Page 41 of What's in a Kiss?

I look down at my left hand and see a thin gold wedding band.

My knees buckle and I fall backward. Into the pool.

Chapter Eleven

Splash.

I sink like theStar of Scotlandin the deep end of the pool.

Married?

My feet touch the bottom. I bend my knees and push off, shooting toward the surface.

To Glasswell?!?

Whose idea was this?

I break through the surface and gasp for air, my shock tempering the water’s chill.

That photo of us dancing. The soulmate smiles we wore. The ring on my finger. And Glasswell’s... ugh...kindnesstonight. These are clues that tell a convincing story. Usually, I’m the kind of detective who ends up abandoning the mystery, but this one I can’t deny.

I push out of the pool and lurch onto a chaise lounge. I find a plush towel on a side table, drag it over myself, and try to figure out whether the hysterical sound coming out of my mouth is laughter or a keening sob? Whatever it is, it’s causing the canines of the canyon to respond.

How could this happen?

I twist the ring. There’s no green stain on my skin beneath it. It’s real. Why did it take me so long to notice? I do tend toforget to look for wedding rings before chatting up attractive strangers at bars—Masha’s gotten on me for this before—but I really should have noticed the ring on my own damn finger.

Married.

In some surreal sense, this happened. Is happening. It’s not just Glasswell up here living the high life. I seem to be living it, too.

But I am not a plaything of the gods. I am not an art experiment. I am Olivia Dusk.

So how do I get out of this?

I need to wake up. As far from here as possible. Because one explanation is that this is all a dream. An extended, torturous, traumatic dream. A thought edges my mind—something I’m supposed to remember, something I’m supposed to know.

Why We Dreamwas my mother’s inaugural podcast read.

I curse myself for not quite having skimmed it. It was more of a mid-bagel glance. But I did listen to my mom describe it. The book said that every dream manifests the dreamer’s deepest, unspoken desires.

I look at the house where Glasswell lurks inside. Agree to disagree, Michael Walker, PhD.

The French doors open and Glasswell shows his face. “Baby?”

I seize up in the chaise, grabbing more towels and pulling them to my chin.

“You still out here?” he says into the darkness. “Thought I heard a wounded deer.”

The yowl I make now is every bit as feral.

Glasswell’s head angles toward me. His posture grows taut. He crosses the yard at a clip.

“Did you... go swimming?”

“It was an accidental dip.”

“You must be freezing.”