Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(24)

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.”

I pick up a saltshaker from the table. If nothing else, I could wield it at him and give myself a couple of seconds to run if this goes awry.

“You know what else would be a scary place?” I ask.

“Inside one of your boxes?”

“Very funny. I was thinking something more like …” I toss the shaker in the air. Surprisingly, I catch it with the same hand. But I have no time to celebrate how cool that probably looked. I have work to do. “Soundproof rooms. Trunks of cars. Barns with power tools.”

His brows pull together.

He’s even cuter when he’s serious.

Damn it.

“You got something you wanna tell me, Dylan?”

“Not if you don’t have anything you wanna tell me, Peck. If that’s even your real name.”

A light bulb goes off over his head, and he begins to laugh. Humor dances across his face, his hand dragging the jawline that’s speckled with the day’s stubble.

“You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” he asks.

“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, not really. You know … totally am.”

My lips smack together. I toss the shaker again, but this time it lands on the floor in front of me. “Shit,” I mumble as I bend to scoop it up.

“You don’t think I pressured you into this, right? Because I’m not that guy, and if I did or said something that made you—”

“No.” I shake my head fervently. Heat tinges my cheeks as I feel very, very silly. “I’m just nervous, I guess. I’m sorry for acting like a weirdo.”

“Why are you nervous?”

It’s an honest question. He stands tall, facing me completely as if to demonstrate his openness.

A lump settles in my throat. “I just get a little enthusiastic sometimes and was worried that maybe I jumped into this too soon. I mean, I don’t really even know you.”

“You were kind of quick to accept my offer.” He tosses me a wink. “I’m kidding.”

“I’m not. One time, I told someone I liked kids and, the next thing I knew, I had a part-time job at a daycare watching a bunch of babies for minimum wage. And then I tried to quit, and they wouldn’t let me and …” I sigh. “I can get in over my head fast.”

He walks across the kitchen, his jeans showing off a set of thighs that were probably crafted by the hands of God, if I were guessing, and picks up his lemonade. The longer it takes him to down the lemonade, the antsier I get.

Finally, he drops his glass in the sinks and smiles. “If you don’t want to stay here, I get it. Although I might bitch—meaning I will—about packing your shit up again, I’ll do it. A woman should never stay anywhere she’s not comfortable.”

“It’s not that, Peck, I am comfortable with you—here, I mean,” I say, correcting my misspeak. Because although the first part is true, it sounds weird. Like I mean it more than I do.

“Good.”

“Everything just happened so fast that when I had a second to look up, I realized you could be a serial killer, and all I had was this saltshaker.” I set it on the counter.