Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

Splat!

My handful of mud finds its target and sticks to the front of her chest. She screams, the sound embedded with a laugh, as she launches her own ball haphazardly. It misses.

“Maybe I should give you a new nickname,” I say, scooping up another handful of gunk. “Something like—hey!”

A glob of mud smashes me in the side of the face. Dylan cheers, jumping up and down. She’s filthy and downright, absolutely gorgeous.

I lunge forward and am in front of her before she knows what’s happening.

Pinning her to the filthy tailgate, I take in the wildness in her eyes. I haven’t seen them this lively before. It’s amazing to witness.

Her breathing is ragged, matching mine, as I hover my lips over hers.

“Kiss me,” she demands.

“Eh, maybe.”

She palms the back of my head and tries to lower my mouth to hers, but I resist. It takes everything I have, but I manage it.

“Kiss me,” she says again. “Please?”

“On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

She has mud stuck to her hair, the side of her face, and the corner of her lip. Her clothes are filthy, and her shoes might be ruined. But, I don’t think she cares.

“When we get home,” I say, letting my finger trace the side of her face. A dark brown streak is left in its wake. “You have to take a bath with me. Not a shower,” I say, thwarting her interjection, “but a bubble bath.”

“Let’s think about that for a second. Do you want to sit in a mud bath?”

“I’d sit anywhere with you.”

She grins.

“But,” I say, “fair point. Shower first to get the mud off. Then a bubble bath.”

She acts as though she’s considering it.

“Think fast,” I prod.

“Fine,” she gushes. “I guess—”

I stop her words with the kiss she wanted. I halt all the overthinking we’re both about to do with my tongue. I pause all thoughts of anything besides her and me right here, right now, with my body up against hers and kiss her until the sun sets behind the tree line.

Then, and only then, do I take her home.

Twenty-Six

Peck

“What are we going to snack on?” I ask.

Dylan’s legs swing back and forth off the countertop as she watches me take inventory of the pantry.

“What are my choices?” she asks.

“It looks like you can have popcorn, raisins, or barbecue potato chips that might be stale.” I look at her. “Actually, they are stale. I bought them for New Year’s Eve like two years ago.”

“Nice.”

I shrug.

She pretends to give this every ounce of consideration that choosing your last meal would require. Not so much just a snack for a movie night, but whatever.

I watch her little nose scrunch up as she sorts through her choices. There’s still a piece of mud stuck in her hairline. I almost tell her but don’t. I like thinking of the fun we had tonight every time I see it.

I’ve never seen Dylan this carefree. This happy. Granted, I haven’t really known her all that long, but even in the moments we’ve shared, I haven’t seen her like this.

It’s as if she’s at peace. Settled. Maybe even content. It’s my most favorite look on her—even better than the flush of an orgasm or the mischief of a smartass remark. Those are both memorable but not my favorite. This little grin plastered across her cheeks tonight is the best one.

“I’m going to say popcorn since we’re watching a comedy,” she says.

“A comedy? I thought we were watching that action flick.”

“You thought wrong. Besides, action flicks require ice cream, and we don’t have any. And I can’t get ice cream delivered here in less than four days, which is stupid. The brambleberry one is my favorite, but it’ll take two weeks to get it or something.” She frowns. “That’s what happens when you live in the middle of nowhere, I guess.”

“Breathe, Dylan,” I tease.

She smiles, and I forget all about the popcorn.

I mosey my way across the room. She’s wrapped up in a giant blue towel. Her hair hangs straight and is damp from our hour-long bath. My hands go on either side of her, locking her in place. She scoots to the end of the counter and presses her lips to my forehead before resting the top of her head against mine.

My stomach pulls. It starts somewhere deep inside me, somewhere that’s never been accessed before. All I know is that I’m in serious fucking trouble with this girl.

In a short time, she’s rearranged my entire life. And not just my kitchen cabinets, which she has plans to do tomorrow, apparently. The nights I’d spend alone at Crave, listening to Machlan or Navie jabber on about their lives, are now spent doing things like having a mud fight on Bluebird Hill or playing tic-tac-toe on the shower wall with bathroom chalk—something I’m not sure how or why I even own. But I do. Or she does. Either way, I love it.