James told himself he should be grateful, but Sophia was pushing too hard, all under the guise of helping.

It was suffocating.

And it had to end.

Despite the sex.

Which, he had to admit, was good.

Just . . . a little empty. At least for him.

Or was he rationalizing? Because of Rebecca?

His head was beginning to ache as he headed up the stairs, where the rails were smooth, the carpet runner recently vacuumed. His jaw tightened as he noted that the second floor had undergone the same transformation as downstairs. His bed was made, the room had been dusted, even the old fixtures in the bath were shining like they hadn’t since long before he’d moved in.

He ran a finger along the top of his TV, and it came away without a speck of dust.

It all felt like a new pair of too-tight, polished dress shoes when all he wanted was a beat-up pair of comfortable slippers. Opening the closet, he found his shirts sorted by color, slacks the same, shoes in neat rows and polished.

This—the closet organization—was something Rebecca would never do.

And there she was again. Invading his thoughts. Causing him to draw comparisons. Rebecca was the source of his irritation with Sophia. It wasn’t just that Sophia was pushing hard; it was that Rebecca wasn’t pushing at all. In fact, she seemed to think he was the lowest of all lowlifes.

Maybe he was.

Angrily, he pushed a pillow off the chair near his closet, then yanked off his boots. His shoulder twinged a bit, but he ignored it and headed back downstairs. In the dining room, he opened one of the bottles of scotch and poured himself a stiff drink.

Ralph had already settled into his bed as James grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. Sipping slowly, he started channel surfing, searching for a sports update. Instead, he caught a glimpse of Megan’s face. He paused, his gut tightening, the whole world crashing back on him as he stared at the smiling image: blue eyes twinkling, her lips parted, sparkles of sunlight in her light brown hair.

He’d seen that very photo in her apartment.

“. . . if anyone has seen Megan Travers or has information about her whereabouts, please contact the Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department,” a woman’s voice said as a number for the department was posted on the screen beneath Megan’s photo.

James’s heart twisted a little as he looked at the woman who had turned his head; he had once thought he could fall in love with her. In the picture, her hair was straighter than he remembered, her freckles hidden by makeup, her eyes as pale as ever.