Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“How many brothers do you have?” he asks.

“Four. They’re all older than me and my twin sister.”

“You have a twin?”

“Yeah. And, no, I can’t read her mind or feel it when she stubs her toe.”

His chuckle floats from under the tractor and wraps itself around me, making me light-headed. “Weird answer.”

“Everyone thinks that,” I say, taking the last sip of my drink. “Maybe some twins have telepathic abilities, I don’t know. But we don’t.”

“Hey, can you hand me a tractor pin?”

“Sure.”

Whipping my phone out as I head back to the toolboxes, I punch in tractor pin. An image pops up of a small stick with a key looking thing attached to it. Going from one box to the next, I look for anything similar.

My blood pressure shoots up as I near the final one. There’s nothing that looks remotely like what popped up online. I could tell him I can’t find it, but I’m three-for-three. Maybe I want to impress him in his realm.

“Find it?” he calls out. “I think Peck stuck them up against the side of the box on the right. Top drawer. Probably hard to see.”

Sighing in relief, I jump to the right box and retrieve the pin. “Got it. This is the last one, just so you know.”

“Yeah, we don’t use those much.” His hand is sticking out from under the equipment awaiting the pin. I place it gently in his palm, letting my fingertips touch him as I let it go. He snaps his hand closed, catching my fingers for a brief, sudden hold.

Neither of us pulls away for a long second, the feel of his touch, however small, is like the spark of a match on a dark night. It’s warm and bright and with it comes a flash of hope that may or may not pan out.

As I draw my hand back, white noise roaring past my ears, I fall back into my chair.

Fiddling with a straw, I watch him scramble around under the tractor. Before long, he’s adjusted his position and I can’t see him anymore. A part of me wants to walk around the equipment so I can get a glimpse of him again without him knowing, but I stay put just in case he’s paying attention. I don’t want to look thirsty.

“I heard a lot about you in Crave tonight,” I tell him. “There are some interesting stories floating around about you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup. You were a football star.”

“Hardly,” he snorts.

“That’s what they say,” I sing-song. “You also had lots of girlfriends.”

A tool hits the concrete. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, come on,” I laugh. “That’s the one I believe. How would you not have a ton of girlfriends?”

“Who was telling you all this shit?” he asks, clearly annoyed.

“Machlan. Peck. A guy named Cross at the bar. They also said you once burned something in Merom’s football field before the big homecoming game.”

“That wasn’t me,” he laughs. “That was Machlan and Cross’s dumb asses.”

“Who is Cross?”

“Machlan’s friend. They’ve raised absolute hell together since they were kids. Cross owns the gym on the other side of town.”

The sound of his laugh, something I don’t get to hear often enough, makes me smile.

“Do you have any questions for me?” I ask.

“I have no interest in hearing about your dating life.”

“Good because I don’t have one,” I grumble. “My brothers made it terribly hard growing up. Dating is something that never came easy to me.”

“How would it not?” he scoffs. “Look at you. You could get any man you wanted.”

I don’t say anything, point out that the man I want is under a tractor and refusing to take the bait.

The sounds get louder from him banging on the tractor, so I sit in the chair and let my mind wander. I wish I could ask him all the questions I have, get to know him better, but he’s so locked up and I don’t know why. Even more, I don’t know why I’m so awkward with him. So unsure. So . . . not me.

“You still here?” he calls out.

“Yup.”

“Can you grab me the hayfork?”

“Sure.”

Hopping to my feet, I put the word in the search bar of my phone. A list of sites about real estate pop up. Shit! I add the word tool after it and stop in my tracks. The image it loads is of a shovel with prongs looking thing, something I can’t imagine him using under there.

“Find it?” he asks.

“I’m looking!”

“What the fuck?” I mutter, looking at the wall, scanning helplessly. The hayfork looks more like a gardening looking thing, not something for a tractor. Why would he even have one?

“Can’t find it?”

I jump, Walker’s voice just inches behind me. His hair is a disaster, flecks of dirt all over his face. He’s filthy, smells of sweat and oil, and is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.