Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“I’m just struggling with being smart and being open at the same time,” I explain. “I want to be open with Lance, give him all the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to burden him with Eric’s sins.”

“Sounds very reasonable of you,” she grins.

“But, at the same time, I did that with Eric and look where it got me. That wound still stings and if I don’t pay attention to that, I might get stung again.”

Whitney chuckles. “It must be terrible to be so logical. You can’t even have fun.”

“I know,” I whine. “This is the first time since Eric where I’ve felt like maybe I’ve put those rose-colored glasses back on. Like maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see and not what was real. I refuse to do that again, you know? I won’t be that blind girl ever, ever again.”

“You aren’t blind. You’re nervous and nervous is good. Nervous is smart. But you being nervous makes me want dessert.” Whitney stands, slipping her sneakers back on.

“I think I have leftover brownies,” I offer without a lot of initiative.

“Come on,” she says, pulling me up. “Let’s go buy overpriced slices of cheesecake at Peaches. We’ll bring them here and binge watch a show.”

I don’t love television, but I also don’t love sitting around sulking. Or worrying. Or lamenting over a man I’m not sure is mine.

“I don’t even have a show,” I note, shoving Lance out of my mind.

“Oh, girl, I’ll fix that.”

She gives me a complete list of all the offerings currently available on my subscription service as we get in her car and head through Linton. The streetlights are on, casting a pretty glow over the little town I’ve come to love.

“The one about royalty is my pick based off your fabulous descriptions,” I add, watching Dr. Burns’ office pass by.

“You’ll love that.”

“I don’t want to watch it if you’ve already seen it,” I protest.

“Only one episode,” she insists. “Besides, I watch so many shows I can’t remember what they’re about. It’s one of the fabulous things about being me—”

“Hey.” I lean forward quickly, the seat belt snapping me back in my seat. I try to see down the side road leading to Crave but we’ve gone by it before I can get turned around. An eerie calm fills my veins as my brain clears out everything that’s not absolutely necessary. “Take a right up here and go around the block.”

“Why?” she asks as she hits the breaks to slow down for the turn.

“Just do it.”

My breath steams up the window as I pant against it like a puppy. Using the sleeve of my shirt, I wipe off the fog so I can see.

The side streets are fairly empty except for a few cars sitting on the street in front of houses. There’s a dog in the yard of the large Victorian house I love on the corner as we turn and make our way back toward Beecher Street.

My breath is the only sound in the car as I pull oxygen in through my mouth. There’s a burn in my chest, like the bitter fluids from my stomach have somehow escaped and now fill my entire cavity.

Whitney pushes the car slowly up the road. There, just a few slots back from the corner, is Lance’s car.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. My clothes feel too clingy, everything too tight, too itchy, as we pass the parked car. There’s nothing around open this time of night in this part of town except Crave.

He did blow me off.

Mentally, I start linking things together, things I hope don’t belong together. Things like a broken date with me, his car at the bar, the app I saw today.

Stop it.

My hand shakes as I toy with the necklace rising and falling with every harsh breath. I tell myself the gut instinct I had today that something was wrong was actually right and I should have some sense of comfort in that. But I don’t. I don’t when it’s still churning, warning me there’s more to come.

“You think he’s in there?” Whitney asks, watching me out of the corner of her eye.

Gulping, I nod. “Yeah.”

“It was rhetorical,” she sighs, pulling through the stop sign as a car comes up behind us. “Where else would he be?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, picking at the corner of my fingernail. “Just head to Peaches and let me think about it.”

“By thinking do you mean talking? Because I have opinions.”

“I’m sure you do,” I grumble. “His brother owns Crave,” I note. “Maybe he’s there talking about something with him.”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound persuaded.

“Maybe.” Neither do I.

Twenty-Eight

Lance

I’m not sure how the temperature dropped quickly enough to have me shaking. I’m also not one-hundred-percent sure how long I’ve stood on Mariah’s doorstep, but it’s been long enough that her neighbor has looked out the window twice.