Sure, he’s adorable with a heavy dose of subtle sexiness that’s pretty incredible. But he also seems like really good friendship material. He can take a joke. His patience runs deep. Quite frankly, he’s the kind of guy I should make friends with.
If he’s in love with someone else, won’t that make it easier? He’ll friend-zone me right from the start.
I press off the cabinet as the doorbell rings.
“Grab that, Dyl. Please,” Navie calls out from her bedroom.
I suck in a deep breath and make my way to the door. I tug it open.
“Heya, Dylan.”
Peck smiles brightly on the other side of the doorway. Clean jeans stretch down his long legs, and he’s traded a diesel company’s shirt in for an eighties rock band. A blue baseball hat with white stitched L.A. sits on his head.
“Hey, Peck.” I step to the side so he can walk in. “How are ya?”
My voice is too high. It’s like my brain worries that Peck could somehow telepathically know I was just mulling over his love life and feels embarrassed. Either he doesn’t pick up on it, or he’s too well-mannered to point it out.
“Great. Something smells good in here,” he says.
“I just threw a little spaghetti and meatballs together. Easy supper, you know?”
“That sounds like it would be a big pain in the ass to make, actually.”
I grin. “Well, not true, but I’m happy to play along. You should be so grateful I went to all this trouble to make a pain in the ass dinner for you.”
The blues of his eyes match his hat. I can see it as he moves toward the window. The light makes his irises shine, blending different shades of aqua together.
“Let’s be honest,” he says. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
“What’s for me?”
“This dinner. It’s an apology dinner because you have guilt.” He turns on his heel and looks at me. A giant smirk lights up his face. “As you should.”
I gasp. “I have no such thing … Well, not much,” I admit. “But I’m not making you dinner out of guilt.”
“Huh.”
I try to glare at him but can’t quite get it just right because of his stupid smirk. My efforts are saved by Navie.
She flings her bedroom door open with a flourish before striding into the room with not just a new shirt but also different jeans and sneakers too.
The ones she wears at work.
I give her a look she pretends not to see.
“Hey, Peck. Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, holding her arms out to the sides like a game show host. “I wish I could stay and have dinner with you guys, but Machlan just called and said he needs me to come in. Who am I to say no to the boss?”
Peck raises a brow. “You. Every damn time you work.”
“Well, he really seemed like he needed me this time.”
“I’m sure he did,” I deadpan. “You’re a terrible liar, Navie.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she gently pushes Peck out of the way. “I’ll see you two later.”
The door closes with a loud wumpth.
My eyes flick to Peck’s. I have no idea what he’s going to say now about being stuck here with just me. I’m not sure what I even have to say about this because I was not prepared. Not that this is anything to prepare for. It’s just an apology dinner between two potential friends. No big deal.
My stomach ripples as his lips part, and the easiest smile ever is shot my way. Immediately, tension I didn’t know I had melts away from my shoulders, and I sink into a smile of my own.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “Why?”
“Have you ever seen how much that girl can eat? Now that she’s gone, that just means more meatballs for me.” He winks as he walks by me and into the kitchen area. “Tell me you made garlic bread.”
A laugh topples from my lips. “I did.”
He takes a plate off the table. “Can I fill my plate?”
“Sure.”
He busies himself with the pasta and garlic bread. “What did you do today? Accost any other unsuspecting guys about crimes they didn’t commit?”
“Are you ever going to let me live that down?” I take a plate and begin filling it too.
“Nope.”
We finish getting our dinner in silence. The only sound in the apartment is the silverware clamoring against our plates as we load up with spaghetti.
In a few moments, we sit across from each other at the table. Peck removes his hat and hangs it on the back of his chair. His hair sticks up wildly as though he put the hat on it while it was still wet. I have to force myself to look away.
I clear my throat. “So you asked what I did today. I actually got a call from the landlord at my new digs. He said I can get the keys tomorrow.”
It’s the best redirection I can come up with.
“Cool. Vine Street, right?” he asks.
“Yup,” I say, trying to hide how impressed I am that he remembered that. “Just passed that house with the big balcony on the second floor. Man, I’d love to have one of those one day. It reminds me of Gone with the Wind or something. So romantic. Anyway, it’s perfect timing because my stuff is coming tomorrow too. Finally, something is working out.”
I slice a corner of meatball and shove it in my mouth to keep from talking. Peck doesn’t fill the void, though. He sits in his chair and watches me chew.
“What?” I say through a mouthful of meatball.
“Nothing.”
“Come on.” I squeeze the bite that’s still too big to swallow healthfully down my throat. “What?”
“Does it ever occur to you to breathe when you’re talking? Or do you just worry about that if you pass out from oxygen deprivation?”
I take the napkin beside my plate and throw it at him. He laughs as he easily dodges the flimsy paper product.
“I have a lot to say. A lot of passion,” I joke.
“Do you?”
“I do.”
He takes a sip of the ice water on the table, and I realize I had beer in the fridge.
“Hey! Don’t drink that.” I scoot my chair back and jump up.
