Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  We walk through the store, holding up various garments for consideration. I’ve already looked at most of the things in the little shop—the only thing that resembles a department store in Merom. Linton had nothing. Not even a store where everything is a dollar.

  Navie slurps the rest of her coffee. The straw sucks air, sending an obnoxious sound through the store that gets her a side-eye from the cashier.

  “Can you stop it?” I ask her. “You’re going to get us thrown out of here, and I’m not done shopping yet.”

  She tosses it in a trash can. “Are we just looking at clothes for the bank, or we looking for … other things.” She stops in the middle of the walkway and grins.

  “Just work,” I say carefully. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

  “Ha.” She spins around and grabs a light pink negligee. It hangs from her finger like it’s made of spun gold.

  The garment is beautiful. The fabric begs you to touch it while the lace lining the top and bottom teases you to touch what would be underneath.

  My eyes flick to hers. “Navie …” I warn.

  “What? You’d look awesome in this.”

  “Don’t what me. I know what you’re implying.”

  And that implication has my body humming. Dim lights, candles flickering, Peck’s eyes filled with unbridled passion …. I shiver.

  “Um, I’m not the one who started this,” she says. “You were implying a whole hell of a lot when you were dry humping him on the bar.”

  “I was not.” My face burns. “We were dancing.”

  “It’s a choice of words.”

  “The correct choice,” I say. I take the item away from her and put it back. “Don’t start this.”

  When I turn around, Navie is watching me with a hand on her hip.

  “Don’t regret that,” she says.

  I walk away from her toward the perfume counter because it’s the farthest thing from her at the moment. My mind ponders her request.

  Don’t regret that.

  Do I?

  The back of my brain says I do. It says things are going to get weird between Peck and me. And being that the more I see of him, the more I like him means that I’ll probably be packing myself up and out of there. Maybe even with a broken heart.

  But my heart has things to say of its own. It doesn’t take being shattered into consideration. It’s contemplating lazy Sunday afternoons watching football and arguments over who is making dinner—things that I’ve never really wanted before, and things I have no business wanting now. Not with him, anyway.

  The push and pull ripped at me all night after Peck left my room. It was present through my shower this morning, all during breakfast, and accompanied me here.

  I’m a mess.

  “Does that frown mean nothing happened when you got home last night?” Navie asks. “If you say yes, I’m going to be so disappointed.”

  I frown deeper.

  Her face falls in a dramatic fashion. “No, Dylan.”

  “We … talked,” I say. “It was fine.”

  I turn my attention to the sample perfume bottles. Suddenly, I’m very interested in the smell of sunflowers.

  Navie leans her back against the glass counter. “You talked. After that?”

  “Yes. Because we’re adults, and adults talk. I don’t get why you’re making such a big deal out of it.”

  “I’m not. I just expected …” She wiggles her brows. “You know. A little more of what I saw at the bar with a lot fewer clothes.” She waits for me to respond. When I don’t, she sighs. “Talk to me.”

  “I thought talking disappointed you.”

  I walk over to a settee next to an ad for handbags and take a seat. Navie wastes no time plopping down next to me.

  Setting my potential purchases next to me, I ignore my friend for a moment. This conversation is not going where she thinks it is, and a part of me is a little embarrassed by that. She thinks I’m going to tell her that Peck and I talked about dancing together or … anything to do with us.

  “We talked about Molly,” I say without looking at her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope.” I twist my lips together and peer at her. “It’s just as well. I mean, she’s the elephant in the room with him, right?”

  Navie rolls her eyes. “So what did he say? And if you tell me he said he loves her and all that shit, I’ll go kill him right now.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not good enough.” She starts to stand. “He’s dead.”

  “Navie, stop,” I say, laughing.

  “Why would he talk about Molly McCarter when he’s got you with him? Alone. In his house?” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s my fault. I brought her up.”

  Navie blinks. “Why?”

  “She came up to us before I left the bar, and … it was a painful interaction. She’s … a lot.”

  “She’s a whore.”

  I focus on the lines in the tile on the floor.

  She might be right. I don’t know Molly well enough to know if that’s true. But when I open my mouth to say something negative about her, I hear Peck’s voice telling me Molly’s history in the soft sensitivity he used last night. And I can’t do it.

