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Because of a dream.
About Declan.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, throwing myself back against my too-hot pillow.
It’s the third time this week alone.
The situations in my dreams change. Sometimes, we’re at the apartment, living out one of the fantasies. I’m pressed against the window, Declan thrusting into me from behind. Or I’m splayed out on the bed, tied and helpless and tortured by his tongue.
Sometimes, they’re new. Declan taking me in an empty office at Dynasty, warning me not to make a sound as he fingers me beneath the hem of my skirt. Me bouncing on his lap on a deserted subway car, the chance of being seen making the scene even more alluring.
But they always end the same way: with me wide awake and unsatisfied, reminded all over again that things are over between us.
It’s ridiculous, and the cold shower I take after each dream is almost a punishment.
Honestly, even worse than the sex dreams are the ones where we don’t have sex. Where we just talk, where he wraps an arm around me easily and possessively. Where I feel like I’m his and he’s mine, something that will clearly never happen.
I can’t believe I’m so hung up on him. That he plagues my sleeping moments as well as the waking ones.
Under the cold spray, I scrub myself too hard and almost ritualistically, wishing I could purge my attraction to a man who doesn’t want me.
He probably already has someone else coming to that secret little apartment, dirtying those same sheets, pressed up against that same glass window.
I don’t know if it’s the cold water or the unwelcome mental visuals, but my chest tightens enough for me to step out and wrap myself up in a towel.
The only way out is through. I need a distraction from this torment. Especially if Declan’s probably not even thinking of me, erasing all memories of me with new women and new bodies.
I’m only half thinking when I fumble for my phone, scrolling through the contacts before finding the one I want.
David is listed in my phone right before Declan. It’s early, but it’s not so early that it’s rude to text, so I tap out a message quickly.
ME: Hey! It’s Sophie. Hope you’re doing well in your new position.
The message flicks from “sent” to “read” almost immediately.
DAVID: Long time, no see—or hear! Good to hear from you. All is well in middle management. How about you? Work treating you well?
There isn’t a great way to honestly answer that, but I try my best.
ME: It’s going okay! Are you free this evening, by chance?
DAVID: Nothing I can’t reschedule or postpone or forget about entirely. Are you free?
I smile, but my stomach is churning. What am I doing? Is it the right thing? I want Andrea and Reagan to be right. That butterflies don’t matter. That maybe, if I give it a chance, there can be something with David. Something that can never be with Declan.
ME: I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d like to go out with you again. A real second date. No rushing off because of work things I’ve forgotten. I promise to have my crap together.
DAVID: I’d love that. I’m so glad you texted. Let me take you out to dinner. I’ve got the perfect place.
We hash out the details surrounding a new sushi restaurant—David has yet another way in because of a friend in the industry—and I toss my phone on my bed with a sigh.
It’s done. I need to jump back on the horse and live my life so that Declan doesn’t consume me whether we’re together or not.
I need to forget about him.
I try to keep that thought in the forefront of my mind as I get dressed and head into work. Things are busy as usual, and the first half of the day goes by in a rush.
“You’re looking a little more chipper,” Andrea says after lunch, elbowing me gently as we wait for Hannah to return to our cubicles with some reports she went to get copied. “Can I be nosy and ask you why?”
