Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

She’s changed clothes from earlier today. I would guess these to be the clothes she doesn’t care if she messes up. A pair of black cutoff sweat pants that hit only a few inches down her thighs, a tight grey t-shirt with spatters of pink and white paint, and lime green flip-flops. I can imagine her stretched out on the couch reading a book or curled up in a chair watching a fire, two thoughts I have to force away.

“Slugger, you can’t work in a garage in flip-flops.”

“Why not?”

I lift a brow.

“Fine,” she sighs, turning to the table by the door. Motioning towards a plastic bag, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I brought you something to eat. Maybe you aren’t hungry, I don’t know, but I know you didn’t break for lunch and—”

“I am. Hungry, that is.”

Her chest falls, her shoulders relaxing, a soft relief smoothing her forehead. “When I saw you still here, I figured as much. I ran by Crave and Machlan made you a sandwich. I didn’t know what you’d like.”

“You’re on a first name basis with my brother?”

“He’s so sweet,” she coos. “And he adores you, Walker.”

“About as much as he adores syphilis.” I get just close enough to grab the bag. Peering inside, I count three burgers and fries. “Think I’m hungry or what?”

“One of those is mine. Machlan just put it all in the same bag.”

“Oh.”

She kicks at an invisible rock on the floor, the toe of her flip-flop squeaking against the concrete. “I wanted to tell you thank you for changing my oil today. And for the new wipers.”

Having forgotten all about that, I feel a weird sensation in my chest. It’s not guilt, but more like being caught. “It’s no big deal.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t mean for you to do it, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“No,” I say in a rush, not wanting her to feel guilty for my deeds. “I figured I’d just check it really quick so you didn’t break down, and the oil was filthy. Almost like syrup. So I just changed it. We have all the shit here to do it, no sense in you taking it somewhere else.” She starts to speak, but I know what she’s going to say, so I cut her off before she can. “And you aren’t paying me back for it.”

A shy smile covers her gorgeous lips as she looks at me, eyes shining. “And for the wipers. How did you even know they sucked?”

“It’s what I look for. Again, no big deal.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The bag ruffles in my hand, the sound the only thing breaking the awkward silence between us. I’m not sure what to do or say. What I want and what I should do are at such opposite ends of the spectrum that I can’t see through the fuzz to think clearly. Then I make the mistake of looking up.

Her hair is pulled on top of her head, the earrings and bracelets she usually wears are gone. If she’s wearing any makeup at all, I’d be surprised.

As she looks at me with wide eyes and a hesitation I can’t deny, I fight a smile at the realization: she was coming to help me.

The idea of this girl getting greasy and handling tools heavier than she is, is laughable. And the sexiest fucking thing I can think of.

Letting the testosterone swooping through my veins call the shots, I’m talking before my brain can tell my mouth to shut up.

“Want to eat with me?” I ask.

“Sure.”

Her smile has me forgetting all about how empty my stomach was a few minutes ago. She holds up a finger, asking me to wait a minute, and then disappears into the lobby. Every second she’s gone is a second longer for me to remember exactly why this is a bad idea. Busying myself with the task of washing my hands, I half wonder if she’ll come back and half hope she doesn’t. When she comes back with two large drinks, that all goes to the wayside.

“I brought the drinks,” she says shyly. “I couldn’t carry them in, so I left them in my car.”

“You thought of everything,” I say, unwrapping a sandwich.

“Not really. I was just going to drop yours by and take mine home.”

“Why were you over here, anyway?”

“Um,” she gulps, picking up a fry. “Well, to be honest . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I was worried about you.” She looks at the ground, popping the fry in her mouth. “I’m sure you’ve done this a million times, but you were in here all day. I hardly saw you at all. And I knew Peck didn’t come back . . .”

Resting my sandwich on the foil wrapper so it doesn’t fall from my hand, the corner of my lips lift to the ceiling as I try to wrap my head around the fact that she cares. Maybe not about me, per se, but about what I’m doing. I don’t really know how to process that.