  Maybe I can’t do it because it feels like a betrayal to Peck and his opening up to me. And maybe I can’t because I kind of feel bad for her. Either way, I can’t.

  “I don’t know what she is,” I say. “But Peck likes her, and that’s that.”

  “I’ve never been fully convinced he actually does like her. For the record.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he does.” I look up at Navie. “At least in certain ways. I don’t know. I just know I don’t need that negligee tonight. Or ever.”

  My spirits sink as I speak the truth. Because it’s the truth.

  “You don’t know that,” Navie insists. “Maybe seeing you in that would break the Molly spell.”

  I lift the shirts I’m going to buy and lay them on my lap.

  As Navie said, I was alone with Peck in his house with no other distractions. Except that’s not true. Because even though he clarified why Molly means so much to him, it didn’t mean her presence disappeared.

  It’s so much a part of him. She’s so much a part of him. He could’ve kissed me. I wanted that kiss. But it’s not mine and probably never will be. And I can’t fault Peck for that. In fact, that loyalty, that … honor, it makes me like him even more.

  “I wish there wasn’t a Molly spell,” I admit. “If there wasn’t, I’d be all over that. He’s … like sunshine. He makes you feel good.”

  She snorts. “I bet he’d make you feel real damn good.”

  I hit her with my shoulder.

  “You need to take a chance,” she says.

  “You’re right. I do. I deserve to be happy and in love. Or just to screw around if that’s what I decide to do. But … I owe it to myself to do that with someone who’s safe to do it with.”

  She cocks a brow. “Define safe.”

  “Do you know why Charlie left me?”

  “Yup. Because he’s a narcissistic asshole.”

  “Maybe, but he’s also a decent guy. And while I’m angry that he betrayed me to do it, he really just did what he thought was right for him. And I give him kudos, quietly,” I joke, “for doing it when he did and not dragging it out.”

  She scoffs. “Your logic is irritating.”

  I grin. “So the answer to my original question about why Charlie left me is that he went back to his first love.” My smile falters. “How do you really argue that?”

  A flash of understanding billows through Navie’s eyes. She nods, her lips parting.

  I stand. Tossing the clothes I want to purchase for my new job over my arm, I look down at my best friend.

  “If I start a new relationship, I want to do it with a man who’s free and clear. One who doesn’t have some deep connection with someone else that I have to wo
rry they’ll rekindle. I just want it to be easy. I don’t want to have to fight for a position.”

  She nods again. Getting to her feet, she sighs. “I get that. I really can’t argue it.”

  “Right? There’s nothing to argue. And with Peck … he’s a great guy,” I admit sadly. “If all we can be is friends, then I’ll take it. I’d much rather have that then try to embark on some journey that’s doomed before it even starts.”

  Navie throws her arm over my shoulder as we head to the cash register.

  “If there’s one thing I know for sure about Peck, it’s that he’s not disappointing.”

  “Not yet. But everyone will disappoint you at some point.”

  “Hey,” she says, shoving me gently. “I take offense to that.”

  “I didn’t mean you.”

  “You better not have.”

  I place my items on the counter and return the attendant’s smile. She rings me up, and I hand her my credit card.

  “There is an alternative,” Navie says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I could hire an assassin.”

  I laugh. “She’s kidding,” I tell the woman working the register. “Thank you.”

  I take my credit card and receipt. Navie grabs my bags. Together, we head into the early afternoon sun.

  The air is not too warm and not too cool. The sun is bright as if luring me into happy thoughts.

  “You need to stop overthinking everything,” Navie says. “You just think and think and think, and before you know it, you’re worrying about situations that you’ll never even encounter.”

  “Overthinking prepares me.”

  “No, overthinking ruins you.” She steps away from my trunk as it pops open. “You’re so used to being the adult. You’ve parented your mother and your siblings your whole damn life. Just … be a twentysomething for a while. Cut yourself some slack.”

  She tosses my bags in, and I close the lid.

  “I don’t know how to do that,” I admit. “It seems … irresponsible.”

  “You know how to take chances. You moved here on a whim, basically. You danced on a bar last night. You moved in with a man you just met.”

  “True …”

  “So why don’t you take chances when the result could make you really happy?”

  “Living here does make me happy.”

  She glares at me. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t write people off just because you had a bad similar experience. So Charlie didn’t pick you. Seriously—good for you. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that same situation with every guy you meet.”

