Prologue
What's Your Name?
Townhouse Manager Guy:Miss Brooks, I won’t be able to make it by noon, but Jace Roman will meet you at unit 2B with your keys. I’ll be happy to assist with anything else you need when I return. Sorry for any inconvenience. —DC Management
“So, Miss Lucy Brooks, alleged connoisseur of classic rock music—you say you were named after a Beatles song, and you can name a song by every guitarist on your shirt?”
This Jace guy management sent to help me move in is something else. He’s a little older than my twenty-two years if the citrusy ’90s vibe cologne currently burning my eyes is any indication, but he’s notthatmuch older. His striking jet-black hair and ice-blue eyes match his cocky attitude perfectly.
“Yep. Lucy Sky Brooks.” I pull a pink hair tie off my wrist and gather sticky blond waves off my neck, revealing sweat-soakedpink highlights underneath. My hair has officially lost the war against Tennessee’s summer humidity. “Andyes,I do know who Slash, Eric, Angus, Stevie, and Randy are. But I can’t play much, if that makes you feel better about roasting me.”
Only I would manage to meet a self-proclaimed guitar virtuoso while wearing a shirt illustrated with the names of the most famous guitarists of all time.
Despite his playful condescension, it took only a few minutes of generic pleasantries before our mutual love of classic rock music led to a snarky debate on the merits of our favorite bands.
Jace is the type of guy who needs to be sure you can name five songs if you wear a band T-shirt. I may not have a lot of guitar-playingskill, but I more than compensate with a wealth of useless musical knowledge.
He thinks I’m full of it.
The feeling is mutual, but he is entertaining, and hehasmoved in most of my stuff, so I can’t complain.Much.
“I hauled in a vintage Fender Strat you can’t even play? Typical Poison fan.” He playfully mocks me like we’ve known each other for years as his fingers effortlessly dance over the frets of my dusty and severely neglected guitar.
Dang it.He’s really good.
“I remember a few chords, but it’s been a while.”
“If you can play five, I might have to marry you,” he teases.
“Oooh, definitely four. Keep your head up, though. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you.”
He’s pretty, I’ll give him that. But pretty isn’t my type. Everything about Jace is high contrast, from his dark hair to freakishly light eyes and savage wit. It’s unnerving and not in a good way. A little too shiny for my taste.
The guy I talked to on the phone last week sounded more professional. Daniel, I think? Professional but also … oddly comforting.
There was something about his voice—all warm and crackly like a bonfire—that made him feel like an old friend. Which is weird. I know.
He assured me I’d have plenty of help when I moved in and insisted he’d personally assemble furniture or anything else I needed.
Clearly, I need to get out more if a reasonably competent guy with a pleasant voice had me imagining we’d be besties. He could be thirty-five and married with six kids for all I know.
But after talking to him, any apprehension I had about moving here melted away. And aside from the roommate I’ve met exactly twice, I don’t know a soul in Crappie Branch.
I’ve had maintenance change my vent filters or check a pilot light before, but helping me move in is a first, so I’ll keep the mild disappointment about who they sent to myself.
My mom and two sisters have been putting my clothes away and organizing my room while Jace and I unload a small trailer of all my worldly belongings. They can’t hear us from my room at the back of the townhouse’s lower level, so they’ve missed most of our sarcastic bonding. But we’ve moved a ridiculous number of times. They know this is how I make friends.
The move to Johnson City—well, the unincorporated community of Crappie Branchjust beyond the city limits—is technically my second launch from the nest. I moved out after high school but returned to my parents’ home temporarily. I had to regroup and save money. Since the nest constantly moved, I had no real attachment to Cookeville—where my family lives now—and where Mom, Layla, and Liza will return home to my annoying little brother, Jamie, when they finish organizing my chaos.
Like the guitar, organization is a skill I haven’t quite mastered.
Jace’s snark is actually a relief. I’m glad I’ll have at least one person who speaks my native language. Small talk is painful, and I appreciate getting his real personality without pretense, although I suspect he’s holding back just a smidge.
That’s okay. So am I.
“Will I be charged extra for the harassment, or is it complimentary with your move-in service?” I jab.
“My services are in high demand, but I like you. You get a free sample.” He’s quick as a whip and hardly comes up for air. “This is a decent guitar for someone who doesn’t play.”
