Chapter 12

DOUBLE DATES AND DREAM STATES

12

My eyes fly open, my heart still pumping from the adrenaline of the dream. And never have I ever been more disappointed to be safe in bed instead of running across cornfields being shot at by criminals.

I sag against the pillow and cover my face with the blankets, aware I'm developing an unhealthy habit of preferring my life when I'm not living it. Unconsciousness has become my happy place.

Going to bed and escaping to Lakeville Hills is the highlight of my day, every day.

I'm also worried I might be falling head over heels in love with a fictional man who doesn't exist. But, gosh, if the dreams don't seem real. If I close my eyes, I can still sense the press of his hard body against mine. The flat of his hand on my stomach. His thumb torturing me in slow motion. And that brush of knuckles underneath my breast.

My skin breaks into goosebumps, and I'm tempted to simply ignore real life and go back to sleep. But then the alarm snoozes and I groan, forcing myself to sit up. I run a hand through my messy curls and rub the drowsiness from my eyes before getting out of bed.

I might want to ignore real life, but reality has a way of catching up. Throughout the day, I struggle. Taking a short time off has been enough for tasks to pile up.

I haven't finished grading homework assignments; I still have those million unanswered emails in my inbox. I need to come up with a lesson plan for tomorrow's lecture. And I have homework for my graduate courses to finish, too.

This means that if I'm lucky and no one shows up for office hours, I could catch up with all that and maybe carve out an hour for my research—not nearly enough to make any significant progress.

I hate how I've let things slide.

Keeping my head in the game is crucial. I can't control my love life or lack thereof outside my dreams. But I'm in charge of how well I do in my academic career, and what results my research will produce.

That's why, despite every fiber of my body protesting against it, on Wednesday night, I don't take my book with me when I go to sleep at midnight—a respectable hour for an overworked grad student. In fact, I hide the paperback under the bed—out of sight, out of mind. I struggle to fall asleep, but when I do, it's to complete darkness.

No dreams. No Killian.

I do the same the following night. I'm wretchedly efficient and utterly unhappy. But my academic future is secured.

In a blink, it's Friday night and time for my double date with Ivy, her boyfriend, George, and his brother, Oliver.

I'd like to say that I have no expectations for the evening, that I'm aware the only worse thing than a blind date is a blind double date where I can't bail halfway through dinner with an excuse in case it sucks.

But Ivy has sent me a picture of Oliver, and he's, well, gorgeous. Dark hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that could light up a room.

A mild Google stalking has brought up no red flags, and even his Insta is cool—artsy but not pretentious, with a dash of humor thrown in.

And so my old enemy has reared its head: hope. Hope that this time will be different. Hope that for once, there might be a spark, some chemistry. Hope that maybe, just maybe, Oliver could be the one. A real man I can have a proper relationship with.

After all my past disappointments, I should know better. But no, I'm still as na?ve as a googly-eyed five-year-old watching Cinderella go to the ball and marry her Prince Charming.

I try to shake off my expectations as I get dressed for the evening. Ivy and I agreed on casual outfits. I settle for a cute floral sweater, jeans, and ankle boots. I don't spend too much time on my makeup. Still, I domesticate my curls into shiny ringlets, which I hope will resist the humidity and train ride downtown.

The restaurant Ivy chose is cozy and warm. When I see her waving from a corner table with a big grin on her face, I relax a little. George and Oliver are already there, each nursing a beer.

Ivy introduces us and we awkwardly shake hands across the table. Oliver's hand feels warm and strong in mine—dry, no sweaty palms for him. In person, he's tall and fit. Broad shoulders, firm handshake but not bone-crushing, smile as bright as in his pictures.

And is that a flutter in my belly? I can't help but beam back at Oliver as he brings my chair backward, politely waiting for me to sit. Handsome and a gentleman.

I catch Ivy's eye across the table, and she winks at me from behind her water glass, hardly suppressing a smug smirk.

Okay, I have to hand it to her. He's easy on the eyes, well-mannered, and confident. No BO that I can detect except maybe something fresh with a hint of spice, pleasing to the senses. Oliver seems like a catch.

Gray eyes flash in my mind. A better catch than me, Sugar Spoon?

I mentally swat Killian away. I'm in a recovery program to forget all about him. And Oliver might just be the perfect distraction I need to move on.

