Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(52)

“Bitter?” I shrug. “A part of me is, I guess. Vincent definitely is. But I figure everyone does what they have to do. I can’t make their choices for them. I can only make mine.”

“You’re way more of an adult than I am. I’m bitter. And angry. And frustrated.”

I look at her. And beautiful.

“At least you’re honest with yourself,” I say.

“But how did you learn to let that go?”

I grin. “The truth?”

“The truth.”

“Little League.”

“What?” she asks with a laugh.

“It’s true. When I started, I was terrible. I mean, awful. Vincent and Machlan were on my team, and both of those bastards were awesome. And then here I come. I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

She giggles.

“I had a coach my second year pull me to the side and tell me something that just stuck with me.”

She waits for me to continue. When I don’t immediately, she motions for me to hurry up. “Come on. Share this golden information.”

“He said that every time I let a strike go by, I was fixating on it. That I didn’t have a shot in the dark at the next pitch because I was worrying about missing that first one. And he was right. I went to the plate knowing I sucked and expecting the worst. As soon as that first pitch came, I was already so amped up and scared shitless that I swung. Missed. And then I stood there and berated myself over it as the next two strikes went by.”

“So you just extrapolated that over your life? Or what?”

“Well, I was twelve.” I laugh. “So not immediately. But eventually, I did. And it worked. Helped me not to hold on to a lot of shit.”

“See? I didn’t play softball. I was a cheerleader.”

I nod in appreciation. “I bet you gleaned a few valuable lessons from that too.”

“Oh, totally,” she says, nodding empathically. “Like how I don’t look great in white and olive green. And not to trust the girl who likes your boyfriend to be your back spotter.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“The short version: concussions.”

“Ouch,” I say, flinching.

“Yeah.”

I pick up the tray and head for the door onto the patio. “Be right back.”

The charcoal is nice and hot. I empty the chimney full of coals and add a few new briquettes. Once the grill is ready, I place the steaks on the grill.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Dylan’s watching me. I know it. And instead of it making me nervous … I like the feeling of it. I like the idea of it. Of her beside me in the kitchen as we prepare dinner while listening to music and talking about our lives. When have I ever had this?

Maybe I’d cook more if this was the case.

I grin and shut the lid.

She has a bowl out and is making the salad when I step back into the house.

“I thought I’d go ahead and get this ready,” she says. “How many tomatoes do you want me to put in it?”

“However many you’d like,” I say from the sink. I rinse my hands and then grab a towel. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, do you like a lot of them or not so many?”

“I don’t really even like tomatoes,” I admit.

She sets the knife down. “Then why did you buy them?”

“I don’t know. Don’t they go in a salad?”

She cocks her head to the side. Lifting a cucumber, she holds it in the air. “What about these?”

I shrug.

“Do you like them?” she asks.

I shrug again.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“The lady at the store said that’s what goes in a salad. I don’t know that stuff. So if she’s wrong, blame it on her. Not on me.” I laugh. “I also got sunflower seeds, but I do like those. Never had them in a salad, but I like them for sure.”

She laughs, her voice blending with mine. “If you basically don’t like anything that goes in a salad, then why are we having it?”

“Don’t you like salad?”

Her shoulders fall as a smile graces her lips. “Yes. I do. And I like tomatoes and cucumbers.”

“Good,” I say, trying not to show her how proud I am of myself.

She turns away, her hair covering the side of her face. A song plays from her phone, the lyrics about candles dripping on bodies striking a chord deep inside mine.

She flips her head so that her hair falls on her far shoulder, exposing the side of her face to me. She chops the vegetables, her hips moving with the beat of the song. The bass is deep, the beat slow and sensual. Her lashes fall closed as she loses herself in the words.

I walk toward her, unable to look away.

Holding her breath as I get closer, she stills.

I stand behind her and peer over her shoulder.

Kissing her would be so easy. Touching her would take all of a half of a second. But if I do either, I’m not going to stop.

And I have dinner to make.

“Looking good,” I say.

She blows out a breath.

I’m lying. She looks incredible. She smells fucking awesome. She has shown me more empathy in a few days than many of my friends had throughout my life. She is sexy as hell. But she will get to eat her dinner because I’m starting to realize that she deserves someone looking after her.