Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)
“No, the fact that a grown man named his truck after a flower is silly.” Sienna has a hand on her narrow hip and waits for my response.
“It’s not named after a flower, smartass. Ever heard of ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’?”
“I’m from Savannah. Of course I have. I didn’t know Yankees were allowed to watch it.”
Our gazes tangle together, heating the longer they hold. Her chest rises and falls, her bottom lip dropping just enough that I can see it. Instead of hurdling this desk and pressing her back against the wall in front of Kip, God, and anyone else who happens to walk in with not so much as a fuck given, I choose to break the spell in a different way.
“What do you say, Sheriff?” I ask, forcing a hot swallow down my throat.
Kip looks at me, then Sienna, and back at me. A smile slides over his face. “I say I just came in to tell you Nana is on her way over and she’s fit to be tied. Seems as if her favorite grandson didn’t show up to church yesterday.”
Sienna’s jaw drops. “You didn’t call him, did you?”
“If he would’ve called me and told me about you, I’d have been here a lot faster, sweetheart,” Kip laughs. A burst of static sounds through the air and instructions are doled out from the operator on the other side of his walkie-talkie. “I gotta go. It was nice to meet you, Sienna.”
He’s gone as quickly as he came, the rip of gravel sounding as he takes off to play hero.
As the chimes settle, Sienna slowly turns to face me. “You. Are. A. Jerk.”
“It’s been said.”
“Were you going to let me think you called the cops?” she snaps. “That’s not nice, Walker.”
“I never told you I was nice.”
She considers this as she leans against the desk, looking around the shop. “This place is a mess, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I do mind, actually,” I grumble, picking the pen back up.
“Forget it,” she says, digging in her purse and pulling out a wallet. A wad of cash comes from one of the compartments. “Let’s get this figured out. How much do I owe you for the repairs?”
“First of all,” I say, shaking my head, “you never show how much money you have. Haven’t you ever listened to Kenny Rogers, country girl? You don’t show your hand while you’re still dealing. You wait. Otherwise, someone will take advantage of you.”
Her tongue darts across her bottom lip, leaving a trail of wetness behind. The light catches it, my eyes glued to her mouth as she speaks. “Are you going to take advantage of me?”
Grimacing and cursing whoever is on the other end of the phone ringing in my pocket to the pits of hell, I retrieve it. My eyes not leaving hers, I answer it because if this isn’t a bailout, I don’t know what is. “Crank.”
The person on the other end talks, but I have no idea what they say. I can, however, recount every move Sienna makes in front of me.
I get off the chair, motion for her to give me a minute, and head into the shop area so hopefully I can concentrate on something other than taking deep, repeated advantage of this infuriating woman.
AS SOON AS HE’S out of sight, my whole body feels the void of his energy. My knees wobble, my breath whispering across my lips with a shaky sound. All this as I attempt to pull precious air into my lungs while searching for the filter for my mouth.
Are you going to take advantage of me? Did I really just ask him that?
Fanning my face, I watch him through the window. Delaney is right. Cute doesn’t cut it. He’s so far beyond cute that I’m not sure there’s been a word created to encompass it all. He’s not good-looking like the guys I usually date. Those guys are clean-shaven, hair gelled, politically-correct boys I’ve met at a fashion event or political rally. Walker is . . . not. He’s nothing of the sort.
His five o’clock stubble begs me to run my fingers down it, feeling the coarseness against my palm. His skin isn’t moisturized or evenly tanned, but rather rough and with tan lines that I can see around his watch. The words out of his mouth haven’t been chosen out of a list of words his private school teachers drilled into him. He doesn’t know me or my family, and even if he did, I bet he wouldn’t care.
There’s something raw and real about Walker. It’s the way he looks at me, the way I can’t quite tell if he wants to grab me and kiss the hell out of me or throw me out of the room. Either way, it burns my libido like it’s a forest hit with a hot match. My choice: kiss the hell out of me.