Our eyes meet and I quickly divert my gaze to the menu, feeling a bit flustered.

We settle into conversation over drinks and appetizers. Oliver tells me the basics about himself—studies, job, hobbies—and asks the same of me, actually listening when I reply. I'm impressed.

Talking to him is easy, it comes naturally.

As the night progresses, I laugh at his jokes and share more intimate details about myself than I intended. But he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems genuinely interested.

A server brings our main course and the conversation turns to our favorite books. I'm pleasantly surprised when Oliver reveals that he's an avid reader.

When I go to take a sip of wine, my cheeks hurt slightly and I realize it's because I haven't stopped smiling for a second since I sat down.

The night is going overwhelmingly well. Still, I can't shake the pang of wrongness lodged in my heart.

Those gray eyes invade my mind again. Bet you can't.

Am I seriously so wrung up in my fantasies that I feel like I'm cheating on an imaginary man?

Yep!

I need a minute so I excuse myself to the bathroom.

In the restrooms, I beeline for the sink and let a jet of cool water flow over my wrists, also dabbing the fresh liquid over my neck. Looking in the mirror, I give myself a pep talk, reinforcing the concept that I must live in the real world and forget all about non-existent billionaire cowboys.

Right.

I exit the restroom, having decided to give Oliver my undivided attention for the rest of the evening.

When I come back to the table, the desserts have already arrived. We've taken the chef selection, so there's a handful of bite-sized cakes to try.

I pop a mini slice of carrot pie into my mouth and savor its sweetness on my tongue. Oliver smiles at me from across the table, his charm radiating through those gorgeous eyes, and suddenly all my doubts vanish.

I should give this a real chance.

We get lost in conversation again—and not just on a superficial level, but with genuine curiosity from both sides.

Dinner ends with the two of us laughing at some silly joke he made. I can tell he's had a great time too by the twinkle in his eye when he looks at me.

Outside the restaurant, Oliver offers to drive me home, even though it's half an hour out of his way. I don't protest too hard as I'm not too keen on taking public transportation this late at night.

Ivy winks at me, and her departing salvo is, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

She kisses me goodnight and then she and George are gone, leaving me alone with Oliver.

"I'm this way." He gestures to the parking lot down the road.

Once we get to his car, he opens the door for me and offers me his hand to help me get inside, making me feel like a fairy tale princess being escorted into a carriage by a prince.

The ride north is quieter than dinner. I notice Oliver keeps shooting me sideways glances. Is he as nervous as I am? Is it because he plans to kiss me goodnight?

We soon arrive at my neighborhood in the suburbs. Oliver pulls up in front of my building, killing the engine and turning to me with a new intensity in his green eyes. His hand softly captures mine from its perch resting on the armrest, and he brushes a thumb over my knuckles. His gaze drops to where our hands are connected for what feels like an eternity before meeting mine again when he finally asks, "Is it okay if I kiss you goodnight?"

I nod.

His grip on my hand changes, our fingers interlacing. And while the touch isn't unpleasant, there's no lick of flames. No tingles shooting up my arms. Barely a flutter in my belly as Oliver leans in and presses his lips on mine.

I don't hate the kiss, but there are no fireworks.

Oliver pulls back after a short while, avoiding my eye and keeping his gaze on his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Sorry? What for?"

He looks up at me, dismayed.

I smile at him because, for some inexplicable reason, I feel comfortable around this man I've just met. I'm not afraid to be vulnerable, and I can be honest. "Was the kiss so bad?"

"No!" His eyes widen. "I just didn't…"

"Feel the spark?" I finish for him.

A gentle shake of his head. "I'm sorry for trying."

"Why? How were we going to find out if we never kissed?"

Oliver shifts in his seat. "If I tell you something, can you promise not to tell Ivy or my brother?"

His expression is grave, so I match his seriousness when I say, "Of course."

"I shouldn't have kissed you because I was 99 per cent sure it would not work."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure I'm into women."

My first reaction is surprise, immediately followed by immense empathy.

I reach across the seat and hug him. Oliver keeps stiff at first, then his arms wrap around my torso and he squeezes. I let him decide when to break the hug, and when he does, Oliver is smiling. "That's not the reaction I was expecting. Why the hug?"

