Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Anything I should or shouldn’t do today?” I ask, a little kiss on the words to hopefully drag some sort of response out of him.

“Don’t give anything else away.”

My shoulders fall. “Really? That’s your answer.”

“Yup. That’s my answer.”

“Fine,” I grumble, sidestepping him. I don’t mean to brush against him as I turn the corner of the desk. I don’t really even know how it happens because I move far enough out of the way to not make any contact at all, yet it happens.

Ever-so-lightly, my arm slips across his as I move. Not-so-slightly, a shiver rips through my body as his sturdy body doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t give at all. It’s as if it needs the contact as much as mine in its refusal to get out of the way or at least recoil as any normal person would when touched.

He’s hard and steady and I imagine him enveloping me with both arms.

My eyes flip to his immediately and are rewarded with the faintest glimmer of desire. It’s there, just masked with a look of annoyance that is more tolerable knowing the other emotion lies just below the surface.

His nostrils flare, almost a taunt for me to press the issue. Like he’s asking me to verbalize whatever the hell that was that just sparked between our bodies so he doesn’t have to.

I almost do. I almost give him the opening I think he wants, but think better of it.

“Where can I put my purse?” I ask, gesturing towards the desk. Again, I wait for a response I don’t get. “I’d be happy to figure it out if you’ll get out of my way.”

He cocks his head to the side, twisting his lips together. “Why is it that when you come in here, I feel like you forget who’s in charge?”

“Because I think we both know who’s the calm, level-headed one here.” I toss my purse on the desk.

“You?” he bursts, the word floating on a laugh. “The one who bashed my truck with a baseball bat?”

“That’s a poor example. I was thinking more like the way you stomp around and try to snarl all the time.”

It’s a gamble calling him out, and I hold my breath while I wait for his response. I’m shocked when he laughs, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning. “I don’t stomp.”

“But you do snarl,” I wink. “So, purse?”

He hesitates, his features smoothing as he resolves himself to some decision I’m not apprised of. Closing the distance between us, he stops when he’s beside me. Reaching across my body, his arm intentionally brushing my shoulder as it passes, he lifts my purse up with two fingers.

Boxed in between the wall and his forearm, roped with a mass of veins and muscles, I keep my vision pinned on the calendar taped to the desk. As he drags the purse towards him, his bicep swipes against me again, stealing my breath.

He leans close, his lips a hair’s breadth away from the shell of my ear. “It wouldn’t be wise,” he says, his voice a few decibels above a whisper, “to leave your shit lying out and getting stolen.”

When he pulls back, it’s like oxygen is freed up in the room again.

“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” I ask, my cheeks heating. “From the truck to the stuff yesterday to this—you think I’m just a stupid girl who doesn’t know anything.”

He doesn’t answer, just holds my canary yellow purse in his hand.

“Well, I’m not. The truck thing was kind of stupid,” I admit, “but I didn’t mean to do that. I just . . .”

Scrambling for words, completely thrown off by the mixed signals from Walker, I snatch my purse from his hand. He watches me, a confused look etched on his face.

“Let me just pay you and get out of here,” I say, searching for the bank envelope.

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Why? I owe it to you.”

“Because I’m not.”

The finality in his voice startles me and I look up. He runs a hand through his hair, the spikes changing position but still sticking up. The irritation doesn’t leave his face, but it changes—from what and to what, I’m not sure. All I know is that the hand holding my purse drops to my side as I wait for him to find the words he’s so obviously searching for.

“I, um . . .” He forces a swallow. “Put your purse in the cabinet back there. No one can get into it but me and Peck, and while he might be a dumbass, he’s not a thief.”

“Okay,” I say quietly. There’s a shift in the air, one that swirls between us and leaves us both a little wobbly.

“Otherwise, just, um, do whatever you think needs done. There’ll be a few customers coming in this morning. Just knock on the window and Peck or I will come in and take care of it.”