I dragged myself downstairs at 7:43 feeling like something the Valentine family cat had murdered, then regurgitated on expensive carpet.
Sleep? Who was she? I'd never met her in my life.
The dream kept replaying. Purple eyes. Wine-red hair. Four different voices all saying the same thing.
Baby.
Nobody called me that. Ever. Yet dream-girl had breathed it like she'd been practicing for years.
My feet carried me toward the informal dining room on autopilot. The one Harlow preferred because it had windows facing the rose garden and "good morning energy."
Whatever the hell that meant.
Voices filtered through the doorway. Multiple voices. All feminine except one that pitched high with excitement.
Iris.
I rounded the corner and stopped.
