Lacy’s eyes are soft as she looks at me, still biting on that bottom lip of hers. Again, my stomach twists in a nervous knot. I need to steer the conversation back towards lighter fare.
“Or, in your case, I guess it won’t be a love song but a sonnet,” I say with a wry chuckle. I suddenly notice that I still have my hand against her, lightly touching the nape of her neck. My hand somehow naturally stopped there. A moment of clarity, a ‘what the hell are you doing Benjamin’,comes over me, and I pull my hand back from her face.
She blinks as if surprised by my awkward transition, and I worry for a moment that I’ve done something wrong, but then she smiles.
“As long as it’s in iambic pentameter.”
“And rhyming I take it?” I add with a grin as I elbow her in her side playfully.
“I’ll accept nothing less!” She replies defiantly.
“Good. You shouldn’t settle for anything less than you deserve, Lace. And you deserve the best.”
I stand up as I speak, preparing to make my way back into the house.
“I better get this over to Blake,” I say, looking down at Lacy. “You’re going to hang out here for a little bit?”
“Yeah. It’s my favorite time of day at Rose Manor.”
She looks up at me with a happy smile, peaceful and content. I give her a small nod and make my way inside, shutting the front door firmly behind me. I exhale deeply as I head down to the recording studio in the basement. Here, I’ll be able to clear my head. I don’t know if it’s the beer, tucking that stray lock of hair behind her ear, or the candid conversation with Lacy, but my mind is buzzing. At times like these, I need to get back to the music—mymusic. Rock’n’roll. None of this folksy romance stuff. Rock is where my heart lies. I need to remember that.
I also need to remember where I stand with Lacy. That spark I felt on the porch tonight confused me. Not because it wasthere. I mean, I’ve been sneakily checking Lacy out all day. But I thought that moment of electricity would feel weird—or wrong even.
Up until now, I’ve firmly thought of Lacy as just my stepsister.
But she’s technicallynotmy stepsister anymore.
And that spark between us… It’s undeniable.
And I’m not sure I can keep ignoring it.
The question is, does she feel it too?
Chapter Eight
Lacy
WhenIarrivedatRose Manor, I was only planning to clean the place up. But now that Ben and I have embraced DIY home renovations, I’m getting into it. Plus, it’s been kind of nice.
Like last night, sitting on the porch, watching the lightning bugs come out while he played that song for me. It was almost romantic. Maybe that’s weird, since it’sBenafter all… But still. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the moment gave me some butterflies. I mean, what girlwouldn’tget butterflies in that situation?
It’s week two of our Rose Manor fix-up plan, and we’ve done way more than I thought we could on our own. Turns out that with the right YouTube tutorial, everybody can become a renovation pro. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Of course, havingcarte blancheto do what’s needed, regardless of the cost, helps too. That said, there are still a few elements of this DIY home renovation stuff that are well over my head—and Ben’s.
“Can you tell the difference between eggshell, porcelain, oatmeal, and cream?” I ask with despair as I stare at the swatches of paint samples in front of me.
“They all look identical to me,” Ben replies, leaning over my shoulder and squinting at them skeptically. I can feel the heat from his body against my back as he leans against me, and momentarily wish he was wearing a shirt. “Also, why are half of these named after foods?” he adds.
“I don’t know, maybe the person in charge of naming them was hungry when they were coming up with the labels,” I reply with a giggle. We’re in the dining room, where we’ve been poring over paint samples all morning. Now that the wallpaper is stripped and the walls are clean, it’s time for a fresh coat of paint. Turns out, choosing the right paint is easier said than done.
“Do you think we want a glossy or a matte finish?” Ben asks, picking up another sheaf of samples. His arm reaches across me, and I can’t help noticing how toned it is. For someone who never seems to work out, Ben is mysteriously buff. Not bulky, but still muscular. Just the right mix of slim and built.
“Or maybe a semi-gloss?” Ben asks, picking up yet another sheaf of samples, his arm brushing against me again.
“I have no clue,” I practically wail, pushing my chair back from the table—and away from Ben’s arm. Those muscles are distracting, “We’re screwed!”
“We’re not screwed,” Ben says decisively. “But design is not my strong suit.”
“Um, excuse me?! You’ve literally had your homes featured inArchitectural Digest,” I say with surprise.