Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

I run my hands down the sides of my pants. Sweat from my palms skid down the denim.

“Ugh,” I groan. Heading to the sink, I wash my hands.

My stomach has been clenched since I came in from the barn and heard Dylan in the shower. I stood in the kitchen and listened to the water trickle through the pipes in the wall and imagined her standing under the spout.

Wet. And naked.

She’s been out for a while now—probably upward of an hour. I told her dinner wasn’t until seven, but the longer it takes her to come out, the harder it is to fight my nerves.

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” I lie to myself. “You’re just being polite.”

I’d like to politely stick my—

“Hey, Peck.”

I wheel around to see her standing in the doorway. A long, brick red dress hangs lazily off her frame, showcasing the delicate curve of her shoulders and dipping sweetly at her waist. Her hair is down, brushing against the middle of her back, and if she has a stitch of makeup on, I’d be shocked.

She’s never looked prettier.

“Hey,” I say, running my hands down my jeans. Again. “You, um, you look really pretty.”

Her cheeks flush. “Thanks. I went shopping with Navie today to grab a few things for my new job and had to have this. It’s just so comfortable.”

She enters the kitchen, the fabric flowing around her. The room fills with the scent of oranges from her perfume.

Standing next to me, she takes in the ingredients. “What are you making?”

“Steak. Potatoes. Salad.”

“I love steak,” she says. “And I’ve never met a carb I wasn’t friends with.”

I laugh. “Awesome.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You totally don’t have to help.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and grins. “I know. But I want to. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah. Having you in the kitchen with me sounds like a terrible time,” I tease.

“Oh, does it?”

“Just awful.”

She grins. “Well, I’ll put some music on to help fill all the weird moments of silence that are sure to plague us, considering it’s going to be such an awful experience and all.”

“Does this mean you’re going to dance again?”

Her face turns the same shade as her dress. The flush steals my breath as I imagine what she would look like on her back, legs spread, coming all over my tongue. Or on her knees as I take her from behind—

Fuck. Stop. You’re cooking dinner, Ward.

“I’m always on the verge of breaking out into song and dance,” she says, recovering quickly. “You never know.”

I turn back to the table so she doesn’t see my reddened face. Or my hard-as-nails cock. Because I’m imagining her dancing against me again, feeling every beat, every pulse of her skin against mine.

Holy shit. Stop.

Tonight is about dinner. Not seduction. Because after I left her with nothing but a smile last night, she probably has no idea that I’ve been fantasizing about her every minute since. And I’m still not sure what I’m doing. Is this a risk I should be taking?

“Can you get a gallon storage bag for me? And the foil? They’re below the sink,” I ask.

“Sure.”

When she walks by me, barely brushing against my arm, it sends a shot of energy through my body. Picking up the three kiwifruits on the table, I try to ignore the goose bumps on my skin.

I grab a little cutting board and a knife. When I arrive back at the table, Dylan is there with the bag.

“What are you doing with kiwifruit?” she asks.

“Patience.” I peel and slice the fruit and plop it in the bottom of the bag. After giving it a quick mash, I add some olive oil and apple cider vinegar. The steaks go in at the end.

I zip the top.

“I’m so, so confused,” she says.

“The kiwifruit will tenderize the steaks. It’s so much better than the alternatives of tough meat or overly salty meat.”

She snorts. “True. I don’t like my meat salty.”

I laugh out loud. “Good to know. Good to know.”

The oven beeps, alerting us that it’s finished pre-heating. I hit each potato with a knife, creating little holes in the skin, and then set them on pieces of foil. I have Dylan add a spoonful of butter on top and then wrap them up.

“You have very odd cooking skills,” she says, watching me put the potatoes in a baking dish. “Who taught you to cook?”

“No one, really,” I say. “I just kind of … I don’t know. I thought about it.”

I put the dish in the oven and close the door.

“What about your mom?” she asks. “Does she cook?”

Leaning against the counter, I look at Dylan. “I don’t know if she does now. I’d have to know where she is to know if she cooks. But she never did.”

Her face wobbles. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …”