“Whoa. Yeah, that’s not okay. Fuck off,” I said, and then hit the end call button. My skin crawled as if a dozen fire ants were climbing all over me. I was so angry, my head was going to spin. It took several minutes for me to calm down enough to walk into my studio.

The plastic-­like scent of the watercolors and the cedar brushes tickled my nose as I nudged the door open. I breathed in deeply, letting the fumes that might irritate someone else relax me, push away all thoughts of Dean. Some of my favorite paintings hung on the walls, above magazine clippings—­words and phrases that I’d found over the years that I’d thought matched the paintings.

Placing the tea and cell phone on a small table by the door, I shuffled over to the easel as I pulled out a hair tie. My steps slowed, and I stopped in front of the easel as I tugged my wet hair up into a quick ponytail.

Wait a minute.

Lowering my hands, I wiggled my fingers as I stared at the easel. When I’d pulled off the painting I’d completed on Friday to take to Charlie, I hadn’t replaced the canvas, and I hadn’t had time Saturday to do anything. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even stepped foot in my studio yesterday.

But a blank piece of canvas was stretched onto the frame, sitting on the easel.

Cocking my head to the side, I retraced the last forty-­eight hours. Was it possible that I had done that when I finished the last painting? It was possible. I did things a lot that I didn’t realize I was doing out of habit, but I was pretty positive I hadn’t done this.

I thought about the remote in the fridge, the dishwasher, the toilet seat and so on . . .

I really needed the Ghostbusters.

Then again, this ghost has been super helpful—­creepy but helpful.

Turning from the canvas, I shook out my shivers as a chill snaked its way down my spine. My gaze fell to the cell phone. Forcing myself over to it, I picked it up and tapped on the message icon. Just holding the phone and opening Reece’s last text got my heart pumping ridiculously fast.

Texting a guy was not a big deal.

Texting a guy who’d seen my boobs and had gotten me off shouldn’t be hard.

Texting a guy I really, really liked was scary as hell.

I texted him a quick hey before I wussed out and then dropped the phone on the table like it was a snake and then felt like an ass because he was probably still asleep.

Hurrying away from the phone, I’d just grabbed my stool when I heard the phone ding. My stomach dropped.