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And let me tell you, the ancient Greeks had absolutely no business covering this man’s assets with a fig leaf.

“You’re doing it again.”

I glance up from my worktable.

Jules stands in the laboratory doorway, holding two iced coffees and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Doing what?”

“Staring at your boyfriend.”

“I’m examining the damage.”

“To his junk?”

My gaze snaps upward.

“I was not looking at his crotch.”

“Calla, honey, I’ve been standing here for thirty seconds. You haven’t blinked once.”

“I’m assessing the structural integrity of the sculpture.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

I snatch the coffee she offers me.

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m the only person here willing to listen to you talk about your imaginary boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Good. Because I have concerns about his emotional availability.”

I take a long drink, hoping the caffeine will erase the memory of last night’s dream.

It doesn’t.

Nothing does.

Not the freezing shower I took this morning. Not the three cups of coffee I’ve already consumed. Not even the terrifying realization that I’ve started looking forward to bedtime more than a woman with a respectable career should.

For four nights, Morpheus has visited my dreams.

Four nights of marble temples, candlelit baths, and increasingly outrageous attempts to convince me that he’s an actual Greek god.

The first night, he demanded I touch him.

The second, he practically brought down an entire palace when I did.

The third, he appeared in my bedroom wearing nothing but a wicked smile and informed me that he’d discovered a fascinating new use for dreams.

Apparently, he can conjure any desire I imagine.

Anything.

Which is how I ended up spending half the night on a private beach beneath a sky full of stars while an enormous, naked Greek god fed me strawberries and attempted to convince me that clothing was an unnecessary mortal invention.