She gurgles, and I take that as a yes.
“See, we can do this,” Lucy tells me, and for a minute, I’m not tracking. Do what? Raise a kid? What the hell is she—
“We just spent a half hour on the phone without killing each other or having phone sex. Not that we ever had phone sex. I mean—”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “We’ve got this stepsibling thing down,” I say, and maybe it’s true. Maybe tonight proved that we don’t have to give in to the chemistry between us. We can ignore it and repress and just be stepsiblings.
I’m not so sure I believe it, but for our parents’ sake, we have to try.
Chapter 7
Lucy
I’ve beenin a bad mood since I woke up. And I shouldn’t be. Winter break officially started three days ago, and I’m all settled into my new room at Kristy Whitman’s—well, Kristy Whitman-Alvarez’s—house.
Usually, I wake before my alarm, ready to start the day, but I’ve been a little off my game lately, a thought I don’t like to dwell on. I sit up in bed and stretch. The mattress is like sleeping on a cloud, and the room isn’t drafty. And the darkening shades work like a charm. And there’s no noise to wake me up.
Whit and Kristy’s house is basically perfect. And not only did Kristy gift me a basket of my favorite soaps and lotions, but the towels are also like fluffy blankets and the shower has two heads.
I’m living in paradise. There’s literally nothing to complain about, but still I’m grumpy and annoyed. I yawn again before hopping out of bed and into the en suite bathroom. The shower is indulgent, but it does little to improve my mood. I throw on sweats and a hoodie, pull my hair up, and head downstairs. A hot cup of tea will improve my mood.
I’m halfway down the steps when I hear it: the unmistakable sound of Whit singing. Damn him and his perfect pitch.
He’s standing at the stove, shaking his ass and belting some 80s hair metal that sounds only vaguely familiar—like I’ve heard it at the mall, maybe. But I couldn’t name the artist or the song if you paid me.
I watch as he flips a pancake in the air then catches it easily on a plate. He repeats this move three more times, all while keeping the beat and not missing a note. He spins around as his plate wobbles as he notices me.
“Lucy Francesca,” he says. “You want pancakes?”
Just as I’m about to answer, he launches back into song.
I can’t help it. I burst out into peals of laughter.
He stops singing and looks affronted. “Something funny, Lucy?”
“Uh, yeah. That lyric. How freaking cheesy.”
He sets the plate down and clutches the spatula to his chest. “Cheesy? Don’t come for my hair metal, Luce. That’s dangerous territory.”
“Sorry, Whit. I call it like I see it,” I say, breezing past him and helping myself to a mug.
“Yeah, I’m aware,” he says drily.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shouldn’t pick at him. I’m in his house after all, but I’m itching for a fight. I’m restless, and I don’t know why.
“Uh...no way, Luce. There’s no good way out of this conversation, so I’m dropping the subject and offering sustenance. You need coffee? Pancakes? I’ve got a stack ready, and they’re chocolate chip.”
I’m powerless to resist the sweet smell of pancakes, so I take the plate, thank him, and proceed to carefully and evenly butter my stack. I can feel him watching me, and he’s probably judging me, but screw him. The butter-to-syrup ratio is a tricky thing, and I’m not messing it up just because I’m under his scrutiny.
Satisfied with my application, I sit at the table and take a bite. Oh, holy night, these are amazing, and it’s entirely possible that I moan. Ok, judging by the smirk on Whit’s face, I totally moaned out loud.
“Thanks,” I repeat. “These are great.”
“No problem. You want coffee?”
I start to stand. “Actually, I was going to make some tea. I’m trying to cut back on the hard stuff. I think it’s giving me an ulcer.”
“Damn,” he shakes his head. “Sit. I got you.” He busies himself with an electric kettle and brings a few tea bags to the table. I take the one that says Irish Breakfast and he brings me the sugar and cream. I eat in silence while he returns to the stove and his morning karaoke routine.
