Jenna studies me inquisitively, and I focus on smoothing out the folded paper on one of the presents I’ve just wrapped. I run my thumb over it even after it’s smooth as hell until Jenna looks away. Pippa might be able to smell out evasive maneuvers, but Jenna is really the master at reading people.
She’s also far more subtle than Pippa, which makes her even more dangerous because she typically makes me spell out my deepest secrets before I even realize it. So, I focus the conversation on Will and the presents. Once we’re done wrapping everything, Jenna pulls me into a half hug, which I return wholeheartedly.
I always have to keep myself in check so I don’t lean in like a kitten starving for affection. I’ve always been touchy-feely, but more so with Jenna and her motherly hugs. The way I see it, I have some solid years of catching up to do in terms of hugs.
I honestly never think I’ll get my fill of motherly hugs, and Jenna seems willing to dish them out often, almost as if she can sense my hunger for them. Given her ability to read people, she probably can.
Just as I pull from Jenna’s embrace, Blake catches my eye from across the room and smiles at me. I smile back, but at the same time, a small fear grips me that I’ll have to give all this up—the Bennetts’ warmth, and Jenna’s hugs—because I can’t keep my hands or lips off Blake.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Blake
I’m counting the minutes until someone questions me about Clara. My money is either on my sisters or Christopher. He warned me from the get-go that I had zero chances of keeping things platonic with Clara if she moved next to me.
To my astonishment, I make it through almost the entire party before Summer approaches me, smiling sweetly, which is always a bad omen, but never more than today. She keeps looking between me and Clara, who is currently protecting Silas, Logan’s boy, from Mia and Elena. The twins have taken to tickling Silas as often as they can.
Summer sits next to me at the large table, which is otherwise empty. She’s munching happily on a piece of cake.
“How’s the newest painting coming along?” I ask.
Summer remains silent for a few seconds, as if considering my words. “It’s coming along okay, but if I’m honest, I’m having more fun being a docent at the gallery than painting.”
That’s news to me. “Really?”
Summer nods. “Yeah. Maybe it’s all the years I’ve spent in Rome being a docent, but I seem to like it more to tell others about paintings of great artists rather than spending days alone in my studio with just my brush and a canvas, trying to create something great, then hoping I’ll find a vendor. Let’s face it. I’ll never be Picasso. Or Monet.”
“No, you’re Summer Bennett. And personally, I’d buy your stuff over that Picasso guy’s anytime. His paintings make no sense. Some even freak me out.”
“That’s because you’re not an art appreciator, Blake.”
“True, you and Pippa got the creative genes and interest.”
When Summer turned twelve, she started to show interest in all things art, begging everyone to take her to galleries and what-not. I was often her companion. It had been so boring I’d wanted to poke my eyes out, but I went for my sister. She drank up every word of the docents while I shut out their voice, especially when it came to modern art, which in my opinion looked as if Silas had gotten his hands on a black marker and went wild o
n a white canvas. Everyone else finds deeper meaning in those drawings. To me, a line is a line is a line. That’s all there was to it.
“So, how’s the gallery, then?”
“Oh, we just received the most wonderful collection by Van Gogh. We finished putting it up Friday. Tickets for it are already sold out for the entire next week.”
I take a guess. “Is this the guy who cut off his ear and then blew his own brains out?”
Summer narrows her eyes. “He had some issues, but he was also a genius. He used techniques, which...I see you’re phasing out already.”
“What? No, no, no, I’m listening.” Truth be told, I’m hearing her, but not really listening. My brain is in the habit of wandering off at the first mention of words such as “technique”. Almost inadvertently, I focus on Clara, suddenly wishing I could fast forward the day, so I can be alone with her.
“Let’s talk about Clara instead.” Yeah, that took no time at all. In all honesty, I haven’t helped my case by eye-fucking Clara from across the room. “By the way you’re looking at her, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say things are heating up? Do you need tips? She likes tacos, romantic comedies, and unusual cocktails.”
Summer said all this at once, and she is now taking a much-needed breath. I take advantage of the split second of silence to turn the conversation back to her. I’m rescued by Daniel, who joins us, sitting on Summer’s other side.
“This is a madhouse, and I never thought I’d say that about a three-year-old’s party. What are you two talking about?”
“Clara,” Summer informs him. “Our brother’s been giving her hot looks for years now. I’m trying to gauge how far past looks they’ve gotten since she’s his neighbor.”
“Blake, come on. Keep your hands off her. She’s sweet. Deserves better than your sorry ass.”
Well, well. I hadn’t anticipated this. Daniel turning against me—the traitor. He’s my twin. There’s an unwritten rule that he must always have my back.