Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

Today was a good day.

Every time I think of Walker, I remember his little slip about my jeans. Giggling, I reach for the gear shift to put my car in reverse and stop.

The oil light isn’t lit.

It doesn’t come on when I put it in reverse either.

Peck comes out from inside the gas station where he was just buying a drink and sees me sitting in the parking lot. He heads my way.

I roll down the windows, the warm breeze making me even happier. “Hey,” I say to him as he gets near. “Did you change my oil today?”

“Nope.”

My back falls against the seat as I try not to act as giddy as I feel.

He leans against the door and takes me in. “What are ya thinking?”

“I mentioned it to Walker earlier and now the light is off. Does that mean he changed it?”

“Someone did,” Peck grins, “and it wasn’t me. Walker is a good guy. And I’m fairly certain he thinks a lot of you.”

“You think?” I ask, my hopes whizzing upwards.

“I do.” He taps the hood as he stands up again. “I got to get back to the job. Just came by for a drink. Be careful going wherever you’re going.”

“Will do. Thanks, Peck.”

“Later.”

I don’t pull out quite yet. Instead, I sit there with a huge smile on my face.

As much of a jerk as he can be, he can also make me feel like this. Between protecting me with Tommy to changing my oil, it feels really, really good.

“AH, FUCK.” THE TOOL slips out of my hand and clamors onto the floor two inches from my head. I’d jump—that’s my immediate reaction—but the steel hanging right above me as I lie beneath the tractor keeps me from it.

Blowing out a hiss, my eyes fall closed as the aches in my back from lying in this position for the last few hours start to compound. My shoulders throb from holding objects over my head, my eyes burn from the oil and gas fumes. It’s been a hell of a day.

Twisting just enough to get a glimpse of the clock on the far wall, I realize Peck isn’t coming back. The welding job took all day, and by now, he’s with the community center people helping the summer sports program. Annoyance that I’m still here, alone, now doing a job that would be so much faster with two people, would come easy except I know how much it means to Peck to give back to the program he credits for saving his life.

The massive piece of equipment straddling me is going to take all night, but I expected as much. Farm equipment is never a quick fix. But for all the headaches it gives, it also provides two things: a lot of money and an inability to think about anything else. Stuart coming in this morning with this giant pain in the ass was a godsend.

Cringing, my hand falls to my stomach as its rumbling sounds over the garage. Sienna left a couple of muffins on the desk when she left a few hours ago and I devoured them. That’s all I’ve eaten today, another by-product of this project.

Lifting the tool I dropped, I start to attack the problem again when I hear a sound across the room. A set of tanned legs stop just in front of the tractor.

The tool drops slowly to my chest. There’s no reason for her to be here now, just as the sun is starting to set. As my heart races so quickly I feel it pulse in my throat, I wait for her to speak. To explain. To leave again so I can breathe.

“Walker?”

“Yeah?” I croak, watching one of her legs bend at the knee. The light reflects off her skin, drawing me in like a fucking Siren.

“Why are you still here?”

“Working. Why are you here?”

She shifts her weight, a hand going to her hip. I wonder if she’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head like she usually does when I don’t just answer her questions, and if she is, I hate that I’m missing it.

“I drove by a few minutes ago and saw your truck and the lights on. I figured . . . I don’t know,” she says, clearing her throat. “Maybe you need some help?”

Chuckling, I slide myself out from under the tractor. Lying on the creeper, the heels of my work boots pressed into the concrete to stop me from sliding, I look up. She’s looking down with a soft, inquisitive stare that makes me feel more vulnerable than I care to admit.

Resting my hands on my stomach, I force everything out of my mind except the fact that she shouldn’t be here.

“Did you bring someone with you?” I ask.

“For what?”

“To help.”

The glare I fully expect doesn’t take long to come my way. “No. I meant I was coming to help you.”