Chapter Eight Daphne （In Mason’s Body）
O h my God, I’m exhausted, and my muscles are unusually sore.
Jesus . I feel like I got hit by a train in my sleep.
I usually have a decently hard time waking up, snoozing my alarms and procrastinating until the very last second. But this morning is harder than most.
Rolling over in bed, I force my eyes open, a small task that feels heavy and impossible as I search for my phone.
What the hell?
I blink the sleepiness out of my eyes, wondering if I’m still dreaming.
Rubbing my eyes, I open them again and stare at my nightstand. Oh my God, I think I’m hallucinating. Or I somehow teleported somewhere in the middle of the night. Because that dark-stained wooden dresser I’m staring at is not mine.
What happened last night? Did I end up in someone else’s bed somehow? Did someone drug me? Why the hell don’t I remember anything else?
The last thing I remember is falling asleep on the couch, next to Maeve, watching a movie. And then? That’s it. I should’ve woken up on the couch.
Nervously, I stretch my arm behind me, hesitantly patting the comforter to feel for someone else in the bed. But I exhale at the relief that it’s only me here.
Sitting up slowly, I take in the room, one that I have never been in.
Lackluster decorations and a navy-blue bed set. A desk cluttered with cologne, lotion, textbooks, and water bottles. It’s definitely a guy’s room.
Something in the corner catches my eye, and I turn, spotting two hockey sticks leaning against the wall, next to the wooden dresser and an overflowing basket of laundry.
I’m in a hockey player’s room—that’s for sure. Probably one of the Mammoths players if I had to guess. But who? I don’t remember anything, and it’s starting to freak me out.
My eyes eagerly explore the room as I listen intently for any sound around me. But the room and house don’t make so much as a creaking noise.
From the clothes hanging in the closet and the dirty ones in the laundry basket, I can at least tell that whoever’s room this is, he is roughly organized. Aside from the messy desk.
Nothing explains how the hell I got here though.
A vibration on the nightstand grabs my attention, and I look down at it to see a phone, face down. Knowing this will probably hold the most clues possible, I reach for it, pausing for a split second, contemplating if this is wrong or not.
But it can’t be more wrong than waking up in some random guy’s bed and not knowing how I got here.
So, screw it.
Flipping it over, I tap the screen, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Oh God, no.
Brock? Okay. Ross? Cute. Chet? Fine. But none of them own this phone. Why do I know that? Because a family photo of my best friend, her brother, and parents are centered on the screen.
There is nothing that he could’ve said last night to get me to go home with him. And if he drugged me to get me here, I’m going to fucking kill him.
Deciding that I’m done waiting for answers to come to me, I throw the comforter off of my legs and slide off of the tall bed, preparing to catch myself on the short fall down.
But my foot catches on something hard, and I tumble forward. Crashing to the carpet, I stop myself with my hands, my head whipping forward. I close my eyes to avoid my hair getting in them, but nothing happens.
I slowly open my eyes, one by one, and my stomach drops at the image of my hands and forearms.
My mind starts spinning. A thousand insane thoughts fight for the spotlight, none of them making any more sense than the last.
But how can they when the arms stretched out in front of me … aren’t mine ?
Pushing myself to my feet, I realize I have a whole new problem because my head is nearly touching the ceiling—a much different point of view than I’m used to. And, oh God, I’m only wearing boxers.
My hands fly to my chest to cover my bare breasts, but my boobs are missing, replaced by firm pecs.
I’m having a stroke, or a mental break, or both.
Taking a quick breath, I exhale it slowly to try to calm my racing heart, giving myself strength for what I’m about to do.
Tilting my head down, I glance at my feet, barefoot and big. Not my feet . My gaze travels up my muscular legs, blond hair wrapped around them. Not my legs .
Stepping forward, I tighten my hold on my firm chest, trying to find any ounce of comfort as I tiptoe toward the mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door. With my gaze on the ground, I stop a few feet away from the life-changing mirror, shaking my— not my —hands out, hoping to ease my nerves.
You got this. You got this. You got this.
Expelling a heavy, even breath, I trail my eyes up the bottom of the door, over the lip of the mirror.
And then the world slips out from beneath my feet.
My eyes lock on the hazel ones of the man in the room looking right at me. But … but … the man is mimicking my movements and facial expressions.
