Page 55 of In Somnis

CHAPTER TEN

Ridge

Natasha Bedingfield is yelling inspiration into my ear at full volume as light floods in, way too much of it. I blink, squint, try again, and finally register that I’m standing in a bright kitchen. White tiles, big old farmhouse windows, flour dust suspended in the air, and in the middle of it all is her.

Blondie.

She’s at one of those huge wooden islands, elbows tucked in, hands sunk into a mountain of dough. The song pours out of nowhere, but she’s humming along, half under her breath, a small smile tugging at her mouth. A surprisingly beautiful smile, actually, and I like it a hell of a lot better than her sobs.

Her hair is twisted up messily, strands falling down her neck, and there’s a streak of flour on her cheek. My fingers itch to brush over it as my gaze drops to her working hands. They’re nothing like the long, spider-thin fingers I give my nightmare creatures. No bony joints or claws, these are short, capable hands, soft at the knuckles, with little dimples where her fingers meet her palm.

Dough clings to her fingers, and her nails are short and neat, painted yellow as bright as the room. Tiny citrus slices grin up from a couple of them, and for one insane second, I wonder what they’d look like tangled with mine.

Then something small and soft bounces off the side of my head.

“Hey,” I snap, flinching away.

A muffin drifts past my shoulder. It rotates lazily midair, then floats up to join the choir?

Because there is, apparently, a choir.

Dozens of muffins float in the air. Every single one of them has a little smiley face iced on it, and they’re the ones belting the song, harmonizing Natasha-fucking-Bedingfield’s “Unwritten.”

I take three slow steps back, trying to get my bearings, watching another muffin drift by, giggling at me.

“What the actual fuck?”

Blondie doesn’t seem to notice the baked goods choir or the fact that one of them assaulted me. She keeps kneading, her pretty fingers working harder, while she’s now singing along with the muffins, slightly off-key.

I drag my gaze away from her hands and finally look down at my own.

Three fingers.

“This is a dream.” I breathe out…

… light loses its haze. The music stops sounding like it’s filtered through cotton, hitting my ears even louder. And the scent—Christ, the scent—lemon, sugar, and warm dough rushes in. The air itself seems to thrum, everything snapping into focus with that familiar jolt of lucidity hitting my bloodstream.

I’m dreaming.

And I slipped into her dream, again?

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with her? I know a fucking lot is wrong with me, but this shit never happened before she came around.

The muffins keep belting the chorus, and Blondie keeps kneading.

Ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Her hands are ridiculous. There’s nothing sexy about dough-covered fingers and citrus-slice nails, and the fact that my brain even flirted with the idea makes me want to throw myself into a wood chipper.

Another muffin clips me at the shoulder, and when I turn, a second one grazes my jaw and bursts into crumbs against me, scattering lemon-scented shrapnel down my shirt.

Ouch.

“Oh, come on,” I hiss, brushing at myself. “This is harassment.”

I snatch the next one, which is clearly aiming for my head, straight out of the air.

It’s warm, and I know exactly what kind of muffin this is. Lemon blueberry. The same ones Derek brought over from her. The same ones she made for me… or okay, us, whatever. The ones he wouldn’t shut up about, and Melanie kept insisting I try. The ones I didn’t touch out of pure spite because I was in a mood and didn’t want to encourage anyone’s enthusiasm.

But I can imagine how they’d taste because the scent of them has been haunting my apartment for hours, making it difficult to fall asleep.