Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

“Oh, no,” I say, turning around. “Don’t start your shit with me.”

“It’s not shit, sweetheart.”

Despite knowing the term of endearment wasn’t used with any endearing wishes, my heart flutters. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep focus.

“And I didn’t start it,” he continues. “You’re the one who came into Crave. I didn’t come looking for you.”

“I didn’t come looking for you either.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

He doesn’t try to quell his shit-eating grin. It stretches across his cheeks plain as day. “Nah, you did. I just can’t figure out why.” His lips falter. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Everything is fine,” I huff. “I’m not in trouble and coming back here like some damsel in distress. Although I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He shrugs. “You know me—Mr. Nice Guy. Always ready to lend a helping hand.”

“That’s such a crock of shit.”

“Oh, like your little claim that you didn’t come looking for me? You did, Had. Why?”

Instead of getting in the car and putting some distance between the two of us—as any reasonable, logical person would do—I lean against the door. My lungs fill with air, my senses picking up the hint of mint on his breath as he blows out a lungful of air of his own.

My body stills, my mind slows, as I’m settled by Machlan’s proximity. His eyes soften, the lines in his forehead smoothen, and the tender part of him that makes my life so complicated wraps itself around my heart.

“You want to know why I’m here?” I ask, finding my resolve. “I’m here to hate you.”

His laugh is immediate. “Don’t you already hate me?”

“Not enough.”

His laughter trickles away. He takes me in, searching my face for some answer to a question I don’t know. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the crispness of the air and everything to do with the heat of his gaze.

After what feels like entirely too long and not nearly long enough, he sighs. “Did you really think I was going to serve you a drink?”

My shoulders sink. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You don’t really drink, do you? I mean, you haven’t been gone that long.”

“I’ve not actually lived here for a year and a half.”

He runs a hand down his scruff-lined jaw. “It doesn’t feel that long. Then again,” he reconsiders, his eyes softening, “it feels like a lifetime.”

Our gazes crash together, propelled by enough memories to sink us both. I know exactly what he means. On one hand, it seems as if we haven’t missed a beat. But, on the other, it feels as though there’s a drift between us that’s deeper than ever.

“It’s been long enough for a lot things to change,” I say. “I’m sure they’ve changed for you too.”

“I …”

A car pulls up beside us and slows to a stop. I glance over to see Lance, the oldest of the three Gibson boys.

“Well, what do we have here?” he asks.

“Hey, Lance,” I say.

“Hey, Had. I didn’t know you were coming home.” He glances at Machlan. “Did you forget to mention it?”

“No one knew,” I interject. “Cross doesn’t even know I’m home yet.”

“But you’re here. With Mach.” Lance’s brows pull together. “I need some help here, guys. Have you had the fight yet? Or are we still gearing up to it? I can go inside and wait with Peck, if that’s better.”

“Fuck you,” Machlan says.

Lance laughs and pops his car into drive. “Good to see ya, Had.” The car starts down the road, but he looks out the window at his brother. “I’ll grab some tequila for later!”

I take advantage of Machlan’s diverted attention and climb into the driver’s seat. I don’t get the door shut before he’s in the way. Again.

When he grips the doorframe and leans inside the car, there’s no ignoring his presence. Even if I wanted to, the way my body hums would be enough to remind me every half a second he’s here. It’s always been that way with him. I bet it always will be.

“What?” I ask.

“You said you got a new job?”

“Yeah.” I give him a small, genuine smile. “I start on the first.”

“In Vigo?”

I nod.

He nods too. “I guess that makes sense since you live there and all.”

“I’m excited. It’s a lot faster paced than where I worked before.”

“Did you not like it there?”

“No, I did. I just …” I look at the sky. I don’t want him to feel bad about my choice of words, but I’m not sure how to phrase them. “I really need something fresh. To go a new direction. These past few years have been rough and …”

My voice trails off as I watch Machlan absorb the weight of the words. I can see it in the way he shifts his weight and in the way his shoulders fall. It’s probably because he’s the only one who’s privy to all the things those words mean.