Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

“Nope. I just don’t like thinking about all the women who have tasted you.”

He roars with laughter. I bite my lip so hard I think it might bleed.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says. “I haven’t actually slept with everyone you probably think I have. I mean, I’m a good-looking motherfucker. I get it. But Lance slept with all of them, and I don’t really like sloppy seconds.”

My lip pops free with a laugh. “I’m so glad your confidence isn’t waning.”

He grins, amused I’m playing along. It’s infectious. I find myself grinning back, my cheeks aching.

“How’s your confidence these days?” he asks.

“My confidence is fine, thank you.”

“I just thought since I shared some insight into my sex life, maybe you’d want to share some into yours.”

“Um, no,” I say. I consider riling him up but enjoy the playfulness too much to risk it. “You would actually be bored to death if I talked to you about my sex life.”

He takes his eyes off the road for a lingering moment. They’re filled with a mischievousness that really is a Machlan trademark; a glimmer of naughtiness that could go a plethora of ways. “Your sex life is my favorite sex life.”

My jaw drops to my lap. I think I misheard him, but my heart is screaming that I didn’t. I try to keep my gaze pinned to his eyes and not on the way his lips purse together. Or the way his neck has the perfect amount of scruff dotting it. Or the way his white T-shirt, covered with an unbuttoned flannel, is cut in a way that gives me a peek of his broad chest.

He flashes me a smirk before looking back at the road. “That’s the danger of Megan. She knows.”

“Why would she think that?” I fumble for words. It’s hard to say a set of words when your brain is repeating another.

“Why would she think there was anything between you and me? Oh, I don’t know,” he grins.

A heat rises to my cheeks. I’m unsure if he’s just messing with me or insinuating there is something between us.

A mixed response catches in my throat. Clearing it with a frazzled cough, I point as we fly by Carlson’s. “You just passed the bakery.”

“Yeah.”

We stop at the stop sign by the library. As we wait our turn, Machlan’s fingers tap against the steering wheel.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle. Everything is quiet and peaceful. His truck smells like his bedroom. His breathing slows my heartbeat to match his tempo. Looking at his profile as he chews on his bottom lip makes me so comfortable I could curl my legs up and drift away into an easy slumber.

On a normal day, I’d start to panic, to feel pressure of the unknown and start prodding. A bubble of alarm wants to burst and spread through my veins as Machlan turns his head. I think of Emily’s advice and pause.

“They’re having taco salads at Peaches today. You like them, right?” he asks.

I nod.

He motions for the car on our right to pass through the intersection. “No onions, no beans. Extra olives. Right?”

I nod again, this time with the biggest smile.

He nods too and settles back in his seat. I’d normally comment on how smug he looks, but this time, I let it pass. I’m probably a little smug too.

Fifteen

Machlan

The brown paper bag holding the Peaches take-out crinkles under Hadley’s fingers. She sits quietly beside me, the taco salad on her lap, and gazes across the soybean fields at the rainbow stretching across the sky.

Nana told me a story once that a rainbow is God’s promise not to flood the world again. I remember sitting on her lap on the porch and having her read me this story from a little green-bound book she had. I don’t know why that stuck with me all these years, but it did. Every time I see one, I think of her. I don’t think of her long today because I can’t think of anything besides Hadley sitting in my truck.

I hate that I like it so much. The way I feel calmer with her around is something I crave. I don’t feel this way around another person or in another spot. Just with her.

I tell myself it’s because I know she won’t hold anything I do or say against me. Not really. If she would, she would’ve stopped speaking to me years ago.

She should’ve.

She could’ve.

I would’ve had the roles been reversed.

“Where are we going?” she asks as I steer the truck in the opposite direction of Crave and the apartment.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“No.”

“Okay then.”

She looks at me, expecting clarification or a reason, but I don’t give her one. She’ll assume it’s because I’m being a dick, because I usually am, but this time, she is wrong.

I don’t answer because I don’t know where we’re going.