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I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the large dining room windows. My hair is in a messy bun, I’m wearing the same dirty BSB t-shirt as the other day—my unofficial renovation uniform—and there are streaks of dirt running down my face. I need to change too.
“Meet me at the front door?” I ask.
“Yup.”
Upstairs, I rinse off quickly and then slip into a light blue sundress, the only item of clothing I’ve got with me that doesn’t have any visible holes or rips in it. When I packed, I’d only packed with cleaning in mind.
Benjamin is already waiting by the time I make my way downstairs, tapping his foot to some beat in his head and drumming with a pencil on the banister. I pause for a minute before he notices me, grinning to myself as I watch him, unobserved. He’s lost in his own world, clearly concentrating on some music in his head.
It’s incredibly sexy to see him when he’s being productive and creative—the exact opposite of the lazy, forlorn, lost artist vibe he can sometimes sink into. His lips are moving, mouthing out words, as he absentmindedly scratches the stubble on his jaw. I notice how strong and muscular his hands are—musician hands. I could feel their strength when he touched me last night, resting his hand on the nape of my neck. A shiver of pleasure runs through me at the memory.
Of course, I’d long been aware that Ben had grown up into a sexy, coveted man—the kind of man women drool over. But I didn’t expect him to have that kind of effect onme.I continue watching as he takes the pencil he’s using as a drumstick, jots down some notes in his little songwriting notebook in it, and then jams it back behind his ear.
“Coming up with some new material?” I ask as I continue down the stairs toward him.
“Yup. Ideas are really flowing these days.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You clean up nice,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe appraisingly.
I feel my cheeks flush in confused appreciation at the compliment.
“Thank you,” I reply simply. But I can feel a little shiver of pleasure run through me. Ben would have never said something like that when we were kids. Is he seeing a different version of me now—a more grownup version?
We make our way down the front steps and pause, looking at each other expectantly. I had assumed Ben would drive. But, again, he takes me by surprise.
“You got your keys?” He asks, as he gestures towards my old VW station wagon.
“I thought we could take your car,” I retort, slightly embarrassed by my rusty old ‘hunk of junk,’ as my sisters call it.
“Didn’t bring one,” Ben says with a grin, jamming his fists casually into his jeans pocket.
“How the hell did you get out here?” I ask in shock.
“I had my driver bring me out,” Ben says sheepishly.
“Just when I’m starting to think you’re a regular guy, you have to remind me that you’re a rich and famous rock star,” I reply with a smile. “Let me get my keys.”
I trot into the house to grab my keys—and feel foolish. I should have noticed long ago that there wasn’t a second car in the driveway. In retrospect, it makes sense. There wasn’t a car when I arrived, which was why Ben’s presence caught me so off guard. He reallywastrying to escape the world, I realize. Going full isolation at Rose Manor without a direct way out? He must have had a lot on his mind when I showed up, maybe more than I realized.
Ben doesn’t say a word about my beat-up old VW as we get in, for which I’m grateful. The small reminders of his status, fame, and wealth are always weird and make me feel slightly uncomfortable.
But he can’t hold back when my car stereo clicks on, automatically playing John Mayer’s “Your Body Is a Wonderland.”
“Lace, noooo,” he groans audibly, reaching for the dial.
“Hey!” I slap his hand away playfully. “My car, my rules, my music.”
John Mayer’s voice reverberates through the car.We got the afternoon. You got this room for two. One thing I’ve left to do, discover me, discovering you…
“Ugh, fine. But do you have anything more peppy? I’m going to fall asleep listening to this.”
“You can browse the CD book. There’s one under the passenger seat.”
“CD book? Whew, you’re old school,” Ben says, letting out a low whistle as he rummages under the seat.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that this car doesn’t have Bluetooth. The only way to play music is with some ‘old school’ CDs.
