Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

I drop it.

“Um, maybe poke the intruder in the eye,” I offer with a sheepish shrug. “That’s a solid plan. Right?”

She nods like I’m crazy. “Sure. Or you could’ve smothered him in all those papers. What on earth are you doing?”

Grabbing the closest paper to me, I take a look at it. “Sorting my life.”

“I hope it’s going better than it looks.”

“It is. Kind of.” I peruse the financial data on the paper I’m holding. “According to this, I’m doing great at living on a budget. Well, except for this one little line item.”

“Eating out?”

“Kind of. I call it the HAS Line,” I say.

“Has? Like, you has to have it?”

“Kind of again. It stands for Hungry Angry Sad. It’s where I put all the things I buy when I’m hangry, mad, or sad. It’s quite the line,” I cringe. “I’ve heard of stress eating. Who knew stress shopping was a thing? Because it is, and this HAS Line proves it. I mean, who spends two hundred dollars, give or take, on gourmet ice cream delivery? Me. That’s who.”

“Hey, I’m not going to judge you over ice cream. But I will take a little offense to the fact you didn’t bring any of it here.”

I laugh. “Don’t say that. I’ll order some and that HAS Line will double next month. I mean, do you like pistachio coconut or brambleberry pecan?”

Navie giggles. “Neither. Right now, I just want to save enough money to cook at home without using the microwave.”

“Oh!” I bounce to my feet. “I helped you with that today. Can’t help my damn self, but I did help you.”

Navie gives me a worried look while she unwraps her hair from a bun on the top of her head. Then she slips her arms into her shirt, shimmies around, and then tosses her bra toward the closet that houses the tiniest washer and dryer known to man.

“There,” she says. “I can think now.” She slumps into a chair with lavender padding and looks at me. “What did you do?”

I smack my lips together with a little shrug and turn my eyes toward the big box by the door. She follows my gaze.

Her head falls to the side as she looks at me again.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Afraid to ask what? I got your pots and pans back.” I sit on the sofa. “You can say thank you. That’s the socially acceptable reply.”

“You didn’t buy that, did you?”

“Nope. Logan did.”

I’m unsure if the sigh that comes from her mouth is in disbelief or frustration. She rests the back of her head against the chair and watches me carefully.

“What exactly did you say to him?” she asks.

“Nothing that I feel sorry for.”

She chuckles. “I’m not sure that you’ve felt sorry for anything you’ve ever said in your life.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I thought I’d feel bad about it.”

“So …”

I pull my legs up on the couch. “I just told him what a jerk he was and the least he could do was return your stuff. I must’ve been very convincing because he took the money he got from pawning your stuff it and bought you a new set.”

She cringes.

I smile widely.

She cringes harder. “You’re a pistol,” she says.

I’m not sure she means that as a compliment, but I definitely take it as one. “Thanks. I think so too. Why do you always underestimate me?”

“I don’t know, but I really did this time. I mean, Logan isn’t a cupcake, if you know what I’m saying. He doesn’t bend to people’s will very often.”

I imagine him throwing punches and sweating all over the place. Dayum.

“It’s just hard to believe he succumbed to your … tactics,” she says.

“Well, I don’t really like the word threaten because it sounds so harsh. But I guess you could say that I kind of threatened him—in a very ladylike manner, of course.”

She presses her lips together and nods. “Ladylike. I’m sure.”

“It was,” I insist. “I don’t even think I cursed. And I didn’t suggest the removal of any body parts either. Ladylike. Boom.”

She laughs, wiping her hands down her face. “I bet he didn’t know what to do with you.”

“I didn’t know what to do with him,” I admit. “I expected him to be cocky and just completely disgusting, but … he wasn’t.”

I pull my knees to my chest and think of Logan’s smile. He wasn’t any of the things I thought he’d be. He was sort of kind, actually, and not quiet, per se, but polite. He definitely let me say my piece—even if I didn’t give him much leeway to talk.

Still, he wasn’t the manwhore I braced myself to encounter.

Navie screws her face up as though she can’t understand my thought process. “He wasn’t?”

I look at her like I’m missing something. She looks at me like she’s awaiting an explanation.