Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“I was just thinking how lonely it feels in here.”

“I get that. But I’m talking about the pillows on the couch and picture frames and that blanket over there. It’s all very particular. Pretty. Clean.”

“You just like me for my organizational skills, don’t you?” My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t figure out dinner. “I hope you plan on sharing that food because there’s little chance you make it out of here alive with it.”

“Actually,” he says, shifting on his feet, “I was hoping you hadn’t eaten yet.”

“Wanna eat with me?” I ask, probably a little too excited for the cause but uncaring because this kills two, maybe even three, birds with one stone.

He heads to the coffee table and plops the bag on top. “We have cheeseburger casserole. Does that work for you?”

“Um,” I say, shrugging. “I’ve never had it.”

“You’ve never had it? Ever?”

“Never. What is it?”

“Perfection.” He slips two Styrofoam containers from the bag and places them on the coffee table. Fishing around again, he retrieves two plastic forks and holds them up. “If you have drinks, we’re good to go.”

“I think I have something . . .” Making a face, I flash him a finger indicating to hang on and disappear into the kitchen. Popping open the refrigerator, I do a quick inventory. One small chocolate milk, three bottles of water, and two bottles of wine. “Ah!”

“Like wine much?”

Giggling, I lean back into his shoulder. “Not really. That was Delaney’s. She must’ve forgotten it.”

“You have no root beer.”

“Is that what you like?” I ask, inhaling his cologne.

“Yup. But I guess it’s water tonight. Unless you think wine and cheeseburger casserole is a good pair?”

I could stand here all night with no food and no drink, just leaning against Walker. “I don’t know what it tastes like, so maybe we should stick with water?”

He buries his head in my hair. His hands cinch at my waist as I hold my breath and wait to see what he does. I exhale when he gently shoves away. “Water it is. Let’s go.”

Grabbing all three bottles, I kick the door shut and follow him back to the living room. He gets settled on one end of the couch and I on the other.

“I grew up eating this,” he says, offering me a container. “It’s hamburger, cheese, onion, biscuits . . . I don’t know what else. But this is my ultimate comfort food.”

Laughing, I take the container and pop it open. Scents of the hot meal waft through the air, making my stomach rumble harder. “I love that you used the words ‘comfort food.’”

“Nah, Nana said that earlier. I just repeated it.”

“Figures,” I say, lifting a forkful of the casserole to my lips. Blowing softly, the motion catching Walker’s attention, I wrap my lips around the end of the fork and slowly pull it out of my mouth. His eyes go wide ever-so-slightly as I lose myself in the taste of home-cooked food. “Oh my gosh.”

“I hope it’s half as good for you as this is for me.”

“I can taste the onions and cheese and the sweetness from the biscuits,” I groan, taking another bite. “This is delicious.”

The garlic is subtle, a hint of pepper and a dash of heat that makes me wonder if she used hot sauce, I fall back on the couch cushion and savor it. Closing my eyes, the flavors remind me of my mother, the scents the same that fill the Farm when we all congregate for dinner.

When I open my eyes, Walker hasn’t taken a bite. “What?” I ask, swallowing.

“Nothing.” He swipes a forkful of casserole and shoves it into his mouth.

“You did that so you didn’t have to talk to me.”

He makes a face, stopping only to fill his mouth again.

“I guess I’ll have to keep talking and then you will have a laundry list of things to answer when you stop eating,” I shrug smugly.

Looking alarmed, he washes down his food with half a bottle of water. “I’m done. No need to back me up until tomorrow.”

“That’s what I thought,” I giggle, dragging the fork through the food. “I’m happy you came over here.”

“I was in town.”

“Walker Gibson, you were not,” I laugh. “Nana lives in the country. There’s an entire town between her house and here.”

“So?”

“So just admit you wanted to come see me,” I say, setting my container on the coffee table.

“I . . . might have . . .” he says, messing with me.

“I . . . might have . . .” I mock, standing up. “Had a date tonight.”

He sweeps me off my feet, settling me on his lap before I can stop him. Laughing as I get situated cross-ways over his body, I gaze up in to his face.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Did I what?”

“Did you have a date?” He peers down, a crinkle in his forehead, as he searches me for something that convinces him I’m telling the truth.