Page 93 of Sweet Nightmare

I’ve dealt with worse.

With a sigh, I drop my overnight bag onto the dark stone table beside me. My laptop and lyric notebook are inside. Everything I actually need for the next few days.

I catch my reflection in the massive, backlit circular mirror above the table and finally see myself the way she probably does. Like a man who gives precisely zero fucks about his appearance.

Which, to be fair, isn’t far from the truth.

My hood is still pulled over my head, where it's been since I stepped out into the snow. It casts a shadow across my face, but it does nothing to hide the exhaustion or the dark circles beneath my eyes. Only I know that these damn circles were more than exhaustion. They were evidence of the nightmares that had been keeping me awake every time I closed my eyes. Every time I closed them, I saw her. Fuck… when will it end?

I grimace at my reflection.

I really do look like shit.

A throat clears behind me and the interruption makes me turn.

Right.

I’m not alone.

My gaze finds the little intruder still staring at me like she’s considering the most efficient way to murder me.

Feisty little thing.

She hasn’t said a damn word, and she’s already giving me hell.

Great.

I push back my hood, letting my damp hair fall across my forehead as I step closer.

For a split second, something cracks in her icy expression.

Surprise, maybe.

Then it’s gone.

I turn my attention to the mountain of white suitcases between us.

Seven.

No.

Thirteen.

Thirteen fucking suitcases.

Jesus Christ.

What the hell does a woman even need that much shit for?

The gorgeous intruder is clearly high-maintenance.

So you think she’s gorgeous…The voice in the back of my head sounds far too entertained for my liking.

I shut that shit down immediately.

She’s not gorgeous.

She’s...