Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Lance laughs, the sound wrapping around my heart. I just hope this isn’t one of those strange places where trouble creeps up.

Nineteen

Mariah

“Thank you for lunch.”

I take a step away from my mother. Physical interactions are something I haven’t mastered with her. They always seem contrived or like they’re only done in a room full of people because that’s what’s expected of her. They’re never warm, never safe like I imagine a mother’s hug should be. This time is no exception.

“I’m so glad you came, Mariah. And I’m even happier to see you with a man.” She turns to Lance, pulling him into the same generic embrace. “I know Mariah is a little difficult to deal with, but I hope you’ll stick around. Maybe encourage her to spend some time with her family, get out and do something besides sit in that library all day. She has so much potential.”

“I can’t even with this,” I mutter. “Are you serious right now, Mother?”

“Mrs. Stevens,” Lance says, pulling away. He casts me a warning glance over his shoulder. “With all due respect, maybe if you were a little nicer to Mariah, she’d come by more often.”

“I see,” she nods. “She’s played the victim card with you just like she does with every man.”

“The victim?” I ask. “Me? That’s a new one.”

“She just means you—”

“You probably should stay out of this,” I say, cutting off my sister. “Nothing good will come from you chiming in at this point.”

She gets a disapproving look, one she’s practiced for years. It used to scare me as a child. I’d immediately back down for fear she’d charge forward and call me names or hurt my feelings. As we stand just a few feet away from each other, she tries it again. Maybe even unknowingly. I can’t find a fuck in me to give.

Lance laughs, reaching for my hand. “Thanks for lunch. You ladies have a wonderful afternoon.”

He guides me out the door. My mom’s sharp goodbye as we leave, Chrissy’s request to call me sometime—none of that matters enough to even turn around and acknowledge it. The only thing I want to do in this moment is suck up every minute with Lance.

Unlike the times before when he’s touched me, this feels different. More intimate. Maybe it’s just because I know what it feels like to have him inside me, I don’t know. But it sends a whirl of emotions through me that I don’t have time to sort.

The late afternoon sun isn’t as warm as it was earlier and I shiver. He pulls me into his side, running his hand up and down my arm as we descend the stairs to the sidewalk.

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,” I note, looking up at him. My hand shakes as I place it on my chest, the excitement from the day starting to wear off.

“You were so tight …”

“Not what I meant,” I laugh. Each echo of my chest feels like I’m sloughing off some of the stress from the day. Like I’m casting all of that off and leaving it here, in Mom’s yard, behind me.

“That’s totally what you meant and, if it’s not, I didn’t do you right.”

“Oh, you did me right,” I say, blushing. “We just had sex in my mom’s house. What is wrong with me?”

“Hopefully just a very sore pus—”

“Stop it,” I giggle as he opens the car door.

He spins me around to face him. “You were brilliant in there today and I’m not just talking about the pantry. Although, your performance in there …”

I smack his chest. He tosses me a wink as I climb in the passenger’s side.

His shoulders seem broader, his chest fuller, as he crosses in front of the car. I can smell him on my clothes, taste his kisses. Feel the remnants of his onslaught between my legs.

Clenching my thighs together as he climbs in, I watch him get settled. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t look at me or say a word. He flips on the engine and pulls around the circular driveway and onto the road.

I wait for him to crack a joke or to reach out and touch my leg. He does neither. When he does move, I hold my breath until I realize he’s switching on the radio and not coming near me.

It’s odd that he’s not brushing my shoulder or touching my leg. I can’t help but notice it. I tell myself it’s just because I want the contact and maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe it’s just everything from the day taking its toll, but there’s still a tangled up ball of nerves that’s starting to fray in the pit of my stomach.

Watching the scenery pass, I want to say something to break the silence. I hate it. It’s not what we do. I hate it more that I don’t know why we’re doing this now.