I beam back. "I was imagining how I'd cope if my friends and family kept setting me up with women instead of men. Why haven't you told them you're gay?"

"That's the thing. I'm not even sure I'm gay. Maybe I'm just asexual. I never seem to get a spark with anyone."

"You've kissed men, too?"

"Yeah, and still nothing."

"Then you're fine." I swat him playfully. "According to ‘coupled humans' wisdom,' you're either too picky or trying too hard." I grab my chin, pretending to think. "Or you have to work on yourself because the fact that you're still single is a clear sign you have issues."

I keep a straight face for about a second and then we both burst out laughing.

"Imagine having a dollar for every time someone told us that," he says, between chuckles.

"I would at least still be able to afford my Netflix subscription."

He raises a brow at me. "Grad school that bad?"

I beam. "No, but other people's nuptials are turning me destitute."

We laugh again.

When the chortles die down, I turn serious again. "Do you have to have this conversation at the end of every date your family sends you on?"

"No." Oliver grins widely at me. "Usually the dates are so tragic I don't even need to bother."

I beat a fist on my chest. "I feel you, man. Tonight, I was actually surprised you didn't have any weird BO, or that you hadn't casually forgotten your wallet. Thank you again for paying for dinner, by the way, you really didn't need to."

"But I wanted to. You're a wonderful person, Leigh, and I felt this immediate connection to you."

"Yeah, same here, even without a romantic spark."

"The lack of a spark is clearly your fault for not loving yourself enough."

I throw my head back and laugh. "Oliver, can we become best friends, please? I haven't had this much fun in forever."

"I'd love nothing more."

We exchange phone numbers and when I make to exit the car, Oliver precedes me and circles around to get my door.

"Thank you." I curtsey to him. "It's a shame that spark didn't hit us because you'd be a perfect Prince Charming."

"And you an amazing Cinderella."

"Jokes aside, I don't know why you haven't told your family how you really feel?—"

"Because I'm not sure," he interrupts me. "I don't want to tell them I'm gay when I'm not positive that's the case. I still find women attractive. And imagine if I told them I'm just confused, or that I'm bi, and they started setting me up on dates with both men and women. There's only so much blind dating I can take." His eyes spark. "Present people excluded, of course."

"Of course." I hug him again. "But if you need to talk to someone or just vent, I'm here. Anytime."

He squeezes me one last time. "Thank you." And we say goodnight.

As I get back inside of my apartment and shuffle out of my clothes, I'm not sure how I feel. Even without a spark, it was a good night. I had fun, I met an incredible person and felt a little less alone.

But the hole in my chest where the spark should be is gaping.

I see those teasing gray eyes again. I give plenty sparkles, Sugar Spoon.

And tonight, I don't have the strength to resist the pull. Maybe my fairy tale isn't Cinderella. I'm not destined to find a Prince Charming that will save me from all the ugliness of the world. I'm Sleeping Beauty. Some wicked fairy will eventually curse me, and I'll get to sleep a hundred years and spend them blissfully in my dreams with Killian.

Bullets be damned, I want to go back to my love story. And seeing how I sometimes chapter-hop in that world, I'll probably end up in a completely different scene from the kidnapping, anyway.

In my bedroom, I reach under the bed, dust off the poor paperback I left rotting on the floor for days. I trace the faceless cowboy on the cover.

"Why can't you be real?"

I open the book and my eyes bulge when I find more written pages than last time. Now there's a chapter on the bakery, one at the lake, the motel, the line dancing, the barn rescue… all my dreams have magically appeared in black ink over white paper.

I frown. Did I miss all these chapters that first night? Am I just re-dreaming stuff I read while half asleep? But I clearly remember checking the book that first morning, and only the chapter about my showdown with Killian at The Outlaw was there.

Where did all the extra text come from? Did I develop some sort of somnambulism where I get out of bed and type my dreams out? But how would I even print them inside the book?

I grab my phone and search for how to print inside a book. The only viable option would be to create a stencil mockup of the page and then transfer it to the white paper. But I wouldn't even have the supplies to do so in the house.

My next Google search is even more outlandish: a book that writes itself. The only search results are on writing advice for authors. Of course, because books don't write themselves. Except this one.

I go to the end of the text and shoot a picture to check back tomorrow. Just to make sure I'm not going insane and hallucinating new chapters. The last word on the page is Killian telling me to run.