Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

Focus, Peck.

“Hey,” I tell her as we get to the top.

She turns and looks at me. My chest rises and falls so quickly that I’m aware of it. So many things are running through my mind, and I can’t sort them all. Especially knowing Nana has undoubtedly seen us by now and is waiting on us to come in—probably loaded with a hundred questions and even more presumptions.

“I should’ve warned you before now,” I say. “But, um, this is kind of a new thing for me, and I don’t know what Nana’s going to say or think or … whatever.”

I take in her rosy cheeks and the soft curve of her lips. I’d be damn proud to walk in there with her hand in mine. It would thrill Nana to death. Probably literally. I make a mental note to be this sure of the woman I do take to meet my grandma someday.

Dylan sticks her tongue in her cheek. “So what you’re saying is that she’s going to think we’re screwing?”

I cough like I’ve been knocked in the gut. And in the balls. They both ache like a motherfucker.

She laughs at my reaction, grabbing my shoulder as I sputter. The contact doesn’t help. At all.

Cringing, I take a step back.

“Please behave,” I almost beg.

“Define behave.”

“Why do you have to make everything hard?”

She fights back a laugh as I realize the innuendo she just ran with. “I make things hard. Good to know.”

The inside of my cheek burns as I bite down on it.

“Sorry.” She clears her throat. “So I should make it clear that we aren’t screwing?”

“Can we not talk about us screwing on my grandmother’s back porch?”

She spies my discomfort like the little troublemaker she is. My attempt at adjusting myself doesn’t go by unnoticed. She doesn’t even pretend to have missed it.

“Oh, so we are screwing? I thought we weren’t?”

My lips part when a tapping sound rings out from the sliding glass door behind Dylan. Nana stands on the other side, her face lit up.

This is gonna be fun.

Giving Dylan a narrowed eye, I venture past her—being careful not to touch her—and slide open the door.

“Hey, Nana,” I say as unaffectedly as I can.

“Well, hello to you too.”

Her smile is too bright. Way too bright. Shit.

“I didn’t know you were bringing a girlfriend,” she says. The happiness in her voice can’t be mistaken.

I look at Dylan. She looks at me. And smirks.

She’s getting way too much enjoyment out of this.

“Nana,” I say, forcing down the lump in my throat. “This is my friend that’s a girl named Dylan.”

The emphasis is lost on my grandma. She doesn’t even hear it. She blocks it out like she does when Machlan tells her that cake for breakfast is bad for her blood sugar.

“Dylan, it is a pleasure to have you over for dinner,” she says, taking in my friend. “Please, come in. Have a seat. Make yourself at home, dear.”

Dylan saunters by me, bumping me in the side with her shoulder. “I think she likes me,” she whispers.

“Behave,” I mutter. But if she hears me, she ignores me.

Par for the effing course.

“Look at this kitchen,” Dylan says as she climbs on a barstool. “It’s so lovely.”

“Why, thank you. My husband had this redone for me the year before he passed away. I’d like to update it a little, but I don’t quite have the heart.”

“Well, I happen to love it.” Dylan smiles genuinely at my nana. “It feels like a kitchen should, you know? All warm and cozy.”

My grandmother beams.

I lean against the wall completely forgotten as this little mischief-maker wins over Nana. A chuckle passes my lips as I wonder what Nana would think if she heard the shit that usually comes out of Dylan’s mouth.

Dylan hops off the bar and gets into a discussion with Nana about cookie jars. I couldn’t chime in even if I wanted to. The sight of the woman who’s been like a semi-comfortable nail in the bottom of my foot chatting it up with my silver-haired grandma like they’re the best of friends is enough to make my head spin.

“You could put them up there,” Dylan says as she points at the top of a cabinet. “We could put some ivy around them or little lights, and it would be so fun. I think that would be so cute.”

Nana’s smile splits her cheeks. “You think like I used to think, back when I could do things for myself. It’s hard once you become dependent on everyone else.”

“Oh, stop that.” I tug open the refrigerator. “It’s not like you’re dependent on anyone. I have to fight ya to let me help you most days,” I say. I peer behind the wall of butter containers that hold various leftovers. “Has Lance been here?”

“Yes. He was here today. Why?” Nana asks.