The same long and toned legs that I remember ogling over, ripped torso, big arms, and an even bigger than I remember God. His shorts twitch at the same time a pulsing warmth shoots through my core. Nope. We’re ignoring that for as long as possible.
Lifting my hand up in front of my face, I wave it side to side, watching the reflection in the mirror that shouldn’t be there. That’s not my hand. That’s not my goddamn hand!
This can’t be real. This has to be a dream. It has to be.
I smack myself as hard as I can on the forehead. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Nothing changes, and deep down, I know that I’m awake and that whatever the heck is going on is very, very real and very, very wrong.
Because there’s no way, right? It can’t be.
Am …
Am I in Mason Holt’s body?
Oh my God. I’m going to puke, pass out, spontaneously combust, or all of the three combined in some crazy phenomenon.
“What the—” I gasp at the sound leaving my chest, deep and rough, taking this to an entirely new terrifying level. A deep, gravelly scream tears through me. “Ahhhh!”
Hearing the sound of my … his … voice makes me jump back and clutch my invisible pearls as I continue to scream through my overwhelming emotions.
I rush forward toward the mirror, taking each side in my hands and looking as close to it as I possibly can. I feel like I’m going to explode, burst from the inside out.
No. No. No. This cannot be real!
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Someone pounds hard on the other side of the bedroom door, and I nearly jump out of my own skin.
“Mason! Are you good? Why the hell are you yelling?”
For some reason, hearing someone’s very real voice makes gravity push harder down on me, reality crush me into the hardwood floor.
“Mason. Open up!”
It takes me a moment, but I recognize Ross’s voice.
He doesn’t waste another second, grabbing the doorknob and twisting, and he throws the door open, ramming it straight into me.
“Jesus!” I grunt, hearing it come out all deep.
Ross looks at me with pinched brows and annoyance. “Were you just choosing to ignore me or what? I need my keys from last night.”
He’s talking to me.
To me.
Daphne.
Mason.
Daphne?
Mason?
“What is going on?” I murmur.
He leans against the doorframe, looking up slightly at me. I can’t help but giggle at the newfound height difference. He doesn’t look nearly as handsomely intimidating from this angle.
Ross shakes his head and juts his hands forward. “Dude, I need my keys. I’m going to be late. Where are they?”
“How would I know?” I ask defensively, crossing my arms over my chest.
He smacks my forehead with his hand. “You took my keys after I got hammered so I wouldn’t be tempted to drive.” He hesitates, studying me suspiciously. “Wait, did you drink last night?” His eyes light up. “No way! And I missed it? Did you black out or what?”
My mouth opens and closes for what feels like a thousand times as I wonder what to do or say. But agreeing with him seems like the easiest path.
“Y-yeah. Got soooo wasted. Almost started drunk-calling people …” I trail off, needing to shut the hell up.
He bursts out laughing. “Proud of you, man. But come on.” He pauses, his eyes landing behind me, and my heart starts to race when I think there might be some magical clue that’ll tell him I’m not really Mason. “Ugh. There they are.”
He pushes past me and beelines it for the nightstand, grabbing a set of keys from the top. “Thanks. Are you still going for a run later?”
A run?
“Um … I don’t know yet. Not feeling great this morning.” I rub the back of my neck.
A smirk lifts his lips, and he clicks his tongue. “Yeah, I bet you don’t. Take a day off for once, Mase. You never do.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” I agree with him, needing an out for whatever Mason actually had planned for today.
“I’ll catch you later.”
He disappears down the hallway, and I take a second to gather myself and my racing thoughts.
I have so many questions fluttering through my mind and I have no idea where to begin.
But there’s one that keeps rising to the top.
Is Mason in my body? Is this a weird thing happening between the two of us, or are there multiple people that I have to track down to sort this out?
One quick way to find out.
I need to go home.
Quickly slipping joggers over these shorts, I throw a sweatshirt and socks on and step into tennis shoes. I grab his phone and what I assume are his keys and head out of the door.
Something smacks the top of my head, knocking me backward, and I wince in pain as I rub the ache with my hand.
“What the hell?” I groan and look up at what hit me.
Oh my God, it’s the doorframe.
Ugh, this body is going to take a lot to get used to.
I just need to find Mason and figure out how the heck we are going to reverse this.
Ducking just under the frame, I successfully exit his room and head downstairs, taking them one at a time with my hands on the railing to my right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Easy now.
It’s like my legs are a thousand times longer, and it’s throwing my depth perception all the way off.