Page 51 of Dreamscape Therapies

His eyebrows lift. "Really?"

"Yeah," I chuckle. "It actually explains some things for me, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I don't elaborate because I'm not ready to tell him exactly what I've been feeling. Not yet. There are boundaries to figure out. Questions I need answered. Things I need to understand.

For now, I'm still his therapist even if some very loud part of me is starting to wonder what it would feel like to be something else.

I pick up my notepad, effectively ending the conversation. "Back to work."

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Fiiine."

"How were your dreams last night?"

Vincent hesitates. "Mostly normal."

"Mostly?"

A guilty little smile creeps across his face. "Well..."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at his reddening face.

"I had a dream about you." He grins. "But don't worry, it was completely innocent."

"That somehow makes me more nervous."

His grin gets wider, and he winks flirtatiously at me.

Dear gods, this man is going to be the death of me.

Chapter Nineteen

Jay

The transition into Vincent's dream is smooth. Too smooth, actually, which immediately puts me on edge.

After almost a full week without a single yarn nightmare, I want to believe the weaver is gone. That whoever has been tormenting Vincent for months has finally given up and moved on. Maybe the therapy is working. Maybe Vincent is finally sleeping deeply enough that whatever has been lurking in his subconscious can't get a foothold anymore.

I know better than to get my hopes up.

Entities like this don't simply disappear. They wait.

I materialize behind the polished oak bar at Whistler's, and for a moment, everything seems completely normal. Music drifts lazily through the room, glasses clink together behind the bar, and laughter rises and falls naturally over the conversations happening around me. Servers weave between crowded tables carrying plates piled high with burgers and fries, while the bartenders work efficiently behind the counter. Through the small service window, I can see one of the cooks somehow keeping up with an impossible number of orders on a grill that looks barely large enough to cook three burgers at a time.

The neon beer signs in the windows cast everything in a warm golden glow, and somewhere near the dartboards, someone is loudly complaining about a missed shot.

It looks exactly like Whistler's.

It sounds exactly like Whistler's.

It even smells like Whistler's.

And that's what bothers me.

Dreams are rarely this precise.

Vincent's subconscious has recreated the bar almost perfectly, right down to the scuffed wooden floor and the condensation rings left behind by abandoned glasses. It's perfectly familiar, and I can totally understand why his mind would choose this place. Whistler's isn't just his business. It's his routine, his passion, and probably one of the few places in his life where he knows exactly what to expect.