Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(51)

“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 …”

“It’s fine.”

“I just saw you with Nana and assumed that your family was picture-perfect.”

I take in the concern embedded in her eyes. There’s distress in those gorgeous greens because she’s worried about me.

No one worries about me. It’s not something I think a lot about, but I am aware of it. I’m Peck—the guy who will figure it all out. That guy who’ll be okay. The guy who’s just a goofball at the end of the day, so nothing really gets to him, right?

Wrong. Shit does bother me. I just don’t go telling the world about it.

Because the world thinks it already knows. It assumes. Dylan assumes too. But the difference is that she cares when she gets it wrong. It bothers her.

Huh.

“My family is great,” I say. “It’s just that my parents weren’t … that great.”

The vacancy inside a piece of my heart that’s never quite been filled—the one that I become hyper aware of around my birthday or Mother’s Day or the few days a year when I’m basically snowed in. My mother used to love those days. She’d make Vincent and me hot chocolate and snow ice cream, and we would light a big fire in the fireplace. The house always felt like a home on those days.

On other days, it didn’t. It was very much my father’s house, and we were allowed to stay there. A constant reminder was hauled our way that as soon as we were of legal age, they were getting the hell out of there and living their life.

They didn’t even wait that long.

“My dad always resented Vin and me,” I say. “I think he had these big ideas for his life, and then Mom got pregnant, and he felt stuck here. With us.” I shove off the cabinets, a lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault. Not mine either.”

Dylan bites her bottom lip. “No, it’s not. But I can be sorry for you. I know what it’s like to not really have the greatest parents in the world. It sucks. My mom is … a handful. And my dad doesn’t give a shit.”

“My mom cared. I think she knew Dad had a lot of mental issues and got sucked into that.” I shrug. “It’s her choice. Maybe he needs her more than we do. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

Her laugh is soft and light. “How are you even a real person?”

“What kind of question is that?”

I pull the steaks from the bag and pat them dry. They probably needed another ten minutes or so, but I need to keep moving.

She leans against the end of the table and watches me get them situated on a tray.

“You just told me that you don’t even know where they are, and you’re like, ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ How are you not bitter about it?” she asks.

Because I’ve had too many years of disappointment. My expectations have been adjusted back to zero.