*Harper*
McKenzy’s perched on top of a step stool, paintbrush clenched between her teeth, holding two wildly different knobs up to a half-finished dresser. One is sleek brass, the other shaped like a ceramic lemon.
“I’m thinking weird fruit motif,” she says around the brush. “Or is that too quirky farm wife?”
“Knowing you,” I say, smearing cobalt blue across my latest canvas, “it’s exactly the right amount of quirky farm wife.”
She grins and tosses the lemon knob into her tool bag. “Perfect. If Scott hates it, I’ll tell him to take it up with my creative genius.”
The studio feels especially bright today, sunlight spilling through the windows, illuminating the organized chaos we’ve turned it into. My corner smells like oil paint and turpentine. McKenzy’s side smells like sawdust and wo
