Chapter 15 Are We Dead?
Claire
Grasping the edge of the sink, I stare into an ornate, rose gold-framed mirror, assessing every little thing about myself and looking for anything that might be different or any clue to what’s going on.
My long black hair is still wavy from the curls I wore to the game last night. My lace bralette and thong are what I fell asleep wearing. The dainty silver chain and initial charm are still around my neck. Mascara is smudged under my eyes from where I didn’t wash my makeup off before going to bed.
Everything’s the same, except it’s not.
I’m in a room I’ve never been in before, wearing a diamond on my left hand, and according to the photo on the bedside table, I’m Everett Nuttall’s wife.
This is a dream. This has to be a dream.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I try to calm my racing heart rate. There is no need to panic. I just need to wake up.
Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face, but when I open my eyes, I’m still standing in the bathroom.
Pumping some facewash into my hand, I cover my face with the gentle suds. Splashing more cold water on my cheeks, I wash away the night before, fully expecting to open my eyes and be safely in my bed in New York, but nothing changes.
I’m still here—wherever here might be.
Grabbing for a towel, I wipe away the water and turn around, leaning against the counter top.
The date on my phone reads December eighteenth, which is correct because yesterday was December seventeenth. Swiping up, I tap on my sister’s name. It goes straight to her voicemail. I try texting her, but it doesn’t deliver. Trying my parents, my heart sinks when the same thing happens.
Pulling up the map on the phone, I attempt to find my location, but the map won’t load.
Fuck…what is going on?
Flipping around, I stare at my reflection, slapping my cheeks until they both turn red. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” I yell at myself, but it’s no use.
No matter what I try, I’m still standing in this bathroom, half-naked, and Everett Nuttall—my husband—is on the other side of the door. Or at least I think he is. How long have I been in here? Twenty minutes? An hour? For all I know he’s left me here to fend for myself alone.
A small knock startles me. “Claire, you okay in there?” Everett asks from outside the bathroom. Concern laces his voice.
Okay, so he’s still here. That’s good. I think.
Running my hands down my face, I try to collect myself. Don’t panic. Worst case scenario, we’re both dead and this is some sort of Hell. Best case, this is a dream and we’ll wake up any minute and laugh about it.
Shit, are we dead? Is this some sort of pink Hell?
“Claire, um, maybe we should talk and try to figure this out.”
I swing the door open and take in the man before me.
He’s leaning on the door frame. His dark hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it more than a few times.
He’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs that outline his cock.
My eyes dip to his bulge and his leg tattoo, and I bite my lip.
“I’m up here.” He chuckles, his lips tipping upward on one side.
Focus. Now is not the time. Where was I? Right. What’s going on? Is this a dream or…
“Do you think we’re dead?” I blurt out. My eyes finding his.
“I hope not,” he says, shrugging.
A small smile ghosts my lips as I breathe out a laugh. Moving past him, I walk back into the bedroom and scan for any more clues, but it just looks like a regular bedroom.
A large king-size bed, with a snow-white velvet tufted headboard, sits in the middle of the room covered with plush white and pink bedding.
It’s framed by two large mirrored bedside tables.
Each is adorned with a crystal lamp and a rose gold-framed photo of me and Everett—memories that don’t exist because, despite the rings on our hands, we aren’t really married. None of this is real. It can’t be.
“We should get dressed,” I say, turning to find him leaned up against the door frame, watching me. “It’s freezing.”
“Really? I was thinking we could just stay in our underwear all day and take advantage of being here alone. Think about it,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows and pushing off the wall.
“No one knows we’re here, which means we don’t have any responsibilities for the first time in a long time.
We could repeat last night as many times as we wanted and never be interrupted.
” The side of his mouth tips into a sexy grin.
“How do you know no one knows we’re here?”
“I can’t get a hold of anyone back in New York, and according to my phone, my location can’t be found. You?”
“Yeah, it goes straight to voicemail and none of the texts will deliver. My map won’t even load.”
“See, so we could just hold up in bed until everything goes back to normal.”
Fucking men. I shake my head and pinch my brow together.
“No, we have to figure out what’s going on. This isn’t some vacation from our lives. We went to sleep in New York last night and woke up, married, in a place neither of us has ever seen before. We can’t just pretend like nothing weird is happening.”
