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“If it works? Genius.” Now, I’ll have help with the renovations. I won’t have to waste tons of dad’s cash on a pricey contractor. And Benjamin can help me prepare for the PR tour I’ve been dreading.
“Well, let’s make it work. By the time we leave Rose Manor, the house will be fixed up, my album will be written, and you’ll be ready for your book tour.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“I guess I’ll start by cleaning up the living room,” Benjamin says with a self-conscious grin, gesturing to the piles of clothes and dishes still sitting there.
“Good idea.”
I watch as he wanders off. I’m glad he said yes but I’m also slightly troubled.
Is this totally nuts?
His words echo in my head. I think of the little fantasy I had in the shower this morning and blush, wondering what Benjamin would say if he knew. I’ve just committed to spending the coming weeks cooped up in this remote location with my former stepbrother.
The former stepbrother I had the craziest crush on as a teen.
The former stepbrother who is now a dreamy rock star—the kind of guy women like Madison Harper drool over.
Have I lost my mind?
Chapter Five
Benjamin
Iadmitit.Iwasn’t totally sold on Lacy’s idea at first. I mean, I came to Rose Manor to be by myself and work on my songwriting in solitude. On top of that, ‘handyman’ isn’t exactly my dream job. The only job title I’ve ever had on my resume—not that I’ve ever actually had a resume—is ‘rock star.’ Maybe it sounds stuck up, but it’s true. I pursued my music from a young age and never looked back.
But apparently, my plan to battle through my writer’s block solo has a kink in it. I’ve been here for six months and have barely made any progress. So, when Lacy proposed she help me with my songwriting and I help her with her publicity prep, it sounded reasonable to me. Plus, it means I can spend more time at Rose Manor. There’s just one problem with this plan… Lacy is already driving me crazy.
She’s constantly running around, vacuuming, mopping, hammering, cleaning out closets, and I don’t know what else. The bustle of activity is a harsh wake-up call after my six months of blissful, peaceful solitude here at Rose Manor.
I mean, I’ve been helping. I cleaned my junk out of the living room, got rid of the dirty dishes and pile of clothes, and even managed to get the washing machine working again. Turns out, the outlet it was plugged into was blown. Tada! Easy fix.
But then I wanted to take some time to focus on my writing. Instead, I found myself being chased out of every room I tried to work in by Lacy, always with a mop, broom, dustpan, garbage bag, or something similar in hand.
I ended up seeking solace in my old childhood bedroom, where I’m now sleeping. Before Lacy got here, I was mostly crashing on the living room couch. But after I woke up to Lacy vacuuming the living room rug yesterday morning, the bedroom made more sense. That’s where I am now, hiding and trying to jot down some song lyrics.
“Ben, you up there?” Lacy’s voice calls up to me from downstairs.
I hesitate for a moment, considering ignoring her. Nah.Don’t be a jerk, Ben.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“You hungry? I’m going to order a pizza.”
“I don’t think they deliver out this far, Lace.”
I pause, waiting for a reaction. Finally, I hear a disappointed little ‘oh’ from downstairs. Damn, she’ll starve if I don’t do something.
“Hang on, I’m coming down,” I call out. I slip a t-shirt on—for some reason, Lacy is always hounding me to wear a shirt, which is weird because it’s just the two of us, but whatever. Then I grab my notebook of lyrics and head downstairs.
I find Lacy, in her usual jean shorts and oversized t-shirt, standing in front of the fridge, peering inside and looking desolate. She brought bags full of groceries when she arrived but, from the little I’ve seen, she doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. So far, I’ve seen her whip up spaghetti and sauce one night, and spirals with pesto another night. Beyond that, she seems to subsist on granola.
She doesn’t notice me walk in and continues to rummage through the fridge, her ass out. I try not stare, but I can’t help it. In those short, cut-off shorts, it’s an incredibly sexy sight. For a fleeting second, I picture myself going up and slapping her ass playfully.
Woah, boy.
I feel a knot form in my stomach as I remind myself that Lacy is my stepsister. Well, ex-stepsister. I flashback to the image of her in a soaking wet t-shirt after the pipe explosion, her ample chest visible through the clingy, damp fabric. I had to be careful not to stare then, too. And when I hugged her the other day, I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t wearing a bra.
