Chapter 7

Stupid, he thought. Stupid dreams. As if you could be right for that. As if you could be good enough for that. As if they’d take you and your muscles seriously.

As if you could help someone. Anyone. Someone with blue eyes, who uses too many words as friendly rambling armor, deflection over self-deprecation.

As if he’d want you to.

Jason tossed back the rest of the scotch, sighed, couldn’t face himself in the mirror, and went to bed.

He woke to the mild ache of dehydration—he hadn’t drunk enough water—and the slanting bars of optimistic sunshine on his face and two missed calls, both recent, both with voicemails. One from Susan, which he’d get to after. One from Jillian Poe, which had to be the incoming polite no-thank-you after yesterday’s debacle. It was nice that she’d called personally, he supposed.

He played that one first. And then he sat very still on his bed, surrounded by rumpled sheets and sunshine, unshaven and fuzzy with shock.