“Take care, Cam.”
I feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, feel the heat of his gaze until the moment I turn the corner, hailing a cab and escaping into the safety of the back seat.
I hardly get any work done for my big meeting that night. I’m distracted by the whole blind date of it all, running the lackluster conversation through my mind on repeat for no discernible reason other than I can’t seem to get Ben out of my head. I fall asleep way earlier than I normally would. The last thing I see in my mind before I drift off is a pair of warm brown eyes and that stupid giraffe pin.
2
I know from the moment my eyes pop open that something must be seriously, terribly, god-awfully wrong.
First, I’m tucked in a bed while streams of sunlight pour in through a window. My alarm is supposed to ring long before the sun rises—I squeeze in my prework workout when it’s still dark outside. Even on the rare day I allow myself to sleep past six, my blackout curtains keep out all hints of light. But I’m in a bed dressed with a butter yellow comforter, and that blasted sunlight is streaming through curtains made of a delicate white lace. I’m tucked in bed and everything feels warm and…cozy.
It’s gross.
“Where the fuck am I?” I mutter as I toss aside the offensively cheery blanket. “What the fuck?”
Ridding myself of the confines of the not so unpleasant warmth has exposed something even worse. I’m wearing pajamas. Pink polka-dotted pajamas. The old-fashioned kind, with buttons down the front and an adorable little collar. Well, it would be adorable if I were five. Or lived inthe ’50s. Where is my black silk slip nightgown? Today is the biggest meeting of my already stellar career—I don’t have time for whatever the hell this is.
The hair on the back of my neck begins to rise.
As I swing my feet to the floor, more details of the room—the jail cell? the torture chamber?—crystalize.
The painting above the bed, a girl riding a mint green bicycle, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers sitting in the basket.
The furniture, all coordinated and—gag—made of white wicker.
The plush armchair wrapped in a floral fabric any grandmother other than mine would covet.
“Maybe I died,” I muse out loud, still talking only to myself. “This must be my own personal version of hell.” Can’t say I’m too surprised that’s where I ended up.
I open the closet, which is lacking my standard lineup of designer suits and structured separates. They seem to have been replaced by dresses. Lots and lots of dresses, in soft pastels with masses of ruffles, nothing like the LBDs I don on the rare occasion I actually go out for something other than a business meeting. I pull out what looks like the least offensive one, a sky blue concoction. At least, it’s the least offensive until I catch a glimpse of the strawberries embroidered all along the front of the bodice.
I drop the offending garment on the plush white carpet.
I spin in a slow circle, trying to absorb all of the pastel-colored nightmares surrounding me. Except it all blurs together like I’m on a carousel from hell.
And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging over the dresser.
And I scream.
My platinum, ice blond, took multiple bleachings and even more conditioning hair treatments to achieve, perfectly sharp bob is gone. Instead, I have honey blond hair that hangs past my boobs, highlighted and barrel curled like I’m some fucking cheerleader.
And my face. My face is perfectly made up, my skin airbrushed and blemish free. Which means I slept in my makeup, which as Grandmother taught me at the ripe old age of ten, is one of life’s greatest sins. I press said face closer to the mirror, trying to spot any hint of a breakout, but all I see are rosy cheeks in a shade brighter than I would ever dare to wear and lashes that look fake but somehow seem to be real.
I think I’m going to hurl.
Sprinting toward the bedroom door, I throw it open, not knowing what I expect to see, or even want to see, on the other side. I’m sort of hoping the door will open into the fiery pits of the inferno and I can just leap in and put myself out of my misery.
But no flames swirl on the other side.
It’s just your standard living room, complete with a cushy sofa that looks to be covered in blue and white gingham and a million throw pillows, many of which appear to be crocheted.
I force my feet to move, crossing through the living area into a kitchen that I can’t even digest. Suffice to say the KitchenAid mixer is color-coordinated with the cushions on the chairs surrounding the farm-style dining room table.
It’s the little ties that do me in. The cute little bows keeping those motherfucking cushions in place.
I sink down onto the couch—it practically swallows me whole, it’s so plush and overstuffed. I know enough to know I need to drop my head between my knees and try to steady my breathing, but both are easier said than done. Bending in half is hard when I’m fighting against the quicksand of this sofa and breathing is even harder when I realize I must have lost my damned mind.
Either that or I died in my sleep and am currently in the underworld. And honestly, I’m not sure which is preferable at this point.
