Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Really?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m used to doing a lot of this on my own. It’s weird having someone looking over my shoulder.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to feel like that,” she pushes. “It’s not what I mean.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m, um, I’m not used to having someone pay attention.” I hold her gaze, my stomach twisting into a bigger mess than the tractor.

“Yeah, well, it’s what I do,” she says, dismissively. “I get it from my mother. My siblings are all like that. We try to fix everything. And I mean everything.”

“Like the Ranger?”

“Like the Ranger,” she agrees shyly.

Lifting the sandwich, I take a bite of Crave’s famous barbecue bacon cheeseburger and think about what she said. “What’s your family like?”

“They’re great. Nosy, all of them, and pains in the ass. But I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“You seem like you miss them.”

She considers this, leaning her head to the side as she focuses on a spot on the wall behind me. “I do. I miss them like crazy. It seems like the older I get, the more I miss them.”

“Are they like you?”

“What do you mean, ‘are they like me’?” she presses.

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

“How would you describe me?”

Beautiful. Sexy. Intriguing.

“Capable,” I suggest.

“Oh, gee. Thanks.”

“What?” I laugh before taking a sip of my soda. “Capable is a good word.”

“If you’re talking about a soldier!”

“Fine. You’re determined.”

“I think I’m taking my burger to go,” she laughs, tossing her half-eaten fry at me. It misses, hitting my cup and falling to the floor.

Setting my burger down, I focus my attention solely on her. “What about interesting?” I offer, more quietly this time. “Or classy? Or good-hearted?”

“You think I’m interesting?”

Her eyelashes bat together, the apples of her cheeks glowing. I want to show her just how interesting I find her to be, how her classy mouth sounds when it’s crying my name in the dirtiest way.

“A little bit,” I grumble instead, bundling what’s left of my burger up in the wrapper. Her gaze sits squarely on my shoulders and I know if I look up at her, she’ll be expecting an explanation. So I don’t look up. “I have to get back to the tractor. Thank you for dinner, Sienna.”

“Any time,” she whispers.

Turning to toss my stuff in the trash, we nearly collide. The scent of pineapples rushes across me, mixing with the heat of her body. It’s a connection I can’t break, the way my body wants to crash against hers. The way I don’t have to look in the morning to know she’s here because I can sense her walking into a room. There’s a definite link somehow from something in me to something in her, and even though I fight with everything I have to break it, I can’t.

“Do you need help?” she asks. There’s a twinge of hope in her tone that I can’t let go.

“What do you know about tools?”

“I know you think I’m a silly girl who’s never touched a hammer before, but that’s both sexist and not true.” Hand on her hip again, she throws her shoulders back. “If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. I’ll go.”

“So you know the difference between a socket and a screwdriver?” My question is quick, the desperation that she says yes thick—maybe too thick. I think she starts to read into it, but like me, tempers her hopes.

“Of course,” she huffs.

“Fine,” I say, turning away so she doesn’t see my smile. “Let’s get dinner cleaned up and get to it.”

“CAN YOU GRAB ME a wrench? Inch and a half.”

“Sure.” Nearly skipping to the back wall that’s lined in front by giant toolboxes, I’m relieved I actually know what a wrench is. The last two things he’s asked me for have sounded like he made them up. My quick online searches have provided me with proof they were real, as well as an image to reference as I scan the thousands of implements in Crank and retrieve the one he’s looking for.

Grabbing the wrench, confirming the dimension printed into the steel, I hand it under the tractor. His fingers rub against mine as he takes it, sending a pulse zipping through my veins.

“Thanks,” he says. Just like the last two times, I can hear he’s impressed that I got it. Just like the last two times, I feel my grin grow wider. “How do you know about tools, anyway?”

“Oh,” I say, darting around for some answer that’s not Google. “We have a farm. I mean, not lots of tools or farm animals anymore,” or ever, “but I have lots of brothers,” who know nothing about cars.

I try to imagine one of my brothers in their polo shirts working on a car in front of what we affectionately call the Farm. It’s nothing more than an old farmhouse that’s been in our family for ages and is the farthest thing from a place to do farm activities. It’s been the headquarters for my family’s political activities, held family Christmases, and was even photographed for a piece about Southern homes in a fancy magazine last year. But actual real-life farming? Nope.