Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(8)

I arch my brow. “Third person? Really?”

“I didn’t take the pots and pans, Dylan,” he says with a sigh.

“Then what happened to them? A burglar broke in and ignored the television and her computer and the cookie jar of cash that probably holds thirty bucks, but still? Not plausible, Logan. But why you’d want them, I don’t know. Was it to get back at her in a way she’d think about every day? Is that it? Are you so in love with her—”

“With Navie?”

“Obviously.”

He laughs. “No. She’s like my sister.”

My brain scrambles. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Forcing a swallow, I eye him carefully. “I have a lot of questions as to why you’d sleep with someone who’s like your sister and then steal from her, but I’m not sure I want the answers.”

“Good,” he says, leaning forward. “Because if I start giving you answers, you’re gonna feel really stupid, and I don’t want to see your pretty little face all scrunched up in embarrassment.”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

He shrugs, the corner of his lips tugging to the sky.

He’s lit from behind by the setting sun and a sky full of vibrant rays. It’s like he’s the center of a painting, the star of a poster from some Hollywood romantic comedy, and I can barely take it.

I have to look away.

And berate myself for thinking this about a guy who screwed over my friend.

“I forgot your Jack,” he says. “I can bring it by later. Thinking maybe you need it.”

“Nah, I’m good, Chef Boyardee. I shouldn’t drink anyway. Drinking puts me in all my feels, and that’s not the place for a sane girl to be.”

“You mean you’re sane?” he teases.

I level my gaze with his and try not to laugh. “Yup. You don’t even want to see me really mad.”

“Does smoke come out of your ears and everything?”

“Yup.”

We both struggle to keep a straight face. In seconds, we’re laughing.

The sound of our voices mixing together sets a too-comfortable ambiance on Navie’s front porch. It shouldn’t be this easy to be friendly with Logan, and I shouldn’t be questioning how he could possibly be such a jerk to Navie, but I am.

I’m a traitor.

A traitor who can’t quit talking.

“Did you get that truck done?” I ask.

“Yup. And I paid the guy back for the gas. Just mentioning that so you don’t think I’m a thief.”

“But you are. You know, pots and pans.”

He takes his hat off and scratches the top of his head. “But I brought the pans back and paid for the gas. So maybe I’m a good thief like the good witch in the Wizard of Oz.”

“She was still a witch,” I say.

“But pretty in that pink dress. It was pink, right? It’s been a while.”

He moves to put the hat back on. The air comes alive with his cologne. It’s aromatic with an aquatic, slightly woody hint that barrels through my veins and makes my brain foggy.

Glancing at his watch, he frowns. “I gotta be hitting the road.”

“Hot date?”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins. “Yup.”

My stomach flip flops as I take a step back toward the door. The logical part of my brain tells me that this is a good thing—that he’ll be leaving Navie alone—but the female part of my brain, the one that favors charisma and looks over sensible actions, is kind of sad.

“My date tonight makes the best cheeseball in the world. She puts extra bacon in it just for me, and word on the street is that she made fried chicken. It’s the best,” he adds. His eyes twinkle as he describes the night waiting for him.

“Good. I need to get going too,” I say, jamming a finger behind me. “I have to, you know … make sure all of my stuff is ready to move and all that.”

“Where ya movin’?”

“I’m renting a house on Vine Street. Just waiting on the tenants to get out. They were supposed to be out last week, but the landlord had a hard time getting them to go, so now I have to wait.”

He nods. “Cool. Well, if you need anything done around there, I know people who’ll work for cheap.”

“Thanks.”

“Now I gotta get going, or Nana will be pissed.”

“Nana?” I say as he heads down the sidewalk. “What kind of name is that?”

He smiles before climbing in his truck. The engine starts before he rolls the window down.

“Don’t forget to give Navie the pots and pans,” he says.

“I will.”

“And if you get a hankering for fried chicken, I know a grandma who loves to feed people. It’s one of Nana’s best recipes.”

My mouth drops open. “You just ghosted my best friend, and you’re inviting me to dinner? With your grandmother, no less.”

Even though I’m quietly thrilled Nana is his grandmother and not some exotic beauty, I feign indifference.

“Sorry,” he says, revving his engine. “I forgot about all that ghosting thing.”

“You’re a bastard, Logan.”

His laughter is loud as he backs down the driveway. He waves from the street before his tires bark as he pulls away.