“Did you poison it, and now feel bad?”
“You’re so funny,” I say, the words mixed with both sarcasm and a laugh.
I grab a bottle of beer that Navie said he’d drink and open it. As I carry it to the table, I narrow my eyes. “Now I regret being this nice to you.”
“Now I regret teasing you,” he says as he takes it. “Thanks, Dylan.”
“You’re welcome, Peck.” I get seated again. Spinning a forkful of pasta around, I feel him watching me across the table. “What’s the story behind your name, anyway? Surely, your parents didn’t just love the name Peck.”
“What’s not to love about my name?”
I drop my fork. “Come on. Were you never teased? No one ever called you peckerhead?”
He laughs, setting the bottle on the table. “A few times, I guess. Mostly by Machlan, come to think of it.” He grins. “But the name Peck is actually a nickname.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
“Want a cupcake?”
“I always want a cupcake.”
He shakes his head.
“What’s it mean?” I ask. “Is it short for peckerhead then?”
“Uh, no. My grandfather gave it to me. Legend has it that I was four years old, and we were in Crank. Crank was Pop’s shop originally. He left it to my Uncle Ed—Walker, Machlan, Lance, and Blaire’s dad. He was my mom’s brother. And then when he died, it went to Walker.”
I’ve only had a few conversations with Peck over the past couple of days, but I’ve never seen him this serious. The joke that’s always right there, waiting to come out is nowhere to be found.
My instinct is to reach out and put my hand on his or touch him on the shoulder because there’s pain there. Or emotion. Or something. But I don’t know him well enough to do that, and it feels
like it would be intrusive somehow.
So I intrude a different way. Because I can’t help myself.
“Does that bother you?” I ask.
“What?”
“That your Pop’s shop is Walker’s?”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s how things go. What was Pop gonna do? Leave it to my mom?” The end of that sentence gets scoffed with sarcasm, the final words halting. It’s as if he has to spit them out. “Anyway,” he says, swallowing hard, “it doesn’t bother me. But I do like working there. Sometimes, I’ll see something that reminds me of Pop or even Uncle Ed. And Walker and I have had some damn good times in there.”
A grin splits his cheeks as he takes another long swig of his beer.
“So the nickname …?” I push.
“Oh, yeah. So Pop had me in the shop because I loved anything with an engine. Still do. I’d beg him to take me. Nana says I used to call up there and tell him she needed him so he’d come home, and then I could get him to take me back with him.”
I laugh. The picture in my mind is so sweet—a cherub-faced blond baby crying for his grandpa. “That’s awesome and very manipulative of you.”
“Right? And apparently one of those days, he was working on a truck. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it or whatever, and I kept saying ‘peck, peck, peck.’ I kept doing it and leaning toward the truck and finally Pop heard what I was getting at. There was a knock in the engine,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t know how to say that, so I just replicated the pecking sound I heard.”
“Oh, my gosh. That’s so adorable.”
The apples of his cheeks turn red. His brows pull together, and he slides his phone out of his pocket. With a finger hovered over the screen, he looks up at me. “I need to answer this. I know it’s really rude, but this is the only call I have to take.”
“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
“Hey, Nana,” he says into the device. He nods once, twice, and then three times. “No. No, no, no. Don’t do that.” He sighs. “Don’t. I’ll … I’ll be right there. Just sit still, for the love of God, and don’t touch anything.” His eyes find me. They’re defeated. “Love you too.”
My spirits fall as I realize he’s leaving.
“I hope everything is okay,” I tell him.
“I hate this because your cooking is awesome, and I didn’t quite mind bantering with you either.” He smiles. “But my nana has mixed up all her meds. She had a heart attack not that long ago, and I need to get over there and re-sort her pills before she kills herself.”
The affinity he has for her melts me from the inside out. Even the way he talks about her—as if she’s the best thing ever—makes me wish I could tag along and meet the woman who makes a man like him care for her that much.
“Go,” I say. “It’s fine. Honest.”
We both get to our feet quietly. Peck bumps the table as he gets his hat off the back of the chair and the silverware clatters together. The sound feels hollow, and I realize how empty this room is going to feel in a few minutes.
“I’m really sorry about this, Dylan.”
“Don’t be. I tell you what. I’ll bring you lunch tomorrow. Leftovers, though. Nothing fancy.”
His face lights up. “I’ll tell you what. To make up for this, I’ll help you move in tomorrow.”
“No,” I say, flabbergasted at the offer. “Everyone hates moving. I’ll just be cleaning tomorrow mostly anyway.”
He heads to the door. “I’m a great cleaning guy. Okay, that’s not true.” He chuckles. “But you have to let me help, or else I’ll feel really …”
“Guilty. You’ll feel guilty.” I fist pump in the air. “Thank your nana for turning the tides my way.”
He pulls the door open and laughs. “Vine Street. Just passed Gone with the Wind. Right?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, following him a couple of steps out of the apartment.
