Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“If you consider a date with the drive-thru guy a date, then possibly,” I wink.

He rests back, one hand flat against my stomach. I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it. It’s like he’s subconsciously asking me not to get up. I hate to tell him, but I’m perfectly comfortable right where I’m at.

“Pie or cake?” he asks out of nowhere.

I want to ask why he’s asking me such randomness, but I don’t want to spoil whatever it is he’s thinking. “Pie.”

“Pepper or salt?”

“Salt bloats. Pepper.”

“Television or movies?”

“Depends who I’m with,” I say, taunting him.

“Me?”

“Movies.”

“Why?”

Clenching my stomach, his fingers flexing against me as I do, my brain immediately goes to the gutter. “They take longer. More cuddle time.”

“You want to cuddle with me?” he asks carefully.

“Depends.”

“On what?” he says, fighting a smile.

“Casserole or cobbler?”

His eyes light up. “Cobbler.”

“But I thought cheeseburger casserole was your favorite comfort food?”

“Have you ever had cobbler?” he deadpans.

“Fair enough. Plane or truck?”

“Depends on where I’m going.”

“Can you just answer a freaking question?” I laugh.

He laughs, taking off his hat. Running a hand through his hair, I can’t help but notice how relaxed he looks. “Why do you dye your hair purple?”

“I don’t know,” I say, lifting a strand of colored locks. “Do you not like it?”

“I love it. I just wonder why purple?” He takes the strands from me and slips them between his fingers.

My heart falls a bit as I remember Carrie’s face. “I had a friend in California. She was twenty-four and diagnosed with pancreatic cancer,” I say softly. “It’s a fatal disease and she passed away only nine months after she found out. She was so free-spirited and beautiful and kind and everything good. Purple is the color of that ribbon, so sometimes I just feel like it honors her in the dumbest way.” I feel my face flush. “That seems so stupid, doesn’t it?”

Instead of laughing or agreeing or ignoring the crack in my voice, he hugs me into his chest and holds me against him. I feel him press a soft kiss to the top of my head. There’s something about the gesture, the super sweet way he holds me. There’s nothing sexual about it, no overtones or indications this is anything but a man sensing my broken heart and wanting to try to ease it somehow.

We sit quietly on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms. He draws small pictures on my side from the tip of my sweatpants to just beneath my bra. I can’t tell what they are, but I love the way they feel.

“I didn’t realize how much you love baseball,” he says, the swirls stopping.

“What makes you say that?”

“The thing with Daisy and then there’s an Arrows blanket over there and you knew a lot about baseball with Machlan and Lance. You had an Arrows shirt on today too.”

“Very perceptive,” I say, sitting up and stretching. “I really don’t love baseball, but I was an Arrows fan.”

“Was? Not anymore?”

Climbing off his lap, I start gathering our containers and putting them back into the bag. Chewing my bottom lip, trying to decide how to tell him Lincoln is my brother, I move to the other side of the coffee table.

I’ve never been in this situation before. Everyone in Savannah knows who my family is. My friends in California knew too. It’s not that it’s a big deal to me, but sometimes other people think it is and that makes things awkward. I don’t want to do anything to destroy this serenity with Walker, but I can’t lie to him either.

So, I go for nonchalance.

“My brother doesn’t play for them anymore,” I shrug, turning away towards the kitchen. “I don’t have to like them now.”

“Your brother what?” There’s a tinge of disbelief on the end of the question, a rasp to his voice that makes me recenter before speaking or turning around.

After a deep breath, I explain. “My brother, Lincoln, played centerfield for them. I had to like them. Family rules.”

Stopping and looking over my shoulder, I see Walker lean forward and balance his elbows on his knees. “Your brother is Lincoln Landry?”

“Yup.”

“The Lincoln Landry?”

“The one and only,” I say with a shrug. “I told you my last name.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “But I had no idea that you were from that family.”

“That family is my family. It’s not a big deal.”

“So, that makes your other brother a senator or something?”

“Governor. For now,” I add. “He’s not running for reelection, so that’s about over.”

“That’s a big deal. I . . .” He shakes his head, like he can’t make sense of what I’m saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Resting the bag of trash on a stack of boxes near the doorway, I take a deep breath. “Would it have mattered?”

He ponders this, his eyes kind of glassing over as he lets this marinate. Finally, after what feels like a hundred years, he flips his gaze back to me again. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have fed you cheeseburger casserole, for fuck’s sake.”