Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

Peck laughs. “I bet that’s fun to watch, Mr. Social Butterfly.”

Walker groans. “At least they’re cool. Graham is actually really smart about a lot of shit. We’ve had some good conversations about business.”

“What about the other one?” Peck asks.

“Lincoln is all right. Kind of a goof but cool.” Walker grins. “As a matter of fact, I bet you two would get along great.”

A host of laughter comes from the back corner of the bar. We all look back, but there’s nothing to see but a table in the corner with Sienna’s family having a good time.

“I better get back there,” Walker says. “Where’s Mach?”

“She’s here.” Peck jams a thumb my direction. “So, my guess is somewhere within a twenty-yard vicinity.”

Walker chuckles. “Sounds about right. Now come back here with me and entertain the crowd. Keep them from wanting me to talk all night.”

Peck stands. “Let’s go, Had.”

“Oh, no, you guys go on,” I say, waving them off.

They stand in front of me and don’t move. I fidget with the wrapper on my bottle. I don’t know what to say to them, that this is a family thing and I’m not family. I don’t want to intrude, and I don’t want to feel like a burden they have to lug around.

“Come on,” Peck says again.

“You know what? I need to go to the apartment. I’ll be fine.”

Walker takes my hand and guides me to my feet. “You will be fine because your ass is gonna be at the back table with us.”

“Walker, thank you. Honestly. But—”

“But fucking nothing. Just because my dumbass brother hasn’t figured out how to get his tail from between his legs doesn’t mean you aren’t family.”

My heart turns to mush. I can’t answer him with words because I can’t find any to say. To see this burly, broody man imply I’m family to him would make me cry if we weren’t in a bar full of people.

Peck guides us through the crowd toward the sitting area nestled next to the billiards tables. Navie is there and taking everyone’s drink orders when we get there. I sit between Peck and Walker.

Sienna does a quick introduction of her brothers. Graham, wearing the button-down, nods. Lincoln, the one in the polo shirt, waves.

“Do not bring Lincoln a bottle of Patrón,” Graham says to Navie. “Whatever he offers you under the table to do it, I’ll double.”

“I’m a married man, thank you.” Lincoln gasps. “And so are you. Kind of.”

Graham turns to Navie with a raised brow as though Lincoln just proved his point.

“No tequila for this guy.” Navie laughs. “Got it.”

“I’ve only had two shots,” Lincoln says. “And we’re on vacation.”

“You’ve had three, and your wife said that’s your limit,” Sienna tells him. “I’ll have a glass of red wine, please. And bring Walker some tequila. I think he’s gonna need it.”

Lincoln shakes his head and looks at his sister. “He gets another shot, and I don’t? What the fuck?”

“Because I can handle my liquor,” Walker says.

Lincoln flinches. “And I can’t?”

“No,” they all say at the same time.

They continue ribbing Lincoln, but I’m distracted by Walker. I follow the direction of his gaze to see Machlan heading our way. Everything else drowns out.

His swagger is present, his confidence intact. But the closer he gets and the more I see of him, the more questions I have.

There’s a question sitting on the tip of his tongue. I just don’t know who it’s for.

I hold my breath as he reaches our table and doesn’t stop until he’s behind my chair. I feel his hands brush against the edges of my hair. His fingers skim the back of my neck so lightly that I wonder if it was an accident.

A shiver rolls down my body, and I hope no one notices.

“Guys, this is Machlan,” Sienna says, starting off a new round of introductions. She names each person at the table, and Machlan exchanges a hello with each of them.

“This is your place?” Graham asks. “Looks like a good revenue stream.”

“It doesn’t do bad,” Machlan replies.

“Doesn’t do bad, my ass,” Walker says. “He works half as hard as me and makes double the money.”

“Sounds like Lincoln,” Graham says.

“I can’t help I made playing professional baseball look easy.” Lincoln looks at Machlan. “You can’t help you’re smarter than Walker and picked a job that got you a lot of money and pussy. Am I right? I mean, that’s how I feel about baseball—not that I’m getting a lot of pussy now. I’m happily married. Let’s make sure to clarify that so I don’t get beat with my own bat when I get home.”

Machlan’s fingertips drift across the back of my neck. It’s not an accident this time. They sweep from side to side, the contact growing a little more each time.

“Ah, I don’t use this place to get laid,” Machlan says. “It was never about that for me.”