“I finally get it now,” I whisper.
“Do share.”
“You’re supposed to cure me of my allergy to beautiful men.”
“So you think I’m beautiful.”
My hands fly up to my cheeks.
Oh no. Don’t. Don’t you dare.
But it’s too late.
Mr. Not Real, who’s technically a child of my own invention, has actually made me blush, and oh no, oh no—
It doesn’t even end there.
Because Mr. Not Real has just stood up, and he’s so incredibly tall, and the way he towers over me is making my heart skip a beat, and now he’s slowly walking towards me, closer and closer and closer—
Oh gosh.
My breath catches in my throat as Mr. Not Real leans forward, his hands settling on the armrests, and I’m suddenly trapped between his arms, and what used to be this ultra-luxurious and spacious chair now feels like a cage of my own making.
“You...are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. He’s just so, so close that his nearness...
I don’t even know how to explain it.
I’ve never been close to someone and had theclosenessitself feel like a thing. A presence. I can feel the space between our bodies, the exact inches where we’re not touching, and that space is louder than the engines. Louder than my own breathing, which has gotten shallow in a way I’d rather not examine.
Oh, I just don’t get it anymore!
How is it possible that someone who isn’t real is making me feel things that are equally unreal?
“This...this isn’t making sense.”
The words tumble out in a moment of confusion that’s dangerously close to helplessness, because my brain, which is the one thing I own that’s never let me down, has just stopped working.
“I’m supposed to wake up once I’ve figured out who you’re supposed to be.”
“Very logical of you...” He says this softly even as the glint in his eyes turns rather wicked. Am I wrong to feel that Mr. Not Real islaughingat me? Is that even possible? For my brainchild to laugh at its own creator?
“But since you think this is a dream—”
He’s slowly lowering his gaze as he speaks.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking more along the lines of a fairytale?”
But it only makes sense when he ends up looking at my lips.
Gulp.
I can’t believe Mr. Not Real is making me swallow hard, and my mouth feels so dry, too, that I find myself unconsciously wetting my lips, which makes his nostrils flare, and—
Why is that making me feel all strange and restless?
Why am I suddenly finding it hard to breathe?