“You know you want to,” Gibsie laughed, twiddling his fingers at her in salute. “My little brown-eyed girl.” “Don’t do it, Gerard!” Claire’s face turned bright red. “Don’t you dare sing that—” Gibs cut her off with a verse of Van Morrison. “I hate you, Gerard Gibson!” Claire hissed when he was done serenading her like a demented crow. “And I love you, too,” he said, laughing, before turning his attention to me and stifling a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned so that only I could hear him. “I swear to god, lad, that girl drives me crazy.”
