Page 31 of Dreamscape Therapies

Look at me being all responsible and sober like a real adult.

I grab my trashy romance novel about a hockey player falling for his PR manager and head toward the bedroom. Halfway there, I decide I need a shower because I smell like bar grease and poor life choices.

Twenty minutes later, I'm clean, wearing my comfiest sweats, and sprawled across my freshly made bed. The laundry rumbles softly in the background, and my apartment is cleaner than it's been in months.

The dishes are still dirty, but that's Tomorrow Vincent's problem.

Tonight Vincent has done enough.

I flip through my book until I find the dog-eared page. The sex-crazed hockey player has just been introduced to his entirely-too-serious PR manager, who clearly wants to either murder him or fuck him.

Ah, romance.

I make it through maybe three paragraphs before my eyes start drifting shut. The book slips from my fingers and lands on my chest. For a brief moment, I remember Jay leaning through the car door, his smile wide and genuine.

I smile into the darkness like an idiot.

Then I'm out.

Morning sunlight filters through the front windows of Whistler's while the cleaning crew finishes up. Chairs are still upside down on most of the tables. The floors gleam wetly beneath the overhead lights, and the smell of industrial lemon cleaner hangs in the air like a chemical cloud.

I unlock my office and settle behind my desk with a coffee the size of a small trash bin and a stack of inventory lists.

The glamorous life of a business owner.

Everyone thinks owning a bar means drinking and socializing. In reality, its counting bottles, checking invoices, arguing with suppliers, and explaining to delivery drivers that yes, I specifically ordered that brand of glassware and no, I don't want the cheaper version they brought instead.

I sip my coffee and stare at the liquor inventory.

I have counted the same bottle of bourbon three times but I still can't remember the number.

Why?

Because I slept last night.

No giant monsters.

No yarn cities.

No grocery-store nightmares.

Just sweet, beautiful, normal dream sleep. I was so excited when I woke up that I almost called Jay before realizing how pathetic that would sound.

Hey, guess what? I slept! Like a normal person! Isn't that amazing?

Yeahhh.

No.

Three hours later, I'm crouched in the walk-in cooler counting cases of beer and mumbling numbers under my breath.

"Talking to yourself again, boss?"

I startle so hard I drop the clipboard and bang my head against a shelf.

"Fuck!"

Mia, one of my bartenders, laughs from the doorway. She has been working at Whistler's long enough to know exactly how far she can push me before I threaten to fire her and exactly how little I mean it when I threaten her.