Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“For me, yeah.”

He hands the waitress his credit card as she walks by. “Can you ring us up?”

“Let me pay for it,” I say, tugging on my purse.

“Yeah, fucking right.”

“Sorry,” the waitress says, standing so close to Lance her hip almost touches him. She takes his card, her fingertips brushing against his. “A man like this gets what he asks for.”

“Yeah, see,” he jokes as she sashays away. “I get what I ask for.”

“Is that why you’re a brat?”

He picks up Jonah’s water glass and then sits it back down. “I almost drank from that.”

“I saw.”

“Were you going to let me?” he gasps.

“Hey, you get what you ask for,” I laugh.

He feigns irritation. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he does a speedy review of something on the screen and then pops it away. “So,” he says, leaning against the table. “What do we do now?”

“You take me home.”

“We could see a movie. Do people still do that on dates or is that old-fashioned?”

“This isn’t a date,” I point out.

He considers this. “Yeah, I think it is. You just leveled up. From hippie to me. You’re winning today.”

“Do you live to annoy me?”

“No, but watching you get all hot and bothered does turn me on.”

“Oh my God. Stop it,” I hiss.

The table next to ours apparently caught wind of his admission and look at us over their shoulders. I can’t make eye contact.

“What do you do on a date? I was serious,” he says, ignoring the hushed comments beside us.

“When was the last time you were on a date?”

Tapping his chin, his eyes sparkle. “Like a real date? Or like time with a woman?”

“A date. Dinner, a movie, a walk around the lake. Even a ride around the country,” I offer.

“I like the way you think.” A grin tips his lips. “I haven’t gone parking in years. Wanna?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Laughing, we get to our feet. He sticks his credit card back in his wallet and I wonder where her number went, but don’t ask. Just before we turn to leave, I catch him tossing a little wadded up ball on the table. He catches me watching.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say as innocently as possible.

“Can’t go anywhere and not collect digits. It’s hell being this handsome.”

We walk out of Peaches side-by-side. It’s a heck of a lot better than how I walked in.

Eight

Lance

I’m out of my fucking mind.

Don’t play with this girl, I tell myself. She’s out of your league, Gibson.

Pausing at the back of my car, I could easily tell myself it was fate that brought us together tonight. There’s leftover pizza at the house for dinner. Why I decided to drive all the way over to Peaches for takeout I’ll never know.

On the flip side, it’s a little like a ploy by Satan himself to test my restraint now that she’s in my car. I have to keep my hands to myself. I have to get in the car and pretend like I’m in there with Blaire.

Yeah fucking right.

Glancing at her through the back glass, the moonlight rippling around her like she’s some damn goddess, I want to ask the universe what I’ve ever done to deserve this … this purgatory.

My cock twists in my jeans.

Yeah, buddy, I know. Don’t explode on me until we get home.

“Hey,” I say as I open the door. It takes every bit of self-control I didn’t know I had to not just leap over the console and bite those plump, pink lips.

“Thank you for taking me home,” she breathes. “I can call a taxi if it’s an inconvenience.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Her eyes grow wide as she laughs. “No. Actually.”

Good. “You live in Linton, right?”

“Yeah. Just passed Carlson’s Bakery. Little brick house. Dog-ear fence in the back yard.”

“Ah, got ‘cha,” I say, getting into my seat. “Cross used to live there when we were growing up.”

“Who is that?” she asks as I start the car.

“He owns a gym in town. He’s good friends with my youngest brother, Machlan. Kind of grew up like an honorary Gibson boy.”

“There are more than one of you?” she asks, her hand flying to her chest. “Your poor mother.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. There’s only one of me.”

Her eyes roll around in her head. “I’m sorry. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“I’m going to pretend I just hit a bump to explain that little eye-roll,” I tell her. “No worries.”

“I wasn’t worried about it,” she laughs.

I pull out of the parking lot and head toward Linton. She sings along softly to a song on the radio and I almost want to turn it down to hear her voice. If I do that, I’m sure she’ll stop, so I don’t.

“I have two brothers and a sister,” I continue. “Blaire is an attorney in Chicago.” I know the first rule of history: it repeats itself. You start sharing your life’s details with a woman and they think that means something. I need to stop talking. “Machlan owns Crave.”