Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

I’ve been invited to an ice cream social at the Methodist church, a book club at the library with Ruby, to help Mr. Mitchell’s wife bake ten pies for a raffle, and even filled in one day at Carlson’s during the lunch rush when I stopped to get Walker and Peck a sandwich. Each day that goes by is another day that I fall in step with the sleepy town that’s starting to win me over.

Walker taps on the window from his backyard and winks before disappearing again.

I think I’ve already started to fall in love with him.

I wipe off the counters in his kitchen, listening to him and Lance laugh outside the open window. My heart sings as I clean up the meatloaf lunch I had to call my mom and get the recipe for.

The kitchen is small and is in desperate need of a loving touch, but I’m afraid Walker will have a coronary if he comes in and I’ve completely redone the whole thing in one day.

When I was here earlier this week, I folded all the washcloths in the drawer and reorganized the silverware, putting them all back in the little compartments of the divider. Emboldened that he didn’t say anything from that, I quietly redid the cabinet he had shoved full of plastic cups and container lids.

The front door squeals as it opens, Lance’s laugh ringing through the house. Drying my hands off on a towel, I mosey through the kitchen and into the living room with the guys.

“Did you get the weed-eating done?” I ask, kissing Walker on top of the head.

“I did,” Walker answers. “Lance sat on the mower playing with his dating app.”

“You use a dating app?” I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Hell yeah. It’s great. Women are so much more open about what they like without being face to face.”

“But how do you know if you like them?” I ask, sitting on Walker’s knee.

“They post a picture—sometimes of their faces, sometimes of their . . . you know,” he grins devilishly. “You can see what you like and go from there.”

“Oh my God.”

“Wanna see some?” he asks, reaching for his phone.

“No,” I flinch. “I don’t want to see that. I can’t get over the fact you look at . . . that,” I say, making a face, “and then meet them and . . .”

“Fuck?”

Walker works his way around me until his hand is pressed against my stomach. I put my own hand on top of his, feeling his fingers flex against my shirt.

“Why don’t you just meet a nice girl somewhere?” I ask Lance. “I have friends I could introduce you to. Nice ones. Pretty ones. Ones that like to have sex as much as you.”

“I’m open to that.”

“Don’t do it,” Walker chuckles. “They might never look at you the same again, Slugger.”

“They also might consider you the best friend in the universe,” Lance shrugs. “I don’t want a relationship. Too . . . that.” He nods towards our hands. “I don’t want that.”

“But you want to pick the girl you spend time with by the look of her vagina?” I ask.

“I don’t always pick them like that,” he scoffs. “Just the ones that look tight.”

“Enough,” I laugh, getting to my feet. “I can’t deal with this.”

“I’m leaving.” Lance rises too, stretching. “I swiped for a little get together with a redhead this afternoon.”

“Enjoy.” I give him a little wave and head back to the kitchen. I no more than hear the door shut when Walker is twirling me around. “Hey you,” I whisper, the sight of him all sweaty taking my breath away. “Want some dessert?”

“Why’d you think I came in here?”

“I was hoping for me,” I admit, trying to ignore the butterflies taking flight in my belly.

“Damn right for you.”

He backs me up to the counter, kissing me the entire time. His lips taste of salt and heat, a precursor of all the things I want him to do with them. Before I’m ready, he breaks the embrace.

“I wasn’t done,” I pout, trying to pull him to me again.

“Before I sit you on this counter and eat your pussy,” he grins just before his face sobers, “I want to tell you something.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“Two things, actually.”

“Hurry up so I can say yes. You promised things.”

He grins, but doesn’t quite laugh. “I told Machlan we’d come by Crave tonight. I haven’t seen him in a while and he wanted to catch up on a few things before I leave town . . . which is the second thing.”

My throat squeezes shut, something about the look in his eye makes me nervous. “Right, I remember. For how long?”

“Hopefully I’ll be back Monday. That’s the plan.”

“So just the weekend?”

“That’s the plan,” he reiterates. He brushes a strand of hair out of my face, then runs both hands across my head and pins my hair away from my face. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before, like he’s trying to memorize everything about me in just a few seconds. “When I get back, I want to sit down and talk. For real.”