“What if it was the sex. Maybe if we try doing it again, it’ll transport us back to New York.”
“Glad to see you are as unbearable as before,” I deadpan.
Walking past him into the large closet off the bedroom, I’m met with women’s clothes that aren’t mine.
Gosh, this version of me owns a lot of ballet pink.
“I think this goes without saying, but I don’t think it was the sex,” I say, grabbing a chunky, knitted sweater from a shelf and pulling it over my head.
“You don’t know that,” he yells from somewhere else in the house.
“Yes, I do,” I shout back.
Quickly locating a pair of jeans, I tug them on and then slide my feet into a pair of fleece-lined boots.
I walk out to find Everett also fully clothed.
“I don’t know—we were always pretty magical together.” His mouth curls into a one-sided grin.
This. This is why we didn’t work before. How could I forget how incredibly cocky he was and apparently still is.
My eyes rake down his body, taking him in.
He’s wearing a taupe turtleneck sweater and black jeans.
The sweater is practically painted on him, highlighting every cut line on his sculpted body, and if we weren’t in the middle of a total crisis and he wasn’t being one hundred kinds of annoying, I’d peel it off of him.
Forcibly closing my mouth, I do my best to divert my gaze away from him.
“You don’t like my outfit?”
“No…um…no…it’s,” I stammer.
“Words, Sugar.” He smirks.
“I just didn’t peg you as a turtleneck guy, that’s all.” Blush creeps up my neck and covers my cheeks. I hate how attracted I am to him, but I also kind of love it.
“Sure.” He chuckles. “It was either a turtleneck or a Christmas sweater. I thought this was the better option.”
Given how it looks like it’s painted on his perfect body, I’d say it was definitely the better option. No doubt about it.
Fuck, I need to focus.
I move towards where I left the wedding photo, running my hand over the fur throw draped over the edge of the bed.
“Everything feels so real, but I know we aren’t married,” I say, picking up the frame.
The dress I’m wearing is stunning—pink, but stunning.
The blush corset bodice fits me like a glove.
Matching tulle straps are layered over it, creating a deep V.
My champagne colored heels peek out from beneath the full skirt.
Everett is in a classic black tuxedo. A bouquet of pink roses, anemones, and greenery hangs in my hand as he dips me into a kiss.
“I mean, look how in love we seem. How do you explain us being here and having no recollection of our marriage or our life together?” I turn to face him.
“I’m as lost as you are,” he says. “Maybe if we think through the night, then we can get some answers. What do you remember?”
I attempt to replay my evening. I was at the hockey game with my sister. I broke things off with Raph, then ran into Everett at the bar. He asked me if I wanted to get out of there, and I did. We went back to my apartment in New York and hooked up. He stayed over because the power was out.
“The power went out. That’s why you stayed over.”
“Yeah. The snow and those northern lights were insane. So pink they didn’t seem real.”
Pink. Everything is fucking pink.
Oh.
My.
God.
“Stella!” The photo falls from my hands and onto the mattress in front of me.
“Who?”
“I knew there was something weird about her, and then I saw her at the arena,” I explain, my words rushed, and I begin to pace around the room. “Well, not her, but a version of her. And then there was that woman in the bathroom. She had pink hair too, and now everything in this place is pink.”
I pull at my sweater. “Pink.”
I grab a pillow off the bed. “Pink”
I point to my wedding dress. “Pink”
I gesture to the rug on the floor. “Pink…it’s all pink!”
“Slow down. I don’t understand,” he says, walking into my path. He firmly grabs both my arms, squeezing gently. The tension building between my shoulder blades eases, my pulse slows, and my breathing evens out.
Inhaling deeply, I try again.
“Stella is a witch—I think—and she’s cursed us, and now we’re stuck in some place that doesn’t exist, married to each other.”
“A witch?” One of his eyebrows lifts and his hands fall to his sides.
“Yes.”
“Not possible.” He shakes his head.
“Some might say waking up in a house that’s not yours, married to a person you hooked up with the night before, is impossible, but here we fucking are, Everett.” I gesture my arms out to the side. “Did you have any weird run-ins with any pink haired women last night?”
He studies me for a minute, sliding his hands into his pocket. I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and I do my best to think of any other explanation for our peculiar situation, but the only thing that makes sense—and I’m using the term makes sense very loosely here—is Stella.