Page 97 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

“The dreams.” I yawn. He says something else, but I can’t make it out as I’m already slipping down into sleep.

When I wake, the room is empty and dark. I slide my hand over the other side of the bed and feel only cold sheets.

I guess I dreamt Sam coming back and holding me. Rolling onto my back, I sigh, disappointment coursing through me. I should be grateful I managed to finally sleep. A dream about Sam coming home–I mean, coming back to London—is infinitely preferable to the usual Cordelia ones filled with vivisected corpses and rivers of blood.

I reach for the bedside table, patting the surface in the dark for my phone so I can check the time, but it doesn’t seem to be there. Maybe I left it in the lounge earlier. Pushing the duvet off my legs, I head out of the bedroom. I feel much better now that I’ve actually slept, but I’m really thirsty.

I pad quietly into the living room and stop dead to find Sam, in jeans and a T-shirt, sat comfortably on my sofa with a coffee in one hand, his sock-covered feet propped on my coffee table while he watches TV.

He turns to me and smiles. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“You’re here.”

“Yes, I am.” He winks. “Did you think I was another fantasy?”

Shit. What did I actually say to him while my brain was glitching?

“I hope you don’t mind, but I kinda made myself at home while you were out cold.”

“You stayed?” I blink, trying to remember earlier, but the details are hazy.

“You asked me to.”

“I did?” He nods. “What time is it?”

“Just after midnight,” he replies, lifting his feet off the table and setting his mug down. “You’ve slept for over fourteen hours.” He rises from the sofa and moves towards me, his cheeky expression replaced by one of concern. “How long has it been since you slept properly? Because that went way beyond exhaustion. You were barely able to string a sentence together.”

“Charming,” I mutter. “Don’t you ever have days when you’re not your eloquent best?”

“All the time. I’m not exactly known for eloquence, but stop avoiding the question. How long has this been going on?”

I shrug. “A while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it had got this bad?” He frowns.

“What was the point? There wasn’t anything you could do, and as much as I appreciate you staying, you’ve just spent months looking after your mother. I don’t expect you to play nursemaid to me too. I don’t need that.”

He stares at me contemplatively. “Tell me more about these dreams you mentioned.”

“They’re just bad dreams.” I shrug again. I really don’t want to go into the whole Cordelia used a demon to murder everyone over a hundred and fifty years ago spiel.

He scratches his jaw, which is now covered in a sexy stubble that I’m curious to feel against my face. Or, you know, any other part of my body.

“Do you think it’s a byproduct of being in London?” he asks.

“What?” I blink, tearing my gaze away from his shadowed jaw.

“You said it yourself. You grew up in a farmhouse surrounded by fields to make your empathic abilities more manageable. This is the first time you’ve lived in a huge, busy city for any length of time. The psychic headaches could’ve been from you tuning into random emotional frequencies. I read that empathy and telepathy can sometimes go hand in hand. What if the dreams you’re picking up on aren’t yours but other people’s?”

He really has no idea how close to the mark he is.

“I think it definitely has to do with me being in London.” It’s the truth. I just won’t share the most important details. “I need a drink. I’m really thirsty.”

Sam heads over to the kitchenette, taking down a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. “Here, drink this. You’re probably dehydrated. I’ll put the kettle on and make you a cup of camomile tea.”

“You really have made yourself at home,” I say in amusement as I take the glass.

“I’m an ex-police detective and a current private investigator. Being incurably nosy is a prerequisite. But I promise I didn’t look at anything personal. Just had a nosy through your kitchen.”