stacked in a neat row behind him. His jeans are dusty. Bits of cardboard are stuck to his faded blue T-shirt and dot the top of his baseball hat.

We’ve worked to unload the shipping container for the past hour. Luckily, I had my personal things—clothes I wear often, dishes, toiletries, and the like—clearly labeled, and we took those inside his house. The rest we stuck in his barn until I can find a permanent housing solution.

“At least I’m honest,” I say. “I happened to look inside your kitchen cabinets, and I’m not sure you’re sure you know what’s in there either.”

“Of course, I do. Kitchen stuff.”

“And these boxes have my stuff.”

A laugh sits on the tip of his tongue. “Two totally different things, Dyl.”

“Not really,” I say, trying to ignore the slip of a nickname. “Kitchen stuff means those items go in the kitchen. My stuff means it goes with me. Basically, it’s the same thing.”

I brush a strand of hair off my forehead. Peck watches me like he has all the time in the world and doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

I’ve noticed this is a thing with him. When he’s with you or talking to you, he’s with you or talking to you. It would be unnerving except for the fact that he seems like he cares.

Or at least has enough manners to pretend really well.

Really well.

Well enough that I’m convinced he could reiterate the gist of any conversation we’ve had thus far.

Who does that?

“I was in a hurry, okay?” I say. “And low on boxes. So a box might have some candle holders, a piece to a blender I used to have, some coffee pods, and a Christmas ornament. How would you have labeled that?”

“Trash.”

I gasp. “You did not just call my life’s treasures trash.”

“No,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling. “I called some random shit you just rattled off trash. But if the candle holders were made outta gold or something or if the ornament had your dog’s paw print from its first Christmas with ya, then that’s obviously not trash.”