Page 1114 of One More Kiss

Chapter3

I figuredthis was right about when I passed out. One second, I was staring at scarlet eyes, and the next, I was groggily trying to pick myself up off the attic floor, my hip and shoulder screaming at me that they’d taken the brunt of my swooning. But it didn’t matter if my brain had decided to take a time-out. The scene in front of me hadn’t changed.

Not even a little.

I’d barely managed to sit up when the blue light coming from the mirror intensified, the brightness causing me to shield my eyes for a moment before winking out. That got me moving, and in the next instant, I was peering into the mirror like I’d find answers to the bevy of questions swirling in my brain.

The most prominent of those questions: Am I crazy?

But as I stared at a face that was most certainly not mine in the mirror, I feared I knew the answer.

“Mercy?” his deep Southern voice drawled. “Naw, you aren’t Mercy, are you? You’re her blood, though. I know that much.”

The red in his eyes slowly faded to a rich chocolate brown flecked with shades of moss green. It was a supremely handsome face, made more so now that his eyes were no longer the color of blood. Still, frustrated—or maybe frightened—tears filled my eyes, making his visage waver.

He was talking to me.

The man in the mirror was talking to me.

I had officially cracked just like Mitchell always said I would. That I’d fall off the deep end of fantasy one day and never wade my way out again.

Chin wobbling, I did the only right thing. I pulled the heavy mirror from the floor and rested it against the wall, glass out. But I did not speak to the man in the mirror. I did not spare a glance at the talking cat. I didn’t even look at the shiny ring that had brought me up here.

Oh, no.

I left them all up in that attic and calmly walked down the stairs. Slowly, methodically, I sucked back my unhinged tears, steeling myself as I marched to the fridge and uncorked a wine bottle. Not even bothering with a glass, I tipped the bottle back and started chugging fermented grape juice like my life depended on it.

When half the bottle was gone, I stuffed my deranged thoughts all the way down deep and marched right back up those stairs—bottle in tow. I’d done it the first time I’d suspected Mitchell of cheating on me. I’d done it when a nurse in my fertility clinic pulled me aside as she put her career on the line and told me Mitchell had gotten a vasectomy when he was twenty. I did it again the next day when I’d actually caught Mitchell cheating and filed for divorce. I did it when—post-divorce—I was “let go” for forgiving student library debt against school policy. When I lost my house and car. When I dealt with my parents’ garbage.

I was a pro at shoving my crazy all the way down deep until I couldn’t feel it anymore. So what if there was a hot guy in a mirror and my cat talked. I would keep calm and carry the fuck on.

Sweet mother of all that’s holy, I need therapy. This level of repression cannot be healthy.

My feet were practically soundless as I trudged up the steps, a boon in my favor as I managed to eavesdrop on Jeff. Or at least I thought it was Jeff. It could have been the other dude for all I knew, but Jeff didn’t seem to have a Southern drawl.

Yes, I was officially comparing the accent of two voices that most definitely should not exist.

Fabulous.

“She has no idea,” he hissed. “It wasn’t like Mercy left a playbook or anything. But if Beatrice is sniffing around, I don’t have time for her to figure it out on her own. She has to open the book. I can’t do it for her.”

Beatrice? Open a book? What was the deal with this damn book? Who in their right mind had this much of a hard-on for landscape architecture?

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Jeff muttered, his snide kitty tone drawing my eye downward.

I’d venture a guess I’d said that shit out loud.

Damn wine.

“Am I hallucinating? I’d really like to be hallucinating. Well.” I paused, taking a swig from the bottle.Yes, I was all class. “I’d really like to be dreaming if we’re getting technical. Dreaming would be good.”

Jeff rolled his kitty eyes at me, the golden orbs shining a little in the muted light.

Not. Comforting.

“You aren’t dreaming or hallucinating,” he said, his succinct tone damn near biting. “Far from it. Hate to break it to you, Jasper, but you inherited a war with this house, along with… other things.”

I took another pull from my nearly empty wine bottle while I processed Jeff’s ominous pronouncement. Sure, I was ninety-nine percent certain I was having a complete mental breakdown, but it was that one percent that was niggling at me. Auditory and visual hallucinations were way rarer than people thought. It would take a severe break with reality, a chemical imbalance from Hell, plus a likely family history of mental illness to garner this much of a twist to my nugget.

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