Page 77 of Better than Famous

"It has to be perfect." Dropping the drill into my tool belt, I checked the seal one last time. "Acoustics are unforgiving. If there’s a gap, the sound bleeds."

"The only thing bleeding is my schedule," Austin grumbled from the corner as he gathered up the canvas drop cloths. He had spent the last six hours helping build the studio. He’d just finished hanging the heavy solid-core door, a task requiring more brute strength than finesse. Wincing, he cracked his back. "It’s a room, Ben. It’s a box where she sings. It doesn’t need to be Fort Knox."

"It’s more than a room." My hand ran over the smooth surface of the wall. "It’s a sanctuary."

Austin rolled his eyes at Chase. "He’s gone soft. The man used to build fire lines. Now he’s building soundproof love nests."

Chase laughed and pushed off the doorframe. "Let him be. He’s in love. It makes you do crazy things. I designed Harper a pergola once at two in the morning because she mentioned wanting to drink coffee under vines. We’ve all been there."

Ignoring them was the best defense, though heat rose up the back of my neck. They were right. Every off-duty hour for the last three months had been devoted to obsessing over this addition. Pouring the foundation, framing the walls with hand-selected lumber, and installing a triple-pane window overlooking the mangroves took serious effort. The structure blocked out ninety-nine percent of the ambient noise, thanks to Chase’s design and my sweat equity. Sutton deserved a place where she could create without the world listening in.

"Is it safe to enter?" Sutton’s voice called from the hallway connecting the main cottage to the studio. She stood in the doorway, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet. She wore a pair of cutoff denim shorts and one of my old flannel shirts over a tank top. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hair formed a messy bun already surrendering strands to gravity. Banning her from the room for the last week had been torture, and curiosity was practically vibrating off her.

"It’s done." I gestured to the open space. "Come on in."

As she stepped over the threshold, her eyes widened at the transformation. The spacious room was flooded with natural light from the large window, but the silence inside remained profound. Heavy insulation swallowed the sound of her footsteps, creating a hushed, reverent atmosphere. Sutton walked to the center of the room. Spinning in a slow circle, she took in the gray walls, the recessed lighting, and the spot in the corner where the restored Story & Clark piano already stood.

Raising her hands, she clapped a single, sharp report.

The sound died instantly. No echo. No reverb. Just pure, clean silence.

She turned back around and covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes sparkled in the afternoon light. "Ben. It’s... it’s dead quiet."

"That’s the point." A swell of pride hit me, completely unrelated to carpentry. "You can scream in here. You can play at three in the morning. The world won’t hear unless you want them to."

"It’s perfect." She crossed the room and threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my sawdust-covered shoulder. "It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me."

Chase cleared his throat loudly. "We helped. Just for the record. The heavy lifting was mostly us while Ben measured things with a laser."

Sutton laughed and pulled back to beam at the two men. "Thank you, Chase. Thank you, Austin. You guys are the best free labor a girl could ask for."

"Not free." Austin picked up his heavy tool bag. "I expect VIP tickets to the next tour. And access to back stage."

"Done."

"All right, we’re out." Chase clapped Austin on the shoulder. "We’ll leave you two to... check the acoustics. Harper’s expecting us for dinner, Ben. Don’t be late, or she’ll send a search party."

They filed out. Their boots thumped heavily down the hallway, leaving us alone in the quiet room. The silence settling around us wasn’t the empty, lonely kind from years past. It was wonderful and full. A canvas waiting for paint.

Showering the construction dust off took twenty minutes. When I returned to the living room, the sun had already begun its descent, painting the sky in familiar shades of vivid purple and tangerine. Six months had passed since the storm, since the interview, and since she’d permanently altered my reality. Yet the beauty of the island still caught Sutton by surprise every evening.

A walk through the living room highlighted the changes. The space was no longer a dull bachelor pad. Throw pillows littered the couch, a stack of music journals rested on the coffee table, and a vase of wildflowers brightened the kitchen island. It was messy. Lived-in. Definitely better.

Life on Dove Key had found a new equilibrium. Paparazzi still came around occasionally, mostly freelance photographers hoping for a shot of the reclusive pop star. But the town had formed a protective phalanx. Just last week, Old Man Kerling used his shopping cart to ‘accidentally’ block a photographer in the produce aisle at Island Market while Sutton slipped out the back. The Keys protected its own, and she was officially one of us.

I strolled down the hall to where the new studio door stood slightly ajar. The heavy, solid wood was sealed with a rubber gasket. Pushing it open quietly revealed the interior. Sutton sat at the piano, the tails of my flannel shirt hanging over the bench. An open notebook rested on the music rack, scribbled with lyrics in her frantic shorthand. Her fingers moved like water over the keys as she coaxed out a soft, intricate melody.

I stood in the doorway to listen. She wasn’t performing. No cameras, no producers, and no expectations existed in this space. She was just creating. This was the vibrant picture I loved—not the image on a screen, but the woman pouring her soul into the keys when she thought no one was around.

Her shoulders relaxed, sensing my presence. She didn’t stop playing, but she turned her head slightly, a smile touching her lips. "Hey."

Stepping inside, I let the heavy door seal shut behind me. "Writing?"

"Thinking," she corrected, then played a minor chord, letting it resolve into a major one. "I’m thinking about how much I already love this space. It’s incredibly safe."

"That was the plan." Walking over to the piano, my hand slipped into the pocket of my jeans. My fingers closed around the small, warm metal object that had been resting there all day. "I have something for you. I never gave this back."

Sutton stopped playing and swiveled on the bench. "Gave what back?"