Page 11 of Dreamscape Therapies

I drop my chin to my chest and let out a long, tired groan. “I just want to sleep.”

“Jay’s expression changes, all humor disappearing. “I know. We’ll get you there,” he soothes, his voice gentle and reassuring. Something about the certainty in his tone makes me believe him. Like he isn’t just telling me what I want to hear. Like he’s going to make it happen.

Then, apparently deciding the moment has become far too serious, he claps his hands together and does a tiny celebratory wiggle with his hips. “I can’t wait to get started!”

How is this tiny, sweater-vest-wearing, hip-wiggling man supposed to help me? It’ll be interesting for sure, working with someone I’m extremely attracted to and also happens to be more than ten years younger than me.

Someone who can walk through my nightmares like a stroll through the park.

Someone who looks at me like I’m worth saving.

Someone who makes my instincts scream mine every time he touches me.

Yup.

No way this can possibly go wrong.

Not. At. All.

Chapter Five

I'm bundled in entirely too many layers, standing at the top of a snowy mountain while icy wind slaps my face hard enough to make my eyes water.

The sky is painfully blue. Pine trees stretch forever below me.

Somewhere behind me, someone laughs as they drop a ski pole and immediately tumble face-first into the snow. I don't turn around. Something tells me I don't want to see who it is.

Someone hands me skis.

I look down.

What the fuck?

They're soft. Not padded. Knitted.

Thick cable-knit skis wrapped around my boots like winter scarves, yarn tassels fluttering from the ends.

"That can't be right," I mutter.

"Nah, they're alpaca wool," the faceless ski instructor replies. "Better traction."

Well, he's the professional, so he must be right. I push off the mountain.

At first, everything goes surprisingly well. The knitted skis glide over snow with a weird whispering sound, leaving behind neat little rows of stitches instead of tracks. Other skiers zip past wearing matching scarf helmets and mitten goggles. One guy flies by on what looks like a giant crocheted blanket.

Of course. Of course this is happening.

The further down the mountain I go, the stranger things become.

The snow changes texture. Less powder, more yarn.

Tiny threads appear across the slope like veins. White becomes cream, cream becomes pale blue, and then the entire mountain looks less like snow and more like the world's largest craft basket.

My skis snag on something.

A loose string?

Fuck.