Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“Dog’s paw prints?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Don’t people do that?”

“Yeah. With their kids’ fingerprints,” I say with a laugh.

“I bet people do it with their dogs too.”

“Maybe. Doubt it, though. Wouldn’t the paint get stuck in their fur or something?”

He shoves off the wall and walks by me with a grin. “You think too much. Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”

I follow him out the barn. The late afternoon sun teases the horizon, painting the sky with colorful rays, and the crickets begin to sing their ode to the day. It’s so peaceful here. It’s unlike any other place I’ve ever been.

Just like its owner.

Peck is a few feet ahead of me. I happily remain a few steps behind. Today has been a whirlwind. When I woke up this morning, there was no way I thought that I would be bunking with Peck by the end of the night. I would’ve said I would’ve been way too nervous to share a house with a man at all, let alone one I barely know.

But I’m not.

I don’t know how to feel about that yet.

He stops at the steps leading up to the back porch. “You comin’ or what?”

“You walk too fast.”

His smile touches his eyes. Leaning against the rail, he waits on me to catch up.

I stop next to him. A warm breeze trickles over my skin, bringing the scent of pines and freshly cut grass with it. It smells like a candle you’d buy with hopes that it would take you back to a vacation or a moment in time when you had no worries in the world. It’s that smell.

He climbs the stairs after me, giving me plenty of room.

“That’s all your stuff, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. The rental company will be by tomorrow to pick up the empty storage container.”

The back porch squeaks as I step on it. A grill sits to my right and a porch swing to my left. Some type of orange lily grows in a pot at the end, stretching toward the setting sun.

We step inside the house, and Peck flips on a light. He washes his hands and then busies himself with pouring two glasses of lemonade. I take his spot at the sink.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

“I want you to know that I won’t take this for granted. I’ll be on the lookout for a place on my own starting tomorrow. I won’t wear out my welcome.”

I dry off my hands before taking a glass from him.

He moves around the kitchen, wiping off the counters as I sip my lemonade. The kitchen is on the small side anyway but looks even smaller with him in it. It’s not that he’s huge—I’d guess he’s right at six foot or so—but he fills out a space somehow. I’m not mad about watching his muscles flex and ripple as he moves.

Not mad at all.

The sweet drink quenches my thirst as I watch him tidy up. Everything he does, he does with intent. It’s like tying up the garbage bag is an important project he’s taking on, and he’s doing it with care. There’s a quality about that I find soothing in a strange way.

He tosses a sponge in the sink. “So …”

“So …”

I set my drink on the table.

What happens now? I have no idea.

This isn’t like sharing a space with Navie or another friend. This is Peck Ward, a guy I’ve known a few days but somehow trust implicitly. Even if Navie didn’t already know him and adore him, I think I would’ve. Or maybe it’s because of their friendship that ours is so easy. It’s as if I’ve known him for a long time. And through Navie, I guess I have. I’ve heard so many stories about this man, stories that have made me laugh until I cried. Through the tales, I picked up that he’s been in Navie’s corner since she arrived in Linton.

Maybe he’s in mine too.

There’s a kindness in his eyes that settles all the anxiety I think I should be feeling. But I’m not. At all. How could you feel nervous when he’s so nice?

I bet they said that about serial killers too.

It hits me that this is the modern day, grown-up version of getting in the car with a stranger. Only, instead of a car, it’s a house. And instead of a puppy, it’s puppy dog eyes.

I’m probably dead.

My mouth opens to ramble something random, something to take up the space between us until I can figure out how to dart out of here before he carves me up with a knife, when he laughs.

“What?” I ask instead.

“What are you thinking?”

“Why? Can you read my mind?”

He snorts. “No, thank God. I have a feeling that inside your mind is a scary place.”