Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

“This is good,” I say, licking my lips.

“You should see what I can do with Nana’s fried chicken.”

“Oh, really?” I eat another piece in two bites. “What do you do with that?”

“You take the chicken and put it in a brown paper bag. Turn on the oven and put the chicken in there. Grab a shower and when you’re out, the chicken is warm and crispy.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to put a paper bag in the oven, Mach.”

“I’ve done it a hundred times, and nothing bad has happened yet.”

I laugh. “I think that’s just part of your charm.”

He shoves another section in his mouth. “What’s that mean?”

“You do a lot of things a hundred times and nothing bad happens. You better hope it doesn’t start catching up with you.”

His eyes go wide before he grabs a napkin and cleans his hands. “You gonna eat that last piece?”

“No. I hate eating this late. I’ll wake up with an upset stomach.”

“Then why did you eat any of it?” he asks, sliding my plate in front of him.

“I can say no to a lot of things but not grilled cheese. Even I have limits.”

“Good to know.” He slides the last bit into his mouth and washes it down with a long drink of water. “You ready for bed?”

A bit of panic creeps through my body. Raising my glass, I take a drink. A long one. One that nearly drains the entire glass into my stomach. Getting waterlogged is a better alternative than answering that question the wrong way.

I have no idea how this is going to work. Every time I’ve been here before, I’ve slept with him. Every time I’ve been here before, I’ve left without him. This is no different, and I know it. Not even if he’s being nice or thoughtful or considerate—it changes nothing in the long game.

Machlan watches me. The longer it takes, the wider his grin gets. Only when it’s stretched ear-to-ear does he cross his arms over his toned chest and laugh. “I didn’t realize you were so dehydrated.”

“Yeah,” I say, setting the glass down. Sucking in oxygen in a wild gasp, I shrug. “Really thirsty.”

“Or really avoiding my question.”

“No, no, no.” I get up and gather our glasses and put them in the dishwasher. There’s a dishrag in the sink. I use it to wipe a few crumbs off the counter but stop when Machlan’s hand rests on my shoulder.

“I didn’t bring you here to clean up after me.”

The rag goes into the sink with a plop. I look at him in the reflection in the window.

“You clean when you’re nervous,” he says, holding my gaze. “Why?”

“I feel like maybe I should go back to the apartment.”

His abs ripple as he chuckles. I try to ignore them and the way my stomach clenches.

“You want to go back now?” he asks. “Why?”

I spin around, letting the panic hit. “I’ve talked a good game. Better than I thought I could, really. But I don’t know if I can do this,” I jabber. “Coming home with you doesn’t feel like just sex, which we’ve talked about, and now that I’m here, I think it’s a terrible idea. I think I’m gonna wake up in the morning and—”

“Breathe,” he says. He takes in a lungful of air and blows it out, encouraging me to do the same. “See that? That’s how you don’t sound like a lunatic. You breathe between words. Try it.”

I make a face. “I don’t sound that crazy, do I?”

“Yes.” He bends forward until he’s inches from my face. “You do.”

He steps back and really takes me in. When he usually does this, it feels like he sees all the way through me. Right now, though, it feels like he’s wrapping me in a warm blanket.

Under the haze of the yellow-hued light bulb in the kitchen, I relax. And as I do that, I realize how easy it would be to totally relax, to fall into his bed or into some fantasy like I usually do.

No matter how good this feels, how right, it’s still me and Machlan. Nothing has changed there. I have to remember that.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say.

“You will not.” He turns toward the hallway.

“I’m not sleeping with you.” I follow him out of the kitchen, flipping the light off as I go. The hallway is dark, and I can only make out his silhouette as I go. He takes a left, and the light comes on in his bedroom.

It’s decorated as I remember. A slate gray bedspread stretches over his king-size mattress. Four pillows lay at the top with black and white pillowcases. There’s a television facing the bed and a dresser beneath it. A chair sits in the corner with a pair of jeans thrown over the back.

He disappears into his closet and comes back out with a handmade quilt. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” His irritation is palpable.