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Cut it out, Ben.
I always looked at Lacy as a little sister. And that’s exactly how I need tokeeplooking at her. But if she doesn’t stop sticking her butt out like that soon, I’m going to lose my mind.
“What’s up, Lace?” I ask, interrupting her search for food.
“Trying to figure out what to eat.”
“How about I whip something up? You’ve cooked the last two nights.”
“You mean my pasta dishes? If you even call that cooking.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Hey!” She straightens up and turns on me threateningly, her hands on her hips. “Okay, Mr. Rock Star. What are you capable of cooking, huh?”
“Well, my expertise is admittedly limited,” I say as I start rummaging through the fridge and getting out supplies. “But one thing I know how to makedamnwell is enchiladas. You game?”
“Seriously? I’ll believe it when I see it.” Lacy grins as she retreats to the far side of the kitchen, watching me.
“Hey, have a little faith in me! Go ahead and preheat that oven, please.” I nod towards the ancient oven. “350.”
“Yes, sir.”
I start mixing the sauce and laying out the flour tortillas, feeling myself relax as I work.
“You like cooking?” Lacy asks.
“You know what, it’s sort of a treat for me,” I admit. “In the past, I rarely got to do it because I’m on the road so much. So, when I get a big kitchen like this—and someone willing to taste my handiwork—I enjoy it.” I shoot Lacy a wicked grin.
“Hm, not very rock’n’roll of you,” Lacy replies. “I thought musicians only drank whiskey and did drugs for dinner.”
“Not this musician,” I say with a shrug. “Although I knew a few guys with diets like that.”
“Glad you’re not one of them,” Lacy says seriously, her sweet brown eyes smiling at me from behind her glasses.
“Nah, drugs were never a temptation to me,” I say as I carefully wrap the enchiladas, nestling them into the large cooking dish.
“But every rock star has a vice, no?”
“Is that some poet’s romanticized version of what the rock’n’roll life is like?” I ask, giving her a knowing look. Lacy was always a daydreamer.
“Maybe,” she admits, blushing.
“Well, I guess you’re not all wrong. But everybody has a vice, right? Whether they’re a rock star or not.”
“Guess so. What’s yours?”
“Well, if you listen to what the tabloids have to say about me—and it seems youdoread them,” I can’t help adding with a wink, “then women are my vice.”
“You are known as a heartbreaker,” Lacy says shortly. She turns away from me to get some wineglasses down from a cupboard.
Did I say something wrong?I wonder.
“Can you get the oven door?” I ask as I finish drizzling the sauce over the enchiladas and sprinkle a hefty coating of cheese on top. I slide the tray into the open oven door and close it with a bang.
“Doesn’t that reputation bother you?” Lacy asks, eyeing me quizzically. She’s busy taking down her ponytail and putting it back up again. I catch a whiff of her shampoo, some fruity girly stuff—strawberries?—as she lets her hair down briefly.
“What, being known as a heartbreaker?”
