Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(9)

I go back inside and close the door behind me. Venturing into the kitchen, I spy a shirt slung over the back of a chair. Navie tossed Logan’s shirt there this morning as she complained about not being able to make breakfast.

Glancing back at the door, I try to imagine Logan screwing Navie over like that.

It’s hard to imagine him being such a dick. He seems so … I grin before I can even get the words into a coherent thought.

“Face the facts,” I say as I pick up the shirt. “He’s a troll like Navie said.”

I toss the shirt into the trash can.

And force myself not to take it back out.





Four





Dylan



“I am an adult, for heaven’s sake.”

Glancing at the pile of paperwork in front of me—bills that need paid, papers that need my signature, and a budget that I need to peruse to remind myself of its existence—I do the logical thing: I fall back on the floor, sending papers flying in the air, and think happy thoughts.

Happy thoughts that, by definition, don’t include adultish things.

“I need a grown-up,” I moan.

I think back to my last birthday, the one where I turned twenty-nine, and how I thought this would be the year I got myself together. The year I felt like I knew how to handle all the things. Life. Paperwork. Insurance.

Instead, I’m camping out on Navie’s couch at two in the morning while she’s at work, and I’m killing time. I don’t even have my own place yet and am living out of a suitcase and a duffel bag.

I might never reach adult status when it comes to all the things.

I gasp as the front door pushes open. The only available weapon close by is a tube of mascara. I grab it and hold it in front of me as Navie walks in.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, blowing out a breath.

“Sorry. I just live here.” She shoots me a tired smile before dropping her purse on the table. “And what were you going to do with that?” One of her fingers makes a slow circle in the air as it points to the mascara in my hand.

I drop it.

“Um, maybe poke the intruder in the eye,” I offer with a sheepish shrug. “That’s a solid plan. Right?”

She nods like I’m crazy. “Sure. Or you could’ve smothered him in all those papers. What on earth are you doing?”

Grabbing the closest paper to me, I take a look at it. “Sorting my life.”

“I hope it’s going better than it looks.”

“It is. Kind of.” I peruse the financial data on the paper I’m holding. “According to this, I’m doing great at living on a budget. Well, except for this one little line item.”

“Eating out?”

“Kind of. I call it the HAS Line,” I say.

“Has? Like, you has to have it?”

“Kind of again. It stands for Hungry Angry Sad. It’s where I put all the things I buy when I’m hangry, mad, or sad. It’s quite the line,” I cringe. “I’ve heard of stress eating. Who knew stress shopping was a thing? Because it is, and this HAS Line proves it. I mean, who spends two hundred dollars, give or take, on gourmet ice cream delivery? Me. That’s who.”

“Hey, I’m not going to judge you over ice cream. But I will take a little offense to the fact you didn’t bring any of it here.”

I laugh. “Don’t say that. I’ll order some and that HAS Line will double next month. I mean, do you like pistachio coconut or brambleberry pecan?”

Navie giggles. “Neither. Right now, I just want to save enough money to cook at home without using the microwave.”

“Oh!” I bounce to my feet. “I helped you with that today. Can’t help my damn self, but I did help you.”

Navie gives me a worried look while she unwraps her hair from a bun on the top of her head. Then she slips her arms into her shirt, shimmies around, and then tosses her bra toward the closet that houses the tiniest washer and dryer known to man.

“There,” she says. “I can think now.” She slumps into a chair with lavender padding and looks at me. “What did you do?”

I smack my lips together with a little shrug and turn my eyes toward the big box by the door. She follows my gaze.

Her head falls to the side as she looks at me again.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Afraid to ask what? I got your pots and pans back.” I sit on the sofa. “You can say thank you. That’s the socially acceptable reply.”

“You didn’t buy that, did you?”

“Nope. Logan did.”

I’m unsure if the sigh that comes from her mouth is in disbelief or frustration. She rests the back of her head against the chair and watches me carefully.

“What exactly did you say to him?” she asks.

“Nothing that I feel sorry for.”

She chuckles. “I’m not sure that you’ve felt sorry for anything you’ve ever said in your life.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I thought I’d feel bad about it.”

“So …”

I pull my legs up on the couch. “I just told him what a jerk he was and the least he could do was return your stuff. I must’ve been very convincing because he took the money he got from pawning your stuff it and bought you a new set.”