Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“Still eavesdropping,” I tease. “Would you like to come in?”

The grin falters. Reality settles in, creasing the lines on her forehead. “Should I?”

“The door is open. Pun intended.”

Her eyes roll, but it’s enough of a joke to get her to move. She comes inside and does a full three-sixty of my room. “This looks nice.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Your room looks nice.”

“So nothing about the shirt?” I ask, tugging on the neckline of my button-down. “I wore it thinking it was the color of my balls.”

“Lance …” She gulps. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I do.”

Pacing around my desk, I lean against the front. She fidgets with her bag. Her nails are a shade of pink which is weird because she usually doesn’t paint them. But I don’t ask. Now isn’t the time.

At around four this morning, as I was watching a cooking show on television, I came up with a half-assed plan. I don’t want to make her so uncomfortable that she doesn’t want to see me. While I’m trying hard not to touch her, I have no intention of ceasing to see her. I haven’t lost my mind.

“I won’t mention the app if it makes you uncomfortable,” I promise. “I will say I loved seeing that part of you—now that I know it was you—and I find it hysterical that we were messaging all this time and didn’t know it. But I’ll let it go.”

“You will?”

“I will. But if I get a paper cut, I’m coming to you for those nursing skills you promised to show me.”

She swings her lunch bag and it hits me in the arm, but there’s a happiness on her face that’s priceless. Keeping a side-eye on her, I head to the door and swing it shut.

“What day do we go to your mom’s?” I ask. “And do we get to meet the sister? Because if she’s anything like your mom, I’m gonna get a drink before we go.”

“We aren’t.” She opens her bag and takes out a baggie. “I’m not going.”

“Can I ask two things?”

“Yeah.”

“First, and most importantly, what’s in that baggie?” Raising a brow, I hold out my palm. “It looks like dessert.”

She takes a nibble and shrugs. “Lemon bars. You don’t like lemon.”

“I’m assuming you made me something?”

“Nope.”

My jaw drops. “Fine then. Second question is why are we not going to your mother’s party?”

“I am not going to my mother’s because she’s impossible. And my sister is going to be there with her husband and their child and I have no interest in seeing them.”

Reaching out, I make a point of taking a lemon bar from her bag. She watches me with a heated gaze. That part I ignore. For now.

“May I ask why?” Bringing the bar to my lips, I take a bite. It’s sweeter than I thought it would be, brighter in flavor. Not really lemon-y, but fruitier. “This is really good.”

“Thanks.”

“Back to the sister?”

“You’re so pushy,” she notes, putting the baggie back in her bag.

“And your point?”

She rummages in the bag again, but more aimlessly than before. There can’t be that much crap in there to take her this long. Still, I refrain from pestering her even if it’s harder than hell to do.

“My sister,” she begins, forcing a swallow, “married my ex-boyfriend. Like, six months after we broke up they got married.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

Smacking my tongue off the roof of my mouth, things start to make more sense. “You’re thinking if she married him that fast …”

“That they were screwing around while we were together? Correct.”

I wonder vaguely what my reaction looks like from her viewpoint. Utter confusion as to how a guy who wanted to be tied down with a woman would walk away from Mariah? Pure venom spikes in my blood toward a man I don’t even know for putting that look on her face—like she’s not worthy of someone’s first choice.

Fuck that guy.

“You’re right,” I say, polishing off the lemon bar. “We hate her.”

“You have no idea,” she grumbles.

Shoving off my desk, I take a few steps toward her. Her perfume is different today. It’s still soft and feminine, but sexier instead of floral. Or maybe that’s her pheromones I’m picking up on. Either way, I feel my stomach knotting like it’s threatening to send instructions to my groin. Like I should show her just how desirable she is.

“If you change your mind and want to go, I’m happy to go with you. Just as friends,” I say, hands up in the air when she snaps her gaze to me. Because I want this to feel normal, I add a little at the end. “But if there are benefits involved, I’m game.”

She laughs. “I’m not going, but thanks. Now, back to Ollie. What’s up with that?”

“If he asks you, we’re in charge of a student panel to study the cafeteria food. You picked a kid, I picked a kid. Got it?”