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He sat up and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. The afghan slithered downward, pooling at his waist. He folded his arms across his bare chest and waited for her to comply. |
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D.J. stared at the sketchbook as though the bound papers had come alive and hissed at her. Before she even picked it up and turned the cardboard cover over to reveal the sketch on the first page, D.J. knew what she would see. |
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A picture of hersome years in the future. She looked differentlonger hair, a bit older, but a lot happier, softer. But those changes weren't what caused her stomach to lurch toward the floor, as if she'd just ridden the world's largest roller coaster. No, the part of the drawing that terrified D.J. were the children. Two boys and a little girl, older than the ones in her dream, but undeniably the same children. Hers and McCall's. Dream children put into D.J.'s head by an angel. |
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My dream, not his. D.J. dropped the sketchbook to the floor and rubbed the pain centered between her eyes. I don't understand any of this new-age crap. Did he have a dream? Or a premonition? Or are we both being manipulated by a pain-in-the-neck guardian angel? |
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McCall spoke again, and D.J.'s questions faded as her attention centered on the man in front of her. "I've spent my life waiting for the one woman I could share my life with." He laughed, the sound disparaging. "I know you must think I'm foolish, but you'd understand if you could have seen my parents