Gibson Boys Box Set Page 3

  Taking a quick look at everything I need to do, I do what I did all weekend and don’t do any of it. I can’t think of the last time I let things go like this. Normally when I’m stressed, I throw myself into my work and forget the world. Not this time.

  A fog presses against my shoulders that hit me after the whole incident with my truck. It wasn’t the truck that bothered me so much. It was her.

  Something about Sienna flipped me sideways and I haven’t been able to get upright. It, meaning she, has not been far from my mind since they pulled away from Crave. I can’t shake it, can’t escape this ripple in my stomach that keeps pulling me back to the memory of her.

  Regardless, it’s made me sleep-deprived, blue-balled, and as confused as I am after a fifth of Hennessy. I have no time or business dealing with this. I just need to shake it and move on.

  Glancing at the clock, it’s clear she’s not coming by. As much as I hate admitting it, I was hoping she’d actually show. Best case scenario would include her saying or doing something completely horrible that would put an end to the fascination that had me up so late Saturday night I missed church and Nana’s dinner. Something has to give because I can’t hack many more nights like that. Or mornings in the shower, squeezing one off in my hand while I imagine what the curve of her hip feels like beneath me.

  Sorting through invoices, I force myself to be somewhat productive until the door chimes ring. Expecting to see Peck, I look up with a line on my tongue. Instead, invoices spill from my hands, scattering in a mess on the desk in front of me as I take her in.

  A bright pink tank top showcases Sienna’s perfectly round breasts, drooping not quite low enough for her cleavage to be visible. Long gold earrings hang from her ears and her hair is a wild mess, held back only by a pair of oversized sunglasses. On her legs is another pair of cutoff jeans. Thankful I’m sitting so my cock won’t be visible, I try to keep my face passive. Hot or not, this is the girl who banged up my truck and ruined my weekend. “You’re late.”

  She assesses me for a half a second. “That depends on who you ask.”

  “I said this morning. It’s noon.”

  “And I said I’d be here today. It’s still today.”

  She saunters towards the desk with the confidence of a woman that usually gets what she wants. With every step she takes, I can almost taste the sweetness of her perfume, feel the silkiness of her hair wrapped around my fist.

  Still, she knows she’s messing with me, and while it’s a turn-on to watch her almost stalk her way across the lobby, it’s also proving she thinks she can just flirt her way around this, the one thing I hoped she wouldn’t do. Maybe I hoped she’d be different and take this seriously.

  “Why did you even bother to come by?” I ask, my tone even harsher than I intended.

  “I came to tell you I’m sorry.”

  The pen in my hand stops scrawling across the notepad in front of me, but I don’t look up.

  “I mean it,” she adds. “I’ve thought about this all weekend, and I don’t think I even apologized to you.”

  She waits for me to utter an acceptance of her apology, one I don’t quite believe because believing gets you disappointed. But when I lift my gaze, the complete somberness in her features has me giving her the benefit of the doubt.

  Sitting back in my chair, I press my lips together. “You’re right. You didn’t apologize.”

  “I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what happened to me …” Her eyes drop to the floor, a tiny smile gracing her shiny lips. “Please accept my apology.” She waits for my response, one I don’t give her. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she looks up at me. “So … you’re still really pissed?”

  “You took a bat to my truck, Slugger.”

  “Stop calling me ‘Slugger.’”

  I can’t help but return her lopsided grin, despite my best efforts. I hate the way my anger is dissipating, the way my shoulders feel lighter than they have since Saturday night.

  “You have one hell of a swing,” I note, remembering more about what her body looked like moving the bat through the air than the actual mechanics of the swing. “I bet your daddy is proud. Were you a college softball standout or something?”

  “No. Just a good learner.”

  I try not to frown. “Ex-boyfriend play?”

  “Nah, just my brother,” she says with a shrug. “I spent half my life at a baseball stadium or practice field watching him do his thing.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “Decent,” she says. “I take credit for any success he ever had. I threw him so many pop flies growing up he owes me.”

