Page 48 of Dreamscape Therapies

I'm standing in the middle of this chaos in a scratchy pink flamingo costume, watching a yarn-and-feather tornado destroy my bar, and all I can think is: "I'm going to have to pay the cleaning crew extra for this."

A strand of yarn wraps around my ankle. Then my wrist. The flamingo costume is coming apart, threads unspooling everywhere, and I'm tangled in the mess of it all.

A goose lands on my head.

Then everything dissolves into chaos and color and the overwhelming smell of wet dog and strawberries.

Chapter Eighteen

Jay

Something is off with Vincent today.

He arrived on time, like he always does, complimented Jared and Malek on the progress they've made with the house, made some sarcastic comment about how the place is finally starting to look less like a haunted bed-and-breakfast, then he sat down on my couch.

And promptly stopped looking at me.

I've tried catching his eye several times. I've angled myself into his line of sight. I've asked him direct questions that would normally make him look up just so I can get a read on his expression, but he just keeps staring at his hands.

It’s weird. Vincent doesn't usually avoid eye contact. Even when he's exhausted. Even when he's waking up from a nightmare. Even when he's uncomfortable, embarrassed, or pissed off, he looks directly at me.

He's always so confident and direct, sometimes painfully so; the kind of man who walks into a room and somehow makes everyone else aware that he's there.

Now he's sitting on my couch like he's waiting to be interrogated. His shoulders are slightly hunched. His fingers keep interlacing and separating. There's a muscle jumping in his jaw that tells me he's clenching his teeth.

Something happened.

And because apparently I can't just be a normal person and wait for him to tell me, my brain immediately starts running through every possible scenario.

Did someone find out we had drinks together and file some kind of ethics complaint? No, I would be the first person to find out about that.

Did the Weaver come back? No, he would’ve said something.

Did I accidentally say something last week that pissed him off?

My own anxiety continues climbing in response to his, which is incredibly unhelpful.

I'm the therapist here. I'm supposed to be the calm one.

I take a slow breath and force myself to sit back. Whatever is wrong, he'll tell me when he's ready.

Finally, Vincent clears his throat.

"Before we start today, I need to tell you something." His voice is cautious.

I lean forward slightly, keeping my expression as neutral as possible. "Okay. What's going on?"

"I think we're fated mates,” he says, making eye contact for the first time today.

My brain crashes. Just completely shuts down. For several seconds, all I can do is stare at him in shock, unable to think of anything to say.

Fated mates.

Me.

And Vincent.

Surely I heard him wrong. "I'm sorry?"