I sighed as I passed the couch, leaving my cell phone where it was. Dean was nice, but there was going to be no second date. I had to find my lady balls and tell him that, but I needed a nap before I did that. Maybe a bowl of chips and—­

My stomach flopped as I came to a stop in the dining area, facing the kitchen. Movement outside of the small window above the sink caught my attention. It was quick—­a flash of gray or dark brown, but it was gone too quickly for my craptastic eyesight, even with glasses, to register what I saw. When I made it to the window, I clutched the edge of the cool steel of the sink and stretched up on the tips of my toes. Peering out the window, the only thing I saw was the basket of pink flowers I’d bought from the market last week, sitting on the wrought-­iron bistro set that had seen better days, petals swaying in the breeze. I thought I heard a door shut, but as I settled on my feet, I shook my head.

Now I was seeing things.

Turning around, I leaned against the sink and drew in a deep breath as I moved my neck from one side to the other. Closing down Mona’s last night meant I hadn’t gotten home until after three in the morning and I’d woken up way too early.

Woken up with that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that . . . that horrible emptiness that had no real cause behind it. Just there, making me restless and itchy in my own skin. It had lingered until I picked up the paintbrush, and I knew it would come back again.

It always did.

Pushing off the sink, I grabbed a banana from the sad fruit basket that was mostly filled with pieces of chocolate just as a knock came from the front door. One look at the clock near the fridge told me who it was.

Every Saturday, since I’d moved out when I was eighteen, four years ago, my mom and sometimes my entire family stopped by at noon. Just like every Friday I visited Charlie.

Thank God I’d closed the studio door, because the last thing I needed was anyone in my family—­Mom, Dad, or my two brothers, to see paintings of Reece. They knew who he was.

Everyone knew who he was.

Unlocking the door, I threw it open to have a wave of heat smack into me and a gallon of brown liquid shoved in the general direction of my face. I stumbled back. “What the . . . ?”

“I made you sweet tea,” Mom announced, thrusting the still warm plastic container in my arms. “Figured you’d be out.”

I could make any drink at the bar known to man, but I couldn’t make sweet tea to save my life. For some reason, I couldn’t get the sugar to tea bags to water ratio correct. It was beyond me.