Chapter 2
COOPER
This is the most realistic dream I’ve ever had.
It involves Stephanie, Sam’s best friend.
She’s a fiery brunette with full lips and huge brown eyes that make men weak in the knees.
In the dream, I’m slowly waking up to Stephanie on my shoulder, curled up and fast asleep, her warm hand splayed across my bare chest. Her bow-shaped mouth is curved in a pleasant smile, and she’s making a very contented sound while burrowing even further into me.
My brain is still foggy, in the same way it is in reality when I’m waking up but haven’t had enough sleep—which, to be clear, I haven’t.
The last seventy-two hours consisted of my copilot and me crossing what seemed like an endless number of time zones to arrive at Deke and Sam’s place.
I had planned to get here in a couple of days, but we decided to plow through.
Not wanting to wake the lovebirds up at 2 a.m., I let myself into the vacant side of their duplex, where I usually stay when visiting.
Shoes, shirt, and pants on the floor, I fell into bed and have been sleeping ever since.
I’ve never understood how dreams work. I haven’t seen this woman in months, so why is she slipping into my dreams now? I mean, I’ve dreamt about her before. In fact, every time I’ve spent time with her has been followed by weeks of dream infiltrations. But why now?
Unfortunately, real-Stephanie is nothing like dream-Stephanie.
Dream-Stephanie is energetic, fun, and very flirtatious. Though, this dream is an exception, because right now she’s soft and content and sleeping in my arms. Real-Stephanie would never be caught in this position, since she treats me like I’m an aggressive king cobra.
The first time I met her was on Deke and Samantha’s wedding day eighteen-ish months ago.
It was a memorable encounter, to say the least. I was interested immediately, but, for reasons I’ve never understood, she’s never returned the sentiment.
She hardly looked at me during the festivities, and when I was able to lock onto her gorgeous coffee-colored eyes, she’d quickly look away, as if repulsed.
The evening culminated with her as my judge, jury, and executioner—in the form of a hard slap across my cheek—after she felt like I’d crossed a line. (I hadn’t.)
Everyone else seems to get a Stephanie that’s funny, smart, athletic, and incredibly kind, with a transparent and genuine way about her. That’s the Stephanie I’ve always wanted to get to know.
I had someone tell me once that Stephanie is the kindest person in the world—unless she doesn’t trust or feel safe around you.
Apparently this triggers a defense mechanism, and she acts jittery.
Even cold and prickly at times. Unfortunately, that’s the Stephanie I always get.
In spite of all my efforts, I’ve had absolutely no luck breaking through her walls.
Like ninety-nine percent of the women I meet, she took one look at me and—before we’d even spoken a word—made incorrect assumptions. But unlike most women, Stephanie doesn’t want to give me any attention because of it.
Wow, this dream is getting more and more realistic. My mind begins to clear from the fog—as if I really am waking up—and I open my eyes a little more. I lift my head to look around and notice my shirt and pants on the floor. Right where I dropped them last night.
The realism is unsettling.
Dream-Stephanie stirs in my arms, and her dark eyes crack open a little. Her brow furrows as she slowly sits up, and I’m suddenly cold.
Giving her my best smile, very interested in what she’s going to do, I say, “Hey there, stranger. Long time no see.”
Her sleepy eyes turn slowly my way and take in my chest, which, because she sat up and took the blankets with her, is in full view. Her eyes travel from my chest to my face, where they rest for a moment before flying wide in shock.
That’s when the screaming starts.
She grabs a pillow as she jumps up on the bed and begins to pummel me with it. “GET OUT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY BED? GET OUT!”
As I jump out of bed, I realize for the first time that this might not be a dream—but that would make no sense. Stephanie chooses that moment to jump on my back and continue hitting me with her pillow.
“Stephanie? Wait—” Her fingernails drag across my shoulder, and the sting of it surprises me. This is definitely not a dream. “STOP! Stephanie, what are you doing here?!”
“How did you get in here?” Her voice carries a multitude of emotions in it.
“Stop!”
She’s still trying to do me bodily harm with her pillow, but it’s more of an inconvenience than anything. She’s also still yelling at the top of her lungs.
I easily peel her off my back and throw her on the bed, but she tries to jump back up. I quickly jump on the bed to pin her in place, placing my hands on her shoulders and sitting on her legs.
She’s still shrieking.
“STOP SCREAMING!”
She doesn’t.
We continue yelling at each other, her trying to squirm out from underneath me and me trying to get her to calm down. A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, and we both freeze, our attention snapping to the bedroom door.
Deacon and Sam are standing there, staring at the two of us.
Deacon’s jaw is hanging open, his university T-shirt and basketball shorts askew, and Sam’s fingers are still in her mouth from her (very impressive) whistle.
Her oversized pajama top is on backwards and her pajama bottoms are twisted, but neither can contain her eight-months-pregnant belly from poking out between the two.
She’d obviously thrown her clothes on as quickly as she could and came running—or, in her case, waddling—when the yelling commenced.
With Stephanie finally silent and not trying to pummel me, I back off the bed and stand up. “Hey Deke.” I run a hand through my hair and try to act as if this isn’t the strangest thing that has ever happened to me.