Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)
One
Peck
“It’s you.”
A pair of red flip-flops come to a stop next to the truck. Dust billows from the harder-than-necessary halt to movement and flows under the truck and right into my face. I wave my hand in front of me and cough.
“Yeah?” I ask. “What’s your point?”
Toenails painted the color of grass on a spring day tap against the gravel. A thin gold ring adorns the second toe.
“Are you proud of yourself?” she asks.
The tone she’s using nixes any ideas I may have had to scoot out from underneath this vehicle. It has that flair to it, that you’ve-done-and-gone-screwed-up-but-I’m-going-to-make-you-wallow-a-while thing that turns men’s blood to ice.
The only problem is that I can’t figure out what I’ve done. Or who she is.
I drop the wrench in my hand and study the tanned legs visible from my disadvantageous position. They’re short and tanned, the muscles in her calves flexing as she pops one foot up on her toe.
The voice—one that’s clearly annoyed with me for some reason—isn’t familiar, nor are the legs. A quick scan of recent activity doesn’t unearth a woman who should be pissed. Not that a woman needs a reason to be pissed, but still.
“Well,” I say, “it depends on why you’re asking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you’re asking if I’m proud of the fact that I diagnosed and will have Dave’s truck fixed in under an hour—minus the time I spend in this conversation with you—then yes. I am. Or if you’re asking about the black lines down the middle of Main Street, I’m proud of that too. I—”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Do I?” I scratch the top of my head.
Staring at the undercarriage, I attempt to figure out what the heck is happening here. The day has been a doozy already. Between Nana calling me at four in the morning because she couldn’t get out of bed and my cousin Walker’s pissy mood when I got to work at his mechanic’s shop Crank, I should’ve just called in sick. I should’ve stayed in bed instead of trying to make the best out of the day.
Sometimes, you just know better. I knew better this morning. I’m just not smart enough to listen to myself.
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” she says with a huff. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “No, I take that back. You’re more than that. You’re a jackass.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Um, nope. I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Now come out here and face me like a man.”
“If you insist,” I mutter.
Pressing my heels into the gravel, I roll myself out from under the truck. The sun is bright, almost blinding me with its early afternoon rays. I shield my eyes and look up into the face of a woman who looks like she wants to kill me.
Her bright green eyes widen just a bit before resuming their narrowed position. A set of full lips are pressed together in a hard line. Her face is framed by a couple of unruly strands of sandy brown hair that’s fallen from a lopsided ponytail.
I bite back a smile. I’m one hundred percent certain I’m supposed to be intimidated and not entertained right now, but I can’t help it. She’s fucking adorable.
“Well, here I am,” I say.
She takes a step back. Her eyes release from mine and drag down the length of my body. When they return to my face, she narrows them again. “You’re a jackass.”
“You’ve said that.” I get to my feet and brush off my hands. “Look, do I know you? Not that I don’t love being yelled at by a stranger …”
“You are incredible,” she says, dropping those pretty little lips of hers open.
“Thanks.” I smile. The gesture does not get returned. “If you’re Tad’s daughter or something, tell him I put the gas cans back. It was an emergency. I swear. Just tell him they’re behind the shovels in the barn, and I’ll pay him back. Okay?”
She cocks a brow. “And you steal gas too. Wow. What a winner.”
“You’re awfully judgy for someone who doesn’t even know me.”
“I know all I want to know about you.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, sliding my hands down my jeans.
A gasp sneaks through the air as her hands fall to her sides in exasperation. I take a step back for self-preservation. Just in case.
“Are you hitting on me?” She blinks once, then twice.
“No,” I say. “I mean, if you want me to, I’d—”
She throws her hands up in the air. “She said you worked fast and would move on without thinking twice about it, but I had hoped that she’d be wrong.”
“Who? Who said that? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
She lets out a little laugh that’s anything but funny. I wait for steam to come out of her ears, but the only thing rolling off her is the scent of oranges.