He faces me head-on. It doesn’t feel awkward like it can sometimes when a guy is leaving after dinner. It feels like I’ve known him forever. Yet when I think about it, I really know nothing about him. I have the comfort level with Peck to ask him whatever I want—for him to offer to help me move—but have all these questions I’m curious to have answered.
So odd.
And so great too.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says softly. “It was delicious, and I look forward to eating more of it tomorrow.”
With a final simple smile, he turns the corner and is gone. And even though I’m now on my own for the evening, I don’t feel alone. My heart is full, and my soul is … content.
If this is any indication of what it’s like to be around Navie and her friends—potentially my friends—I just might be okay.
Eight
Peck
“There it is,” I say, passing the house with the balcony.
I pull up Dylan’s driveway and hop out of the truck. My boots dig into the soft lawn on the side of the gravel driveway leading up to a cute little house. It’s pale blue with dark blue shutters that could use a good coat of paint. There are flower bushes—roses, maybe—underneath the front windows, but they’ve seen better days.
Despite needing a little sprucing up, the place isn’t bad. The roof looks solid. The windows look like they’re in good shape, and it even has a small attached garage.
Dylan’s car is pulled up to the open garage door.
“Hello?” I call out.
Taking a quick gander around, I don’t see her.
I stand in the middle of the driveway and breathe in the clean air in hopes it settles me a bit. I’ve fought myself all morning not to get here too early. After I drank my coffee slowly, I took the longest shower of my life, then checked on Nana, left Vincent a voicemail, and did a quick scope of Crank to ensure Walker didn’t need me.
Not that it would’ve mattered if he did. It just killed time.
Leaving early last night was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because Nana royally screwed up her meds. If I hadn’t shown up, lord knows what would’ve happened. It was bad, too, because I kept wondering if it would be kosher to show back up at Navie’s.
Dylan is just … cool. Easy to talk to. Pretty to look at. Funny as hell. Wanting to spend more time with her isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever had to justify.
I head up the driveway and enter the garage.
“Dylan?”
The bay where you’d logically park a car is half-filled with trash. Flies buzz the white and black bags that are piled mostly on the far side. I head farther into the room and climb two block stairs and give a door a little knock.
“Who is it?” her voice calls from the other side.
“Peck.”
“Come in,” she says.
The handle is loose as I twist it. The hinges squeal as I push the door open and enter the kitchen.
Dylan is standing at a bar that separates the kitchen from an eating area. Her bright pink shirt and yellow sunglasses tucked in the front don’t match the frown on her face.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”
She gives me a sound that I wouldn’t quite call a laugh. “Peck … This place is …”
I look around. The kitchen is old but workable. The flooring is intact but outdated. The ceiling sports popcorn from the seventies, but many houses here do.
“It’s solid. And we can fix anything you don’t like,” I offer.
Biting her bottom lip, she nods. “Go look in there.” She motions toward a doorway across from her.
I take a peek inside.
Animal hair is thick on the floor—so thick, in fact, that it almost makes a second carpet. There’s fur on top of a dresser that was left behind. The unmistakable odor of cat piss is present, and I’m sure it’d be worse if the window wasn’t open.
“Yeah …” I turn to face Dylan. “That’s rough.”
“It’s like that in the laundry room, and the living room isn’t much better.” Her
shoulders fall. “I’m allergic to cats. Like, allergic-allergic. Like, allergic like I shouldn’t be in here at all, probably.”
“What happens to you? You aren’t going to die or anything, right?”
Her lips twist almost into a smile. “No. I’m not gonna die. But I probably will break out into hives, and my lips will blow up like balloons.”
There’s fear in her eyes that’s overkill over a bunch of swollen lips.
“Let’s go outside,” I say.
She looks around the room, gnawing on her bottom lip again.
I give her the look Walker gives me when he’s tired of my shit. “Come on.”
Her feet don’t move very fast, but she winds up at the door to the garage. I hold it open as she passes through and follow her into the driveway.
“I can go get one of those carpet shampooer things,” I offer. “Or we can rip it out and put something else down.”
She presses her palms on her forehead. “I don’t think I can do that on a rental.”
“Well, I’m pretty damn sure the landlord can’t do this to you either.”
“I can’t even think,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m bamboozled by this.”
“Did your landlord not even check it before he gave you the keys?”
“I don’t know,” she wines, dropping her hands. “I think he did. He told me they left a little mess, but I was so anxious to get the place that I told him not to worry about it.” She gazes at the house. “I’m screwed, Peck. I don’t know what I can do. Cat … stuff, whatever it is that I’m allergic to, embeds itself in the fibers of a house.”
I think she’s going to cry. Her bottom lip goes between her teeth again, and she works it back and forth. Her green eyes stay wide open like she’s afraid to blink or tears will fall down her cheeks.
My stomach twists into a knot. I don’t know what to do. This isn’t my department. I’m great at executing plans but coming up with them—especially for other people—is someone else’s job.
“Well …” I jam my hands in my pockets. “I’m sure you can get out of the contract. I mean, you haven’t even moved in. Who is your landlord?”
Crazy: Gibson Boys Book #4 Page 6
