Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(23)

“Yeah?”

She smiles. “Thanks for this. All of it.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

There’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She climbs in her car instead.

It’s for the best. I need to figure out what the fuck just happened anyway.





Nine





Dylan



“If I had known you were a hoarder, I wouldn’t have invited you to come here,” Peck says. He wipes his brow with the back of his head. “If I see another box labeled ‘Not Sure’ …”

He leans against the wall of the barn. My things, in boxes laden with my generalized description of the contents, are stacked in a neat row behind him. His jeans are dusty. Bits of cardboard are stuck to his faded blue T-shirt and dot the top of his baseball hat.

We’ve worked to unload the shipping container for the past hour. Luckily, I had my personal things—clothes I wear often, dishes, toiletries, and the like—clearly labeled, and we took those inside his house. The rest we stuck in his barn until I can find a permanent housing solution.

“At least I’m honest,” I say. “I happened to look inside your kitchen cabinets, and I’m not sure you’re sure you know what’s in there either.”

“Of course, I do. Kitchen stuff.”

“And these boxes have my stuff.”

A laugh sits on the tip of his tongue. “Two totally different things, Dyl.”

“Not really,” I say, trying to ignore the slip of a nickname. “Kitchen stuff means those items go in the kitchen. My stuff means it goes with me. Basically, it’s the same thing.”

I brush a strand of hair off my forehead. Peck watches me like he has all the time in the world and doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

I’ve noticed this is a thing with him. When he’s with you or talking to you, he’s with you or talking to you. It would be unnerving except for the fact that he seems like he cares.

Or at least has enough manners to pretend really well.

Really well.

Well enough that I’m convinced he could reiterate the gist of any conversation we’ve had thus far.

Who does that?

“I was in a hurry, okay?” I say. “And low on boxes. So a box might have some candle holders, a piece to a blender I used to have, some coffee pods, and a Christmas ornament. How would you have labeled that?”

“Trash.”

I gasp. “You did not just call my life’s treasures trash.”

“No,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling. “I called some random shit you just rattled off trash. But if the candle holders were made outta gold or something or if the ornament had your dog’s paw print from its first Christmas with ya, then that’s obviously not trash.”

“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.”