  “I’m sure he owes it all to you,” I chuckle.

  She grins, the damn thing lighting up the room. Leaning against the desk, she bites her bottom lip. “So, about Daisy …”

  Before I can respond, the chimes ring behind her. We jump like we’ve been caught doing something we weren’t supposed to be.

  “Peck was right,” Kip says, taking off his brown Sheriff’s hat and purposefully not looking at Sienna. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

  “You called the Sheriff?” Sienna whips around, her eyes wide. “Damn it, Walker. I said I’ll pay for it. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Sienna—”

  “Let me introduce myself,” Kip says, extending a hand. “I’m Sheriff Kooch, the man in charge of this county. And who might you be?”

  “Sienna.” She squares her shoulders and bats her eyes once for good measure. “I told him I’d pay for the damage. There’s really no reason for you to be involved. Don’t you have a lot of other things to take care of today? Things that matter?”

  Kip doesn’t say anything, just turns to me with a slightly raised brow. He’s putty in her hands. If I don’t watch it, he’ll be writing me the ticket.

  “Daisy matters,” I say, ignoring the rest for now.

  “My legal footprint matters,” she shoots back.

  “Yeah, Walker,” Kip adds in. “Peck told me what happened. Pretty silly to get the law involved in an accident.”

  “No, the fact that a grown man named his truck after a flower is silly.” Sienna has a hand on her narrow hip and waits for my response.

  “It’s not named after a flower, smartass. Ever heard of ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’?”

  “I’m from Savannah. Of course I have. I didn’t know Yankees were allowed to watch it.”

  Our gazes tangle together, heating the longer they hold. Her chest rises and falls, her bottom lip dropping just enough that I can see it. Instead of hurdling this desk and pressing her back against the wall in front of Kip, God, and anyone else who happens to walk in with not so much as a fuck given, I choose to break the spell in a different way.

  “What do you say, Sheriff?” I ask, forcing a hot swallow down my throat.

  Kip looks at me, then Sienna, and back at me. A smile slides over his face. “I say I just came in to tell you Nana is on her way over and she’s fit to be tied. Seems as if her favorite grandson didn’t show up to church yesterday.”

  Sienna’s jaw drops. “You didn’t call him, did you?”

  “If he would’ve called me and told me about you, I’d have been here a lot faster, sweetheart,” Kip laughs. A burst of static sounds through the air and instructions are doled out from the operator on the other side of his walkie-talkie. “I gotta go. It was nice to meet you, Sienna.”

  He’s gone as quickly as he came, the rip of gravel sounding as he takes off to play hero.

  As the chimes settle, Sienna slowly turns to face me. “You. Are. A. Jerk.”

  “It’s been said.”

  “Were you going to let me think you called the cops?” she snaps. “That’s not nice, Walker.”

  “I never told you I was nice.”

  She considers this as she leans against the desk, looking around the shop. “This place is a mess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I do mind, actually,” I grumble, picking the pen
back up.

  “Forget it,” she says, digging in her purse and pulling out a wallet. A wad of cash comes from one of the compartments. “Let’s get this figured out. How much do I owe you for the repairs?”

  “First of all,” I say, shaking my head, “you never show how much money you have. Haven’t you ever listened to Kenny Rogers, country girl? You don’t show your hand while you’re still dealing. You wait. Otherwise, someone will take advantage of you.”

  Her tongue darts across her bottom lip, leaving a trail of wetness behind. The light catches it, my eyes glued to her mouth as she speaks. “Are you going to take advantage of me?”

  Grimacing and cursing whoever is on the other end of the phone ringing in my pocket to the pits of hell, I retrieve it. My eyes not leaving hers, I answer it because if this isn’t a bailout, I don’t know what is. “Crank.”

  The person on the other end talks, but I have no idea what they say. I can, however, recount every move Sienna makes in front of me.

  I get off the chair, motion for her to give me a minute, and head into the shop area so hopefully I can concentrate on something other than taking deep, repeated advantage of this infuriating woman.

