Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

Gathering my phone and lip gloss from the passenger seat, I slip them into my purse and open the car door. If this happened in any normal situation, I would’ve already paid him back by now. But if I tossed him some cash, I think he might actually be offended. Still, knowing enough money is tucked in my wallet to pay for the damage if things go south is a little balm to my uneasiness.

Confidence is one of my best qualities. I can walk into a room of political powerhouses or professional athletes and hold my own. It’s a regularity of my life in Savannah, how I was raised. So why am I walking into a mechanic’s shop in the middle of Illinois and feeling like I’m naked in Times Square?

Ignoring the roiling in my stomach, I take the handle and yank the door open. The chimes I’m already starting to hate ring as I step inside. The air conditioning is a welcome reprieve from the heat. It’s almost as nice as the view sitting at the desk.

A tight black t-shirt grips his muscled frame as Walker sits in the chair and clicks around on a computer. He knows I’m here; there’s no way he doesn’t. But he doesn’t look at me.

I wait a few seconds before finally clearing my throat. “Hello?”

“Hi.” His head doesn’t turn, his eyes unmoving from the screen. He couldn’t pretend to be more bored with my arrival if he tried.

I pick at the hem of my shirt, silently begging him to have mercy on me and just speak. But after almost a minute, it’s obvious he’s not going to.

“Good morning to you too,” I say flatly.

Readjusting my purse on my shoulder, I wait for him to respond. He continues doing whatever it is that he’s doing, and I’m two seconds from walking back out when he shoves away from the desk. The sudden burst of movement startles me. Large arms cross his chest, and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them before as they settle on me.

“I didn’t expect you to come today,” he says simply.

“I’m a woman of my word.”

A hint of a smile plays on his lips, but never quite breaks free. I want to ask him why he’s so constrained, why that sentence amuses him, why he didn’t expect me—but I don’t. Instead, I just stare back at him, giving as good as I’m getting.

He gives nothing away with his steady gaze, two-day stubble, and wild hair like his hands have been in it all morning. My heart strums in my chest, each moment that passes without any sort of break in the standoff giving me way too much time to examine him for all the wrong reasons. To smell him. To almost taste the energy spiraling off him in waves.

If I stand here much longer, I might start to pant.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

One corner of his lips lifts, catching on to my unintended innuendo, before he rolls his mouth around like he’s tasting a sip of wine.

Blushed, I clear my throat. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How do I know?” he asks, his voice low and grumbly. “This wasn’t my idea, if you’ll recall.”

“If you’ll recall,” I start back, “it’s your business and you agreed to this. I assume you want a say in how I work off my debt.”

“I can make suggestions,” Peck laughs, coming out of the bathroom. “Wanna hear them?”

“Get to work.” Walker shakes his head as Peck walks by. “The fuel injector came in for the car in the back. Can you get that thing on so we can get it out of the way?”

“Yeah. Got it.” Peck leans against the door to the garage bay. His boyish grin is adorable, a dimple set deeply into his right cheek. A mop of blond hair sticks out from under a navy blue cap. “Nice to see you, Slugger.”

“Go on, Peck,” Walker rumbles as I release a little giggle that only seems to annoy him more.

Peck’s chuckle remains a few seconds after the door swings shut, leaving us alone. Walker scoots his chair back and stands, sending a whiff of a woodsy cologne through the room. “There’ll be a delivery this morning from the auto parts store. Just sign for it if you happen to be out here, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Easy enough.”

Moving around the desk, he stops just a few inches from me. I tilt my head up to look him in the eye, breathing in the masculine scent that I’ve already committed to memory. He’s close enough that I could touch him, could run my hands down the sides of his face or trace the lines of his shoulders pressing against the cotton of his shirt.

His eyes narrow, his lips part slightly, as he takes me in. There’s no uptick in his breathing, no tell-tale sign that he’s thinking anything remotely like what I am. There’s just a hint of intrigue buried deep in his eyes that only fuels my need to make him react.