Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(18)

My voice is too high. It’s like my brain worries that Peck could somehow telepathically know I was just mulling over his love life and feels embarrassed. Either he doesn’t pick up on it, or he’s too well-mannered to point it out.

“Great. Something smells good in here,” he says.

“I just threw a little spaghetti and meatballs together. Easy supper, you know?”

“That sounds like it would be a big pain in the ass to make, actually.”

I grin. “Well, not true, but I’m happy to play along. You should be so grateful I went to all this trouble to make a pain in the ass dinner for you.”

The blues of his eyes match his hat. I can see it as he moves toward the window. The light makes his irises shine, blending different shades of aqua together.

“Let’s be honest,” he says. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

“What’s for me?”

“This dinner. It’s an apology dinner because you have guilt.” He turns on his heel and looks at me. A giant smirk lights up his face. “As you should.”

I gasp. “I have no such thing … Well, not much,” I admit. “But I’m not making you dinner out of guilt.”

“Huh.”

I try to glare at him but can’t quite get it just right because of his stupid smirk. My efforts are saved by Navie.

She flings her bedroom door open with a flourish before striding into the room with not just a new shirt but also different jeans and sneakers too.

The ones she wears at work.

I give her a look she pretends not to see.

“Hey, Peck. Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, holding her arms out to the sides like a game show host. “I wish I could stay and have dinner with you guys, but Machlan just called and said he needs me to come in. Who am I to say no to the boss?”

Peck raises a brow. “You. Every damn time you work.”

“Well, he really seemed like he needed me this time.”

“I’m sure he did,” I deadpan. “You’re a terrible liar, Navie.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she gently pushes Peck out of the way. “I’ll see you two later.”

The door closes with a loud wumpth.

My eyes flick to Peck’s. I have no idea what he’s going to say now about being stuck here with just me. I’m not sure what I even have to say about this because I was not prepared. Not that this is anything to prepare for. It’s just an apology dinner between two potential friends. No big deal.

My stomach ripples as his lips part, and the easiest smile ever is shot my way. Immediately, tension I didn’t know I had melts away from my shoulders, and I sink into a smile of my own.

“I’m glad she’s gone,” he says.

My mouth goes dry. “Why?”

“Have you ever seen how much that girl can eat? Now that she’s gone, that just means more meatballs for me.” He winks as he walks by me and into the kitchen area. “Tell me you made garlic bread.”

A laugh topples from my lips. “I did.”

He takes a plate off the table. “Can I fill my plate?”

“Sure.”

He busies himself with the pasta and garlic bread. “What did you do today? Accost any other unsuspecting guys about crimes they didn’t commit?”

“Are you ever going to let me live that down?” I take a plate and begin filling it too.

“Nope.”

We finish getting our dinner in silence. The only sound in the apartment is the silverware clamoring against our plates as we load up with spaghetti.

In a few moments, we sit across from each other at the table. Peck removes his hat and hangs it on the back of his chair. His hair sticks up wildly as though he put the hat on it while it was still wet. I have to force myself to look away.

I clear my throat. “So you asked what I did today. I actually got a call from the landlord at my new digs. He said I can get the keys tomorrow.”

It’s the best redirection I can come up with.

“Cool. Vine Street, right?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say, trying to hide how impressed I am that he remembered that. “Just passed that house with the big balcony on the second floor. Man, I’d love to have one of those one day. It reminds me of Gone with the Wind or something. So romantic. Anyway, it’s perfect timing because my stuff is coming tomorrow too. Finally, something is working out.”

I slice a corner of meatball and shove it in my mouth to keep from talking. Peck doesn’t fill the void, though. He sits in his chair and watches me chew.

“What?” I say through a mouthful of meatball.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.” I squeeze the bite that’s still too big to swallow healthfully down my throat. “What?”

“Does it ever occur to you to breathe when you’re talking? Or do you just worry about that if you pass out from oxygen deprivation?”

I take the napkin beside my plate and throw it at him. He laughs as he easily dodges the flimsy paper product.

“I have a lot to say. A lot of passion,” I joke.

“Do you?”

“I do.”

He takes a sip of the ice water on the table, and I realize I had beer in the fridge.

“Hey! Don’t drink that.” I scoot my chair back and jump up.