Page 13 of Prime Time Romance

I get to my feet, taking in my surroundings. I’m on a small wooden deck flanked by deep-green patches of beach grass, facing a shore. There’s an ocean that definitely isn’t from a meditation app. My bed isn’t a bed at all, but a cushioned outdoor lounger covered in white fabric dotted with pale-yellow buttercups.

Am I dreaming? Or have I been kidnapped? I check my body for wounds but don’t appear to have any notable injuries.

I’m still wearing the black lululemons I changed into last night. The scrunchie I meant to put my hair up with has left deep red indents halfway up my forearm.

I must still be dreaming. It’s the only logical explanation.

I turn to face the cottage behind me. It’s a small Cape Cod–style beach house with pale-yellow shingles, white trim, and a large sliding glass door that opens to the deck I’m currently standing on.

Next door is an identical cottage with shingle siding in light blue.

A memory stirs, and my heart triple-beats, as if it knows something my brain doesn’t quite yet comprehend.

I step toward the sliding door, pressing my face to the glass to peek inside. The walls of the cozy living room are a soft, buttery yellow. The furniture is all simple rustic wood save for the oversized sage-colored couch, which sits on top of a green-and-blue vintage rug in front of an old stone fireplace filled with white candles.

The living room opens to a kitchen with simple white shiplap walls and cupboards and rustic wood countertops. A glass shelf along the windowsill sports a neat row of pots with basil, rosemary, and mint. It’s chic but inviting, like slipping into a pair of cashmere socks.

I have this desire to go inside, to run my fingers along the mantel and see if it smells like herbs and fresh linen.

I look down at the welcome mat below my feet, which is stamped with the words Shut the front door, and I know with every fiber of my being that there is a key underneath.

Now this is getting weird.

Sure enough, when I lift the corner and blow away a layer of dirt, it’s there.

It slips into the lock easily, and as I push open the door, a thought occurs: What if this isn’t a dream? What if there’s some other explanation I’ve yet to deduce, and I’m breaking and entering right now?

“Hello?” I call out, not entirely convinced that no one will answer.

But the only sound is the crashing of the waves on the shore.

I step inside and instantly feel like I’ve come home. I have this urge to dive onto the couch, pull the fleecy white blanket over me, and wait for a thunderstorm to roll in.

But that nagging thought keeps surfacing. This feels too real to be a dream. I’m too coherent and my elbow is a little too achy from hitting the deck. I reach into my pocket for my phone to google, then remember that I lost my purse at the bar last night. I guess Dream Brynn lost hers too.

Okay.

No Google.

I just need to revert to good old-fashioned thinking. How do you tell if you’re in a dream again?

I start with the obvious and pinch my forearm.

“Jesus H, that stings!”

And the crescent-shaped indents in my skin confirm what the fall to the deck already told me. I can, in fact, feel pain.

A mirror.

I think I once read that when you’re in a dream, you’re not supposed to be able to see your reflection.

There’s a small mirror hanging next to the kitchen door. I look into it and find Regular Brynn staring back at me, a tiny patch of drool crusting the corner of my mouth. My dark curls are wild, as if I spent the night on a lawn chair.

Okay, maybe you can see your reflection in a dream, and I’ve mixed it up with vampires.

I glance again at my tired eyes and, in doing so, notice that beneath the mirror is a row of hooks. There’s a single key ring with a silver key, a car key for a Mini Cooper, and a stamped metal lobster keychain painted bright red.

An alarm bell sounds from deep within the depths of my brain.