  “So I’m not the proverbial rebound girl?” I grin. “I’m not the time-killer?”

  “Just … shut up.” She laughs. “What’s wrong in that head of yours?”

  “A lot. And on that note, I gotta go. I have a bunch of errands to run today.”

  “Like what?”

  I think back through the list of things I need to do. “Well, I need to run to the post office and drop off some envelopes. I need to do some non-food and non-clothing shopping.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Bathroom stuff. Notepads. Dish soap.”

  She nods. “There’s a place on the other side of Merom. Follow this street to the right, and you’ll see it in a couple of miles.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I work tonight,” she says. “Come see me if you get bored.”

  I climb into my car. “Thanks for coming by today.”

  “I was no help, but you’re welcome.” She heads across the parking lot. “See ya.”

  “Bye, Navie.”

  She walks away like she has no care in the world, but that’s not true. She has more cares and problems in her life than I do.

  No one knows that, though. She hides things so well. In some ways, we are so similar.

  I came to Linton to support Navie, not just because of the Logan business, but because I knew she needed me. But now I think we simply needed each other.

  Daily phone conversations, watching movies and then calling each other to rant or rave at the best parts, and planning trips together we’ll never take helped us stay close when she moved here. And while I’ll never be grateful Logan hurt her or that my family and Charlie about broke me, those things did get me here. Thankfully.

  I close the door and turn on the engine. Instead of pulling out, I turn up the radio. An old country song that I remember my nonna playing, about a man loving a woman forever and ever, flows through the cab.

  Relaxing back in my seat, I listen to the words.

  Is that possible anymore? Or is it always the survival of the fittest?

  My phone dings beside me. I pick it up and smile.

  Peck: Dinner at seven. Be hungry. ;)

  Me: I’ll bring dessert.

  I laugh.

  Almost typed I’ll be dessert.

  I toss my phone in the cup holder and head across town.

  Nineteen

  Peck

  “All right. Let’s not fuck this up,” I whisper.

  The items I bought at the grocery this morning are spread on the table. Packets of steak, giant potatoes that I’ll smash with butter and bacon and cheese and chives, and the requisite salad fixings are all displayed in a neat little line for my dinner with Dylan.

  I run my hands down the sides of my pants. Sweat from my palms skid down the denim.

  “Ugh,” I groan. Heading to the sink, I wash my hands.

  My stomach has been clenched since I came in from the barn and heard Dylan in the shower. I stood in the kitchen and listened to the water trickle through the pipes in the wall and imagined her standing under the spout.

  Wet. And naked.

  She’s been out for a while now—probably upward of an hour. I told her dinner wasn’t until seven, but the longer it takes her to come out, the harder it is to fight my nerves.

  “There’s no reason to be nervous,” I lie to myself. “You’re just being polite.”

  I’d like to politely stick my—

  “Hey, Peck.”

  I wheel around to see her standing in the doorway. A long, brick red dress hangs lazily off her frame, showcasing the delicate curve of her shoulders and dipping sweetly at her waist. Her hair is down, brushing against the middle of her back, and if she has a stitch of makeup on, I’d be shocked.

  She’s never looked prettier.

  “Hey,” I say, running my hands down my jeans. Again. “You, um, you look really pretty.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Thanks. I went shopping with Navie today to grab a few things for my new job and had to have this. It’s just so comfortable.”

  She enters the kitchen, the fabric flowing around her. The room fills with the scent of oranges from her perfume.

  Standing next to me, she takes in the ingredients. “What are you making?”

  “Steak. Potatoes. Salad.”

  “I love steak,” she says. “And I’ve never met a carb I wasn’t friends with.”

  I laugh. “Awesome.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You totally don’t have to help.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and grins. “I know. But I want to. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah. Having you in the kitchen with me sounds like a terrible time,” I tease.

  “Oh, does it?”

  “Just awful.”

  She grins. “Well, I’ll put some music on to help fill all the weird moments of silence that are sure to plague us, considering it’s going to be such an awful experience and all.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to dance again?”

  Her face turns the same shade as her dress. The flush steals my breath as I imagine what she would look like on her back, legs spread, coming all over my tongue. Or on her knees as I take her from behind—

  Fuck. Stop. You’re cooking dinner, Ward.

  “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.”