Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

The entire city of Linton can be seen from up here. There are pine trees and tulip poplars dotting the hills that flow on all sides of this peak. On the left there are fields with muddy ruts and to the right the trees have been knocked down on the gentler slope.

“This is Bluebird,” Lance says, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “We used to come up here drinking when we were young and dumb. And in the winter, my brothers and I still get together at least once and slide down that side just to prove we aren’t too old to do it.”

“Looks painful.”

“It can be,” he chuckles. “Peck always devises some crazy sled and tests it out. One year it was an inner tube sprayed with cooking spray. Last year he used a piece of Plexiglas that almost killed him.”

“He seems really nice,” I note.

“He is. We all give him hell, but he’s a good guy.”

We stand still for a few moments, taking in the scenery. Lance’s heart thumps steadily, his chest rising and falling in a way that could put me to sleep if I let it. Every time I’m with him, I just want to be with him more. Every time I want to be with him more, I know I better watch myself because if the rug gets pulled out from under me, it’s going to hurt like hell.

“What do you do up here?” I ask, pulling away.

“Lots of things,” he says, strolling to the back of the car. “But today, I have about a hundred essays to grade.”

“Sounds awful,” I kid, joining him at the trunk. He pulls out a blanket and a worn leather briefcase before latching the lid.

I follow him to the front of the car where he spreads the multicolored blanket out on the grass. “Nana made this,” he tells me. “She made each of her grandkids a blanket when we graduated high school.”

“And you’re putting it on the ground?”

“Trust me. She’d be happier to hear I’m using it than have it rotting in a closet somewhere.”

We grab our drinks and my book and settle on the blanket. The sun hovers over the tops of the trees, a large, orange circle that seems to shine just for us.

The only sound is the crinkle of Lance’s papers and the occasional swirl of the pen against them. The air is tinged with the scent of pine and the spice of Lance’s cologne.

My book rests on my lap, a love story with a heroine loved by two drastically different men. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to be loved by two heroes, but now that I sit on top of this hill with Lance at my side, I wonder what it would feel like to be loved by one, everyday kind-of-guy.

A guy like him.

“What?” Lance’s voice startles me, bringing me out of a daze I didn’t know I was in. He removes his glasses and wipes them on the end of his shirt. He watches me with a careful curiosity. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.”

“Um, yeah. Something is going on. I can tell by the way you’re looking at me.”

I’m not about to tell him what I was thinking, so I glance down at the stack of papers next to his side. “What made you want to be a history teacher?” I say off the cuff.

“Honestly?” He places his glasses on his lap. “I couldn’t imagine working for an asshole eight, ten hours a day. I saw what my dad went through owning his own business and I didn’t really want that either. I didn’t want to spend my entire life at work like everyone else.”

“But why teaching?” I ask.

“Well, I dislike most adults,” he laughs. “Kids have always been more my speed. They’re pretty innocent most of the time and you can still mold them into becoming something good for the world. So, it was either that or becoming a veterinarian and I don’t like getting bitten. Most of the time.”

We exchange a grin as he clamps the shoulder I marred a couple of days ago. My body hums with the memory. Instead of going there, I keep us focused.

“Was there a moment though when you knew teaching was it for you?” I ask.

“What’s with all the teaching questions?”

“I’m curious.”

“When did you know you wanted to be a librarian?” he asks, turning the tables.

“When I was eight and we took a field trip to the library,” I say easily. “I walked in that building with its dusty shelves and tattered covers and knew it was where I wanted to spend every day for the rest of my life. Now you. When did you know?”

He stretches back, his hands on the line where the blanket meets the grass. His watch sparkles in the sunlight, his forearm flexed beneath it.