Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Peck winces. “Pathetic, Machlan? Let him keep his balls.”

“Fuck his balls,” Walker snorts. “He’s driving me nuts. Whatever he’s done, Mariah, just forgive him. Make him grovel and buy you something nice but just get on with it.”

“Before I go broke,” Machlan adds.

I can’t help but laugh at their camaraderie, the easy way in which they play off each other. Being with them seems like the best family vacation ever, filled with lots of ribbing and jokes and overall shenanigans. I also can’t help but notice how every woman who walks into this place immediately looks our way.

Individually, they’re all incredibly good-looking. Together? Together it’s hard to take.

“I hate to break it to you guys,” I say, gathering my pride, “but I don’t know why he’s being an asshole.”

Walker looks at Machlan. It’s Peck who looks at me.

There’s a kindness resting there that gives me something to latch onto for a moment. I have no idea if he knows Lance broke things off with me, but something tells me he does. Maybe he even knows why. But there’s no pity in the pools of his irises and I appreciate that.

“I need to get going,” I tell them. “I have a bunch of cupcakes in the back of my car to deliver to the nursing home over by the church.”

“Lance is outside,” Walker says, twisting that toothpick again. “He’s especially irritating today, so be warned.”

My heart clamors around my ribs, pattering so loud I struggle to block it out. I look out the windows, shielding my eyes with my hand, but I don’t see him.

“He’s in that truck over there,” Peck tells me, pointing to a silver truck.

“Feel free to take him with you,” Machlan jokes.

I suck in a breath to steady myself, keeping my eyes peeled on the truck. “I might just wait in here until you leave.”

“I’d say you have a minute before he comes busting in here looking for you,” Walker notes. “Might be easier having a conversation outside.”

Naturally, my car is parked right beside the truck so I can’t even sneak out a side door. Besides, I feel his gaze on me through the glass and it only makes me miss him more.

“It was nice meeting you all,” I say. With a quick smile at the Gibson Boys, I step into the sun.

Keeping my head down, I make a beeline for my car. I can’t hear anything over the steps of my shoes against the asphalt—that is, until Lance says my name.

Despite my brain saying, ‘Don’t look up,’ I look straight up into his eyes.

They’re the same beautiful green I remember, and the ones I see every time I close my own. There are bags underneath them, lines creasing from the corners announcing that he hasn’t been sleeping well. Or at all.

I hate seeing him like that. I hate him making me feel like this. I hate this whole damn thing.

“Hey,” I say as evenly as I can manage. It’s not even at all. It’s a shaky mess of a voice that I’m half embarrassed about. “How are you?”

He leans against my car as I unlock the door. “Shitty. How are you?”

“Fine.” My cup goes into the cup holder. The little buzzing sound that drives me crazy starts chirping, reminding me I just stuck my keys into the ignition. I want to ask him about the tequila, ask him if he lost his comb, but I don’t because those things are none of my business. “I need to go.”

“Where you going?” he roughs out.

“I baked for the nursing home. I need to get them over there before their dinner time.” I look at the blacktop beneath my feet. I’ve given him more information than he deserves, even though none of it really matters. Still, I need to stop this and get on with my day. “I really do need to go, Lance.”

He shoves off my car and stands just a few feet from me. “Talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he sighs. “Why’d you put a lock on your door?”

“To keep you out.” I lift my chin and look at his five o’clock shadow. “I need some space, okay?”

“Mariah, I—”

“No.” My answer is firm, my tone strong. It’s a good launching point. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t hate you. But I’m very tender right now and I need to shore myself up some before you come back in. Okay?”

I put my hands behind me just so I don’t reach for him as he skirts his fingers over his face. He lets out a low, frustrated groan and I want to kiss his cheek and make him laugh, but I don’t because it’s not my place.

“This is the best thing for you.” He blows out a breath as I wonder if he meant that for me or for him. “I know you don’t understand that, but it’s true.”