Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Then why don’t you?” I ask, a little relieved that he isn’t some playboy that just doesn’t want to not date me. “Why would you want to be alone all the time?”

He strokes his chin, his elbow propped up on his knee. He watches me intently, like he’s trying to weed out any unforeseen insinuations. “You know how you said sometimes you can’t figure anything out?”

“Yeah.”

“That.”

“You don’t know how to date?” I tease. “It’s really pretty simple.”

“No, smartass, I know how to date. I just . . .” He looks at me for help. When I don’t give him any, he shrugs. “I guess I find it a hassle that doesn’t usually seem worth it.”

“Strangely, I get that. Although I do go into them sometimes and know it’s a one-time thing. A guy will ask me to dinner or an event and I’ll go with him, even though there’s no hope of really seeing him after.”

“So like one-night stands?”

My cheeks warming, I shake my head. “No. I actually don’t sleep with many men.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you did.”

“I know. It’s just I did with you, so of course you might think that.”

There’s something he wants to say. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. Scratching at the back of his neck, he seems to change his mind.

“Do you date a lot?” he asks instead.

There’s a slight change in his tone, a barely perceptible chill iced on each word that the average person listening in wouldn’t catch, but I do. To me, it’s unmistakable. And when I pair it with the intensity of his gaze, I could shudder despite the warm afternoon temperature.

“Sometimes,” I answer.

“Are you dating anyone now?”

“Not regularly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Laughing at his reaction, the way he’s sitting upright all of a sudden, I shrug. “It means I’m not seeing anyone exclusively.”

“But you’re seeing someone?”

“I went to dinner with a guy a couple of weeks ago. It was nice, but nothing I’d like to do again. There are a couple of guys in Savannah that I see when I go home off and on, but no one I call to chat with or that sends me flowers, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t know what I fucking mean,” he groans. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not.”

He fiddles with his hands again, taking in a deep, lazy breath that fills his solid chest. I find myself mirroring his action, the oxygen seeping in to my lungs and helping to steady my heartbeat as we blow out the air in unison.

“I’m just gonna toss some shit out there and you can take it or leave it or make fun of me . . .” he says, refusing, still, to look my way.

“Probably the latter, but go on,” I tease. Anticipation of what he’s about to say grabs hold of my hopes and emotions and pulls them up and up until I feel like I’m actually standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to be pushed over or pulled back into his arms.

He lifts his eyes. They’re crystal clear, the brown pools bared for me to see there’s no bullshit, no ulterior motives behind whatever it is he’s going to say.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he says softly.

“I’ve seen you know exactly what to do with me,” I say, my words falling right where I intended.

The corner of his mouth curls into a smile, but he doesn’t let himself run with it. Instead, he cinches down, clears his throat, and continues on. “You bashed my truck with a baseball bat.”

“Oh, Lord. Are we going back to that again?”

“Who does that, Sienna?”

“Me, all right?” I laugh. “I did that. I do that.”

“Exactly. You do that. But you also bake muffins for Peck and I for breakfast,” he says, the laughter falling from his voice. “You come back to the shop to bring me dinner when you know I’m working late and you pretend to know about tools when you don’t know jack shit.”

“I know how to navigate a search engine.”

“But who takes the time to do that?” he sighs. “Who spends their evening in a dirty mechanic’s shop and lies their way into helping someone else?”

I shrug. “Someone crazy.”

“Yeah. You,” he says. “And you make friends with my Nana and put my brothers in check and you’re still sitting in a treehouse talking to me when I was pretty nasty to you.” He shakes his head like he’s been stumped. “You’re the craziest person I’ve ever met.”

He shifts in his seat, like he’s just getting comfortable with the words slipping off his tongue. “Women will pretend to be sweet. I’ve seen it a million fucking times. But when the going gets tough, they’ll back off and go somewhere easier. Every. Fucking. Time. Until now.”