Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

Sixteen

Dylan

“Well, this isn’t going to work.”

I take out the last shirt from my suitcase and lay it flat on the bed. The remnants of the wardrobe I packed to last me a few days until my rental was ready stare back at me from the top of Peck’s black guest room blanket.

My options for work at the bank are more limited than I realized. It’s fancier than the bank in Indiana, and I don’t think I have enough pieces to really stretch my wardrobe longer than six days or so.

I try to focus on my clothing predicament and not the other one—the one prickling at the back of my brain. It’s must easier to worry about the logistics of getting clothes out of the barn, or getting a dresser, or moving into the rental Joanie might have information about rather than thinking about what Peck is doing with Molly right now.

Sitting on the bed, the mattress dipping with my weight, I blow out a breath.

It’s none of my business what Peck is doing. None at all. Tonight was just us goofing off and having some fun. So what if I felt more alive on that bar with him than I might ever have before? It didn’t mean anything. To him.

“Damn you,” I whisper.

Despite the words toppling from my mouth, I smile. The man just gets better and better the more I see of him.

I can still feel his hands on my body and the weight of his gaze. His cologne still clings to my hair. I close my eyes and can almost put myself back on that bar with his body behind mine—nothing mattering except our movements to that song. I’ve never done anything so … sensual in my life. Not with any other boyfriends over the years. Not even with Charlie and I dated him for a year and a half.

No, this was different. Crazy in the best way. Real, raw, and electric.

But when I open my eyes, I’m forced back to reality.

And Molly.

A knock on the door gets my attention. I look up. My heart skips a beat as I see Peck standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear him come in, but there he stands with one arm gripping the top of the doorframe.

“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing back so early?”

His muscles flex as he grips the door tighter before releasing it. His hand drops to his side. The light from the hallway billows around him, making him look taller and broodier than he is.

I stand so that I’m not at a disadvantage.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, ignoring my question. He moseys through the room, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

I hesitate. Did I have fun? With him, yes. But if he means all-around, including the last piece where I watched a girl Navie and Machlan hate, a girl Peck loves fawn all over him to stake her claim, then no. Not so much. They have history. Something that no amount of dancing on a bar can compete with. At least, unlike with Charlie, I was warned up front and knew I needed to pull back.

He reads my uncertainty. “I’m sorry about Molly,” he says.

“Don’t apologize for her. She’s a big girl. She knows what she’s doing.”

“You’re right,” he groans. “She does know exactly what she’s doing.”

We face each other a safe distance apart. I wonder why he doesn’t come closer—if he’s fighting the same pull to me that I’m struggling with over him.

There’s a chance I’ll never be able to be around him now and not feel this tingle, this need to be in his orbit. I’m not sure how all of this will work if I can’t shake that.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Is she always this …” I search for the right word. “Aggressive?”

“Believe it or not, she can be just as indifferent.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. The waistband of his jeans dips, and I have to fight myself not to stare.

“Can I ask you another question?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Why do you like her?”

His eyes fire immediately. It’s like he was prepared for this question. His lips part, and I know I’m going to be given some spiel that he gives everyone about Molly. But that answer—that canned response—isn’t what I’m after.

I hold up a finger. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t say it.”

“But I’m just tryin’ to answer the question you asked.”

“I want you to answer it,” I say, picking up a shirt and folding it. “But I want you to think about it first.”

He makes a face like he’s confused.

“You’re going to give me some practiced answer, and that’s not the answer to the question I asked.” I plop the shirt by the pillow. Turning around, I look at him directly. “I want to know why you like her for real.”