Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Peeking at Lance as he steers the car around a pothole, I wonder what it would be like to wake up beside him. Or to go to sleep at his side. Or spend the evening with him and his family.

I wonder what the rest of them are like. Are they all as wonderful as his grandmother?

Her declaration that he hasn’t brought a girl to her house before rolls through my mind. Am I just that good of a friend? Was it just a timing issue? Probably. I’m grateful for it either way because I haven’t felt that happy and understood since Grandma Betsy passed away.

“What?” he asks, catching me check him out. “Do I have cookie on my face?”

“No,” I laugh. “I was just wondering why you took me to your grandma’s.”

He shrugs like he hadn’t thought about it.

“Were you trying to convince her of your heterosexuality?” I tease.

“No. Clearly Nana loves me for whomever I choose to be.”

“Lucky for you.”

His lips part into a slow smile. “This night didn’t go as planned, did it?”

“Ha.” Taking a deep breath, I blow it out into the night. “It didn’t go as planned, but is it weird that I’m happy about how it turned out?”

“You are, are you?”

“I don’t think Jonah was for me,” I wince, making him laugh. “It makes me wonder what Whitney was thinking. I mean, he ordered a veggie burger.”

Lance cracks up, his hand dropping to his thigh. My eyes follow it as his fingers press lightly into his leg. The muscles in his forearm flex and I want to ask him if he lifts weights or plays basketball a lot or is just one of those people that wakes up sexy. But I don’t. It’s too dangerous. For me.

“So that was a blind date?” he asks. “You didn’t pick him out of a line-up or something?”

“Um, no. My friend hooked us up. He was cute and I think he’s probably smart if I could have gotten him to open up or something,” I shrug. “But he’s really not what I go for in a man.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere …”

“Really?” I giggle. “Where’s that?”

“What does Ms. Mariah Malarkey look for in a man?”

My mouth hangs open, but no words come out. My first reaction is to babble off hair color or nice teeth, but is that what I look for in a man?

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

“You know, I’m not sure what my type is.”

“How can you not know that?” He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. “Don’t women sit around and analyze it?”

“Not this woman. I haven’t ever thought about it. It’s harder to answer than you think.”

He gives me a look that says I’m crazy, so I turn the tables.

“What’s your type, Mr. Gibson?”

His response is instantaneous. “Big ass. Tight pussy. Nice lips.”

My scoff isn’t supposed to be heard. It’s supposed to stay tucked inside the judgmental sector of my brain while I play it off like his response is expected. Because it is. This is verbatim what I expected him to say.

What I didn’t expect is how my heart kind of tugged when he said it.

“What?” he pushes when I don’t say anything. “I’m being honest.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“When you’re fucking someone, nothing else really matters. Sure, I appreciate good breath and no gag reflex but I’m not picky.”

The song switches to something a little faster temp. I turn it off. He lifts a brow, but doesn’t comment.

My eyes drift closed. Fighting my brain to keep from overanalyzing every word I’ve said tonight, I try to just breathe in Lance’s cologne and enjoy the little bubble I’m in. It’s like the world isn’t here. It’s similar to how I feel when I read an amazing book, only this is real. At least for a little while it is.

How long I sit like that and ponder, I don’t know, but Lance’s hand brushing my cheek is what pulls me back to the car.

My lashes open to see him watching me with a concerned look etched on his features.

“I didn’t offend you somehow, did I?” he asks quietly. He clenches the steering wheel, his forearm flexing.

“No, of course not.” Shifting in my seat, wishing the warmth of his hand was back on my cheek again, I smile. “Why would I be offended?”

“I don’t know. You just got all quiet on me.”

“I was just relaxing,” I shrug. “And thinking. I figured out my type.”

“And?”

“He’s loyal. That’s the most important thing. And smart, someone who likes to read and wouldn’t give me crap about reading in bed.” The further I go into this, the easier it gets. “He’d want to be a father, have at least two kids, and not be mad if I let them pile up in bed with us. He’d love cake and baked stuff and wouldn’t be adverse to stopping the car and getting out to dance because a certain song had come on.”