“Once they see your work, they will,” I said. I gestured to her house. Visible through the window, hanging on the wall in the living room, was the portrait she had done of Sir—he really needed a better name—when he’d been lying in the lemon tree. I remembered the day she’d painted it. I’d watched from the window, noting the sunlight on her hair and her eyes narrowed in concentration. I wished I could join her and felt ridiculously jealous of the cat for having her to himself. The painting’s colors were vibrant, and the likeness of Sir was incredible. “You are a major talent.”

Even in the dim light, I saw her face turn pink. Embarrassment? Pleasure? I didn’t know. I just had the driving urge to make it happen again.

“Who exactly is ‘they’?” she asked. “You’re not a mobster, are you?”

“ ‘They’ is a woman,” I said. “Her name is Lexi Brewer.”

Annabelle didn’t say a word, but I could feel her gaze on my face while I studied the leaves of the nearest tree, watching them flutter in the faint nighttime breeze. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her that Lexi was my sister. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, but I was trying to maintain a boundary between myself and Lexi, and by not acknowledging our family tie, I felt as if this made the whole thing more of a business arrangement.

“A woman?” she asked. Her tone was speculative. “Huh. So this woman, is she an ex-wife?”

“Never been married,” I said.

“Really?” she asked with a note of disbelief. I turned to look at her, locking my gaze on hers, and asked, “Do I really seem the marrying type to you?”

“Is there a type?” she countered. “It’s been my experience that marriage just sort of happens.”

“Just sort of happens?” I repeated. I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice. “It’s a legally binding relationship with endless ramifications, not the least of which is losing half of your net worth if it doesn’t work out.”

A sigh slipped out of her. It was the sound of someone who knew the opposing argument so well that they didn’t feel the need to hear it again.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling me you’ve been married? You have an ex-husband?”

She propped her elbow on the chair arm and then rested her chin in her hand. She regarded me steadily when she held up her other hand and wiggled two fingers. “I have two.”

“What?” I was appalled. Not that she was divorced so much as that she’d ever thought marrying was a good idea to begin with. But how exactly did she have two exes when a cursory glance at her rental papers had informed me that she wasn’t even thirty yet?