  Four

  Sienna

  As soon as he’s out of sight, my whole body feels the void of his energy. My knees wobble, my breath whispering across my lips with a shaky sound. All this as I attempt to pull precious air into my lungs while searching for the filter for my mouth.

  Are you going to take advantage of me? Did I really just ask him that?

  Fanning my face, I watch him through the window. Delaney is right. Cute doesn’t cut it. He’s so far beyond cute that I’m not sure there’s been a word created to encompass it all. He’s not good-looking like the guys I usually date. Those guys are clean-shaven, hair gelled, politically-correct boys I’ve met at a fashion event or political rally. Walker is … not. He’s nothing of the sort.

  His five o’clock stubble begs me to run my fingers down it, feeling the coarseness against my palm. His skin isn’t moisturized or evenly tanned, but rather rough and with tan lines that I can see around his watch. The words out of his mouth haven’t been chosen out of a list of words his private school teachers drilled into him. He doesn’t know me or my family, and even if he did, I bet he wouldn’t care.

  There’s something raw and real about Walker. It’s the way he looks at me, the way I can’t quite tell if he wants to grab me and kiss the hell out of me or throw me out of the room. Either way, it burns my libido like it’s a forest hit with a hot match. My choice: kiss the hell out of me.

  I could leave. I could leave a stack of cash on the desk that I took from the ATM this morning and skate, getting back to reality. Like I should. But that option, as logical as it is, seems so … plain. Boring. Predictable.

  Is this what the start of an addiction feels like? A hankering for more, even when I know taking it in large doses might kill me? Being absolutely sure I shouldn’t be partaking, but not able to talk myself out of it either?

  This place, this man, is a breath of oily-scented, testosterone-fueled air. It’s as foreign to me as outer space. It’s another planet, and while I was never the little girl who wanted to go to outer space, I’ll sign up for this ride just to see what it’s like.

  The chimes ring and I spring around. An old man with a plaid golfer’s hat and worn blue jeans, a man I doubt has ever played golf a day in his life, stands in the doorway. “Seen Walker?” he asks, his voice gruff like there’s a pack of cigarettes in one of his pockets.

  “He’s in the back,” I volunteer.

  “I hope he doesn’t take long,” he murmurs, wincing as a hand goes to the small of his back.

  He looks at the floor, the lines in his face so deeply etched that I wonder if he was born with some of them. Regardless, my heart breaks when he posts a hand on the wall and leans against it with a cringe, the hole in the toe of his shoe dark and unraveling.

  “Let’s get you a chair,” I say, looking around. There’s none in the lobby, but I spy the one behind the counter. I bring it around and help him get settled.

  He pats my hand. “You are a doll. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He seems unsure with his repeated head-to-toe scans of me, like he’s wondering if I’m an imposter taking over Crank without anyone’s knowledge. He’d be right, but for whatever strange reason, I don’t feel like I don’t belong here. I just feel like I haven’t figured it out yet.

  “Is Peck around?” he asks.

  “I’ve only seen Walker. Do you need something I can help with?”

  “My truck. I need to meet my wife for breakfast. I should’ve been there an hour ago but my neighbor was late picking me up and all that jazz.”

  “Where is your wife?” I ask.

  “The nursing home.” He forces a swallow. “She’s been there two years now. I go by every morning for breakfast and I’m never late. She hates being late. That’s all I heard for the fifty-five years we’ve been married—if you aren’t early, you’re late.”

  “Maybe she’ll cut you some slack,” I offer. “Especially if this is your first offense.”

  His eyes drift from the window to me, a sadness written so heavy in his features that I feel it in my soul. “She won’t care. She doesn’t even know I’m there. Alzheimer’s is a son of a bitch.”

  Nodding is all I can do because if I say a word, he’ll hear the lump in my throat.

