“How did you know where I lived?” he asked as he closed the door with a firm click.

“Brit told me. I mentioned I’d like to talk to you about the pictures.”

“Right. She should know. She’s been here enough.” He walked past me and crossed the open-concept room that adjoined a kitchen outfitted with a large island. “You look great today,” he said.

“Well, when I have dinner with Brit, it’s always wise to bring my A game. Trying to be a good sister.”

“You’re a good sister, Marisa. And I know Brit loves you very much. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve caught her fretting over you.”

“I’m a work in progress.”

“Making fine growth. Can I get you coffee?”

“Sure. That would be great.” I’d had a gallon today, but that wasn’t the point.

My gaze wandered the room. Neat, midcentury modern with a long, low couch in front of a fireplace surrounded by marble. Above the mantel was a black-and-white photograph of the Sierra Nevada during a fire that wrapped gray smoke around the jagged peaks. It was a stunning piece.

“Like it?” He set up the coffee maker and hit “Brew.”

“Very nice,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

“I was traveling out west. Saw it in a gallery and couldn’t pass it up. Some images come chock-full of emotion. But you understand that, don’t you?”

“I do.” Silence was broken only by the gurgling coffee maker.

“I’d love to see your work. Brit says it’s very good.”

I arched a brow. “Brit said that?”

“She speaks highly of you.”

That I doubted. Worrying questions and comments were Brit’s way of reminding herself and me that I’d failed many times. She was a better person when I was screwing up. “Nice to know.”

He ran long fingers through thick bangs that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. He was an attractive man. Perhaps his face was a bit full for my tastes, but his brown eyes had a way of looking at me without making me feel stalked or targeted. Still, they missed little.

“You take cream and sugar, right? Not the calorie counter like Brit.”

“Correct.”

I moved toward the kitchen, watching him pull two navy-blue mugs from a new set of walnut cabinets. He poured coffee in each and from the refrigerator removed a carton of creamer. My brand. He set it on the counter beside the cups and a small sugar bowl. “I know this must be bittersweet for Brit and you. I mean, not having Clare.”

Every time he said Clare’s name, it felt off, as if he were trespassing. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”

He frowned. “Her death is very painful for Brit.”