After squeezing the living daylights out of me, he headed outside, stopping on the porch. “Lock the door, Roxy.”

Nodding, I did just that when I closed the door. Even though those two girls and the one who was missing—­Shelly Winters—­didn’t live here, I wasn’t stupid. And as I headed back to my studio, I mulled over Reece’s suggestion of getting a gun.

“No,” I said out loud with a laugh. “I’d seriously end up shooting someone accidentally.”

Plus, the incident with the book showed I didn’t have the best self-­control when my emotions were running high. Granted, throwing a book and pulling a trigger were two very different things, but it still wigged me out, the idea of having that kind of end-­game level of power in my hands.

As I poked around the paintbrushes, my thoughts drifted to tonight. Excitement hummed through me, but the happy buzz was coated with unease. I was going to have to tell the truth about what happened between us, and knowing how much Reece hated lying, it was a huge risk.

I could lose him before . . . before I even really had him.

But there wasn’t a part of me that seriously considered continuing with the lie even though I doubted Reece would ever know the difference. To do so was wrong and cowardly, and I had decent-­size lady balls.

I just needed to find them.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on a painting of Jackson Square in New Orleans. I’d never been, but I was obsessed with the place ever since I read an epic paranormal romance that mostly took place there.

I’d made Charlie read the books, too, and when we were younger, NOLA was on our bucket list. One of these days, I promised myself I’d go there, not just for me but also for Charlie.

Then I’d be able to tell him all about it.

I’d printed out many different views of the square, and had decided on the view where the three steeples from the gorgeous church rose above the statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse. This would probably be one of the hardest paintings I’d decided to embark on, based on the amount of detail and layering it required.

Hours flew by as I worked on the ring of white flowers that were planted in front of the bronze statue of Jackson. My wrist ached from the thousand or so tiny flicks that ensured the petals had definition, but the dull pain was worth the results so far. However, I still wasn’t sure I was really going to be able to pull it off with watercolors.