Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

I toss the breadstick back in the basket.

The waiter reappears with our checks and tops off our water glasses. Emily swipes up both tickets, pointing a French-tipped fingernail my way in warning not to argue with her, then hands her credit card with the checks to the waiter. They get into a conversation about credit card companies, and my thoughts drift to Machlan.

If I hadn’t put my guard up immediately this morning, the day would’ve ended up going a whole different way. I would’ve been sitting here crying, having been shut down by him again or fired up from one of our infamous arguments. Lucky for me, lucky for us both, I saw him before he realized it, and that bought me a few seconds to get myself together.

Well, as much as I can when he’s around.

It’s hard with him because it’s not. Not really. Not about anything besides being together.

“Earth to Had.” Emily rests back in her seat, the waiter long gone. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s fine. You can lie,” she says. “I actually already know you’re thinking about Machlan.”

“And what would lead you to believe that?”

“Because I’ve been your friend forever, and I know the look you get on your face when you’re thinking about him. What did he do now?”

“He didn’t do anything,” I protest. “I actually, um, I stayed in his apartment last night.”

She sits upright, forcing a swallow. “With him or without him?”

“Without him. Obviously.”

“Yeah, of course. Otherwise, you’d still be there.” She sighs. “Why did you do that, Had?”

Although I know she’s not judging me, it feels like it on some level. I wad up my napkin and set it on my plate before looking at her again.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I point out. “Cross and Kallie were … occupied. You weren’t home. What was I supposed to do? Stay with Peck?”

“That’s what I would’ve done,” she jokes.

“And Mach would’ve killed him.”

“And why would he have done that?” She waits for an answer I don’t give. Then she grins. “Of course, we both know the answer to that.”

“Because he’s an overbearing asshole?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not where I was going with that.”

“But it’s the truth,” I push. “He doesn’t want me. He—”

“He loves you. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

It’s not true. I know it. But just hearing it postulated into the universe does something to the pulse of my body. Everything hums. Everything electrifies. Everything seems brighter and happier for a split second—until I remind myself she’s wrong.

“Well, that’s too bad because I’m here to convince myself to fall out of love with him.”

I really don’t have to explain it to her because I know she’s reading between the lines. She knows about Samuel and how he wanted to talk marriage before we called everything off. How that conversation, the one about me being emotionally unavailable and in need of figuring out what I want out of life, was the saddest and angriest I’ve ever seen the otherwise sweet, sober man. Emily knows my storied history—most of it, anyway—with Machlan and how he’s the one I can’t get out of my mind.

She was there the night, years ago, when I cried so hard I almost passed out. It was her shoulder I leaned on when I decided to move to Vigo eighteen months ago. Emily has heard me fight with myself over every little decision in my life because … what if?

The what-if is not happening.

“Has Samuel called?” she asks.

“He texted me last night to see if the dog sitter is scheduled for the rest of the month. I just texted back yes, and he left it at that.”

“So responsible.”

I groan. “I know. We had our life in such sync. I did these things, he did those. We didn’t even live together, and it was like we were on the same calendar.”

“His calendar,” she points out.

“But it was a joint calendar. One where my presence was wanted.” My shoulders sag as my spirits sink. “But, yeah, his calendar. Which is why, I guess, it’s a good thing we split up.”

“Do you miss him?”

I think back over the past couple of days and what’s been on my mind. Coming home, seeing Machlan, starting my job, seeing Emily—that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Not Samuel.

“You don’t even have to answer that,” Emily says.

I look at my water glass and wish it was vodka. “I need a therapist.”

“You need to get laid.”

“Em …”

“Orgasms paint the world rosy. You’re in need of a good painting.”

“That’s what got me in this mess,” I point out. “It was in a tent on Bluebird Hill, and the stars were almost magical. The orgasm was magical.”

Emily snorts. “Thinking about Machlan delivering orgasms isn’t going to help you.”

As she says it, I can almost feel his palms on my skin. Taste the sweetness of his breath. Feel the heat between my thighs.