I was already painting the scene in my mind. Planning the colors I’d need. The way I’d make the image come alive and jump off the canvas. I forced myself to push it from my brain. To step back from the guest room and shut the door.

I gave a mental thanks to whoever had invented blackout curtains, otherwise there was no way Shay would still be asleep. And she needed the rest, desperately. We’d sat on the couch for hours yesterday, talking about everything and nothing.

When I’d told her that I wanted her to stay in one of the guest rooms for the night, she’d put up minimal fight. More of a pause before agreeing. I didn’t think she wanted to be alone. And I couldn’t stand the thought of her even two hundred yards away for the night. Just in case she needed me.

I’d sent her back to her guest house to get a couple of things, and while she was gone, I’d placed a few calls. Requests to the large blogs to remove the painting from their sites with a promise of an interview at my next show. I’d never get it taken down everywhere, but the sites with the most traffic were a start.

I headed downstairs, grabbing my coat before making my way towards the chicken coop. I’d watched Shay feed the hens and gather their eggs before. And I knew she’d wake panicked if I didn’t handle it. So, chicken whisperer for the day it was.

They squawked as I approached. “Sorry, ladies. I know it’s later than usual, but please don’t try and peck my eyes out in retaliation.” I chose to spread their feed around before opening the hen house. It was a smart move because when I did, they ignored me altogether and went straight for the grub. I made quick work of gathering the eggs and headed back to the house.

The clock on the wall read 10:15 a.m., and I knew there was no way Shay would sleep much longer. I pulled open the fridge to see what options we had. My cooking skills were almost nil. But I did have a reserve of one or two recipes besides grilled cheese. I pulled out some cherry tomatoes and mozzarella. Heading over to the windowsill, I plucked a few basil leaves off the plant resting there. Before long, I had a frittata rising in the oven, and coffee brewing.

“What time is it? And what smells so good?”

Shay wandered sleepily into the kitchen. Her hair was still in wild tangles, and she was drowning in her oversized flannel pajamas. I fought the urge to laugh. “It’s 10:45, and my culinary masterpiece is what smells so good.”

Her eyes widened. “Crap. The chickens—”

“Already taken care of.” I inclined my head to the basket of eggs on the counter.