Page 53 of Never the Same

“You were saying?” His question came on the tail end of an exhausted breath as I let go of the shirt.

“I keep having a dream involving you. I thought the dream started Friday after we met in my mother’s bedroom. Even questioned if it was a memory, not a dream, which is why I asked you if there was something between us.”

I’d expected his body to relax at this news, but I was pretty sure he tensed up even more than I thought possible. His muscular arms were tighter than tight, a vein visible down his forearm.

“The dream always starts with us naked in bed after we’ve had sex, never during.” Talk about awkward, and now the hardwood had my attention so I could get through this. “Then our three children yell out for food, and we all sit together and eat breakfast, the five of us.” Heat built up in my cheeks. “But Friday wasn’t the first time I had that dream.”

I slowly looked up at him, finding his lips parted and eyes narrowed.

“The coffin. I just remembered . . . I woke up in there to that dream before realizing where I was, switching to escape, panic mode.” My heart wouldn’t stop working double time, making my speech a little breathy. “How is that possible? That was also before I hit you on the street.” There was more, too. More that made no sense. But I wanted to give him time to process this first.

“I don’t understand,” he said in a rough voice, drawing his palm to his stubbled cheek, eyes on the floor.

“Reed?” It took all my energy not to call him Jason. “We were in this bed. Not just any bed, but this one. Same covers. Same nightstand.” I closed the gap between us and held his wrist. “Come with me.” I gently tugged, then let him go and quietly left his room, assuming he’d follow.

I turned on the lights in the hall so I wouldn’t stumble and made my way to the kitchen and flicked on the switch.

“We ate breakfast with our kids at that table.” I glanced back to find him standing behind me, staring at me, not his table. “It’s just missing the fifth chair.” My voice broke as I went over, the echoes of their adorable laughter surrounding me. “Why am I dreaming about being married to you? Having three kids together? Why does it feel like a memory and not a figment of my imagination?”

He came up behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders, and I peeked at him. His eyes were fixed on the table, like he could see our kids there.

“Tell me how I’d know this table and your bed. Know you. But not myself.” I turned toward him, forcing him to let go of me.

His deep inhalation had his chest brushing against my body. He exhaled through his nose, staring at me. “I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes, my skin pebbling from chills. “Maybe I saw a similar scene in a movie, but that doesn’t explain why—”

“Why you remember me and my home,” he cut in. “And you’re sure it was me in your dream in the coffin? You’re not mixing me up with an actor? This house, too—it’s a dime a dozen in design.”

“Sure, I guess that could be true,” I hesitantly agreed, opening my eyes. “Maybe?” I wanted to cling to the hope that I was remembering something, though. “I, uh, know we’ve never had sex and we’re not married.” I half smiled, embarrassment kicking the surprise to the side now. “No kids, either. It just feels so real, but maybe you’re right. I mean, you have to be.” I turned and held on to the back of one of the chairs. “I’m probably confusing things. Making things up. I—I don’t know.”

“I’m not dismissing your dream or what you think you remember. It’s just a lot to process. You’ve been through quite a bit, so I don’t want to . . .”

I turned again, nearly bumping into him at the fact he’d abandoned his words.

He cupped his chin, eyes shooting to the floor. “That op in February . . . we were undercover as a couple. We even checked into a hotel room together. It was all an act, and nothing happened between us.”

“So maybe I am remembering things, just mixing stuff up?”

He slowly met my eyes. “Possibly.”

Of all the people, though, why was my brain circling back to him? Still, it gave me an ounce of hope.

“Your memories will come back.” He held out his palm, and it took me a second to realize what he was doing. I rested my hand on top of his, and a warmth filled my chest the moment contact was made.

A sense of peace took over and settled my nerves.

“Thank you,” I whispered a few seconds later, letting my hand fall to my side.

“Least I can do after being such a prick at dinner.”

“You were hardly that bad. I’m just sensitive right now.”

“Not used to you being any type of sen—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I’m going to stay up. Make some coffee.” He backed away from me, clearly deciding it was time to abandon the conversation. “You want any?”

I checked the time on the microwave. Five o’clock. “Sure. How do I take it?”

“Black. You don’t like it sweet.”