Right.
Teleportation? Not real.
So this man? Not real either.
And if I need more proof of hownotreal he is, then all I have to do is to look at his face, andta-da.
He’s ridiculously good-looking, and I’m allergic to beautiful men like him. I just can’t bear being near them. I know it’s psychological (I paid good money for a therapist to make that official), but beautiful men like him literally make my skin crawl.
And this guy?
It doesn’t matter what your standards are. His looks are, like, guaranteed to surpass them. His hair is black as night, falling in short, silky waves that are just long enough to look careless but just neat enough to look like the carelessness took effort. I wish I could convince myself that hedidmake the effort to style his hair, but...no.
One look at that granite jaw of his, and it’s so easy to tell.
He’snotthe type to care about his looks.
With all the men Mom’s dated through the years, I needed to develop a skill on how to read people, just to weed through her boyfriends, find out if it’s safe for me to sleep under the same roof...or if I’m better off spending the night in the local library.
So yeah, me reading people—it’s a skill Ihadto learn early on to survive, so it’s honestly nothing to be proud of. It’s depressing, actually, but...
This man, though.
How strange.
The gleam in his dark eyes tells me he’s studying me, but that’s it.
Is it because this is all a dream that I can’t read him?
Yeah,that must be it, just like why my skinisn’titching at his proximity.
I’m dreaming, he’s part of my dream, and now it’s time to figure out what I need to do to wake up and get myself back to the real world.
So, hmm...let’s see.
I look at him again, and...oh no.
This isn’t good.
Mr. Not Real is still studying me, but this time, the darkness of his gaze is starting to make me feel ridiculously self-conscious. Even my heart has started to race like it’s never raced before, and I don’t like that at all.
Hurry up and figure things out, Ti!
I remind myself to be objective and methodical as I look at him again, more detective than fangirl, and,um...okay...
The way he’s sitting, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his back against the seat but not slouching like just about every boy in Cornwall—that’sdifferent,that’s all. It doesn’t mean I admire him or anything. Because I don’t. I just...I just find it strange not to have my skin itch like it usually does in front of a pretty boy like him, and I’m thinking that maybe, since this is a dream and all—
“I hope you had a good sleep?”
It’s Mr. Not Real who speaks first, and his voice is just so...posh.Every word he’s uttered is just so perfectly pronounced, every syllable perfectly placed, that you just know his speech is the perfectly polished result of a Swiss boarding school education.
“Are you alright? Are you feeling unwell?”
The way he speaks starts reminding me of how my own mother speaks. There are just some words that only rich people feel comfy using, like how rich people ask if we’re “alright” rather than just asking if we’re “okay”.
The only difference is that my mom fakes the way she speaks to get stuff while Mr. Not Real here...
My mind has managed to conjure him up as the real thing. Even if he’s not real. What I mean is, he might not be real, but if he were real, he would be—oh darn it,I think I’ve just succeeded in confusing myself. What was I thinking about again? It all started with how him being rich reminded me of my mom faking it while, come to think of it, him being this beautiful—
