“I had my first psychic dream when I was nine. Psychic implied power, and powerful wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. I couldn’t foretell the future or conjure visions at will, but I couldn’t think of a more fitting word to describe what I sometimes saw in my dreams.”
For 23-year-old Mackenzie Hill, tossing her life down the garbage disposal is easy after a painful incident shatters her life. Her heart is bleeding, and moving to Watcher’s Point is a chance to start anew, only she isn’t prepared for the guy who walks out of her dreams and into the flesh.
Literally . . . because she’s been dreaming about this sexy stranger for years. Mackenzie is even less prepared to face the dark nature of her dreams. They’ve turned disturbingly gruesome, full of blood and murder, and when they begin to coincide with the media’s headlines, she and Aidan realize her visions might be the key to stopping a madman from killing again.
Only Aidan has painful secrets of his own, and perhaps the biggest danger of all is falling for him.
Something inside me cracked right along with Aidan’s expression. Everything he’d been hiding spilled from his eyes.
“Aidan . . .”
“I need a drink.” He strode away, leaving me glued to the spot where he’d trapped me. A crash resounded from the kitchen, followed by splintering glass. I willed my feet to move, ignoring the little voice of reason pointing out that maybe I should leave him be for now.
He was sweeping broken glass into a dustpan when I walked in. “Are you okay?” Instantly, I wished I could cast a net and pull back the stupid, inconsiderate question. Of course he wasn’t okay. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not . . . okay.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant.” He emptied the dustpan into the trashcan and then opened a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, all the while refusing to meet my eyes.
“Mind sharing?” I asked. If there was ever a time for drinking, it was now.
“I thought you were beyond corruptible.”
I recalled how he’d said something similar on Halloween. “You remember more about that night than you let on, don’t you?”
He pulled two tumblers from a dark cherry wood cabinet. “I remember you.” Amber liquid sloshed into both glasses as he poured, and moment later he closed the distance between us.
“Straight up?” The question sounded like a challenge.
“Sure.” I gulped down the whiskey and ignored the burn as it slid down my throat. Heat ignited low in my belly, though whether from the alcohol or Aidan’s scrutiny, I wasn’t sure.
He leaned against the kitchen sink and finished off his own drink before pouring another. “I’m sorry I blew up on you. I didn’t come here to make friends . . . to complicate things.”
“I’m a complication?”
His laughter was empty, cold as a morgue. “You’re about as complicated as they come.”
I stared at the bottom of my glass. “Why’s that?”
“You look at me as if you see right through me. It’s unsettling.”
“I don’t mean to unsettle you.”
“Consider me unsettled. Problem is, I think you’re using more than eyesight.” He glanced at me and, never breaking eye contact, finished the whiskey in one long gulp.
I gripped my glass. I’d rather have my teeth pulled than tell him how often I’d dreamed of him over the years. “Can I have another?”
He grabbed the bottle and moved toward me, and I saw him in my mind’s eye as he’d been in the drawing; bare chest, subtle muscles, hair narrowing down to his belly button . . . I stumbled back as he poured a refill.
“Thanks.” The smooth whiskey went down easier the second time.
“Did you dream about me too? Is that why you followed me on Halloween?”
I took another step back, but he advanced until the edge of the counter bit into my spine. “I didn’t.” The lie sounded weak, even to my own ears.
“I think you did. The way you looked at me, like you saw a ghost or something . . .” Brushing against me, he set his tumbler on the cool granite. “At first, I thought maybe you recognized me from somewhere—”
“No,” I interrupted, desperate to lead him away from the subject. “You were imagining things.”
“No, I wasn’t.” He gently pried the empty glass from my fingers and set it next to his. Nothing stood between us now; not even the last shred of my secret.
I held fast to it anyway, like a child unwilling to let go of a tattered teddy bear. “You can think whatever you want. Doesn’t make it true.”
“Doesn’t make it not true.”
About the Author:
Christina Jean Michaels was born in Paradise, California, but she has found the true home of her heart in Eugene, Oregon where she finds plenty of inspiration for storytelling.
When she was young, her mother said she hated words. Now she can't imagine not writing. She became an avid reader when she was thirteen and discovered the world of Sweet Valley High.
About a year later she realized she could play God and write about her own characters. She has been writing in some form ever since.
She lives with her husband and their four children—three rambunctious UFC/wrestling-loving boys and one girl who steals everyone’s attention.