Jessica jolted out of a dead sleep, the kind that only happened after her brain refused to shut off with the lights. Like a combination of drunk, hungover, and three-day old dishes. She’d laid awake for hours in a mashed-up collage of her stumbling career, the amazing meal, and Greg’s harsh words—that she’d thoroughly earned. He seemed like a nice guy doing his best to be honest and she’d slapped him with “What the hell, Slater.” Real nice. Jessica heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime two before she’d finally plummeting into true sleep.
She tried to shake off the dream that someone had been shouting Greg Slater’s name. Someone with her own voice. Jessica really had to file a complaint with the dreams department for writing such a crappy story. Guy dreams were supposed to be about