  “I walked into her daddy’s lumber yard when I was fifteen and she was up to her knees in mud. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He dabs at his eyes with a blue bandana, the tip of his nose turning red. “Fifty-five years is a long time to sleep next to someone and then they don’t remember who you are.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my own eyes watering. Placing my hand on his over his knee, I squat in front of him. “That has to be very hard.”

  “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than going to war, harder than losing our baby at three months old. It’s like having my heart cut out of my chest.”

  His other hand, wrinkly and cool, settles on top of mine. They shake, his knee vibrating with his valiant attempt at restraining his emotions.

  “She loves you,” I tell him, my eyes burning. “Remember that as you go to see her and think she doesn’t remember you. She does. She just can’t tell you.”

  His tears flow freely, dripping down his hollowed cheeks like a floodgate has been broken. “Thank you, hon. I needed to hear that today.” As his face falls, his eyes sliding closed to the exhaustion riddling his old body, I turn away.

  Heading to the desk, sensing his need to change the subject, I clear my throat. Discreetly wiping my face with the tail end of my shirt, I take a deep breath. “What kind of car did you have?”

  “Black Ranger. I had a tire bust on me yesterday and Walker had a used one out back.”

  The desk is covered in receipts and notes, candy wrappers and invoices. There’s no way anyone knows what’s actually here. The further I try to dig, the deeper the mess becomes.

  I look up when the chimes ring again. A tall, dark-haired woman with a baby wrapped to her chest and another child holding her hand steps inside. She greets the old man and then looks skeptically at me. “Walker around?”

  “He’s on a call,” I say as the baby starts to scream.

  “Shhh,” she whispers, bouncing herself up and down. “Shhh, Gabriel. It’s okay.”

  “Mommy,” the other one whines. “I’m tired.”

  “I know, baby,” the lady tells him. “We’ll have the van in a second.”

  “You walk down here, MaryAnn?” the old man asks her. “All the way from Washington Street?”

  Over the wails of the baby and the whining of the child, she tries to stay calm. “I hit a deer in the van last week and Mike had to work today.”

  “I still can’t believe you walked all that way,” the old man says. “That’s a couple miles.”
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br />   “The baby has a doctor’s appointment this morning. He’s having an allergic reaction to something and we can’t figure it out. It’s costing a fortune with co-pays, which is why Mike is still at work. He’s been working all the overtime they’ll give him.” She sags against the wall, patting the older boy’s hair. “It could be worse, right?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the exchange between the old man and the woman. It’s nothing more than a slight tip of their chin, but they understand each other on a level that I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, and to even consider it strikes a fear in me that I can’t shake.

  I can’t imagine my sister-in-law, Danielle, walking two miles with Ryan because she didn’t have another choice. Especially in this heat with a sick baby.

  “I’ll try to find your invoice,” I volunteer, feeling so frustratingly helpless. “What kind of car?”

  “A maroon van. I have no idea what year it is,” she says, still bobbing the baby up and down. “I barely know what I had for breakfast at this point.”

  Thrust into what my mom calls “do-er mode,” I scramble for something to do to make her day easier.

  “Do you have your keys?” I ask, holding up a couple of random papers. “I found your invoices.”

  “Walker always leaves them on the floor mat,” the old man says. “What do I owe him?”

  “Well,” I say, forcing a swallow, hoping this doesn’t bite me in the ass. “You, sir, have no charge because the tire they used was going to be thrown away anyway. Right?”

  “That’s what he said,” the man agrees, but doesn’t look convinced.

  “And you, madam,” I say, hurrying along, “there’s something here about insurance and write-off’s, but Walker’s writing is crap and I can’t figure it all out. It just says zero with a circle around it,” I shrug.

  “You’re kidding me.” A flitter of hope casting across her face. “I don’t owe anything? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Says it right here.”

  Holding my breath, seeing if they believe me, I wait until they prepare to leave. The woman opens the door and grabs the little boy’s hand. “Tell Walker thank you,” she says. “I’ll send Mike over this week to double check. I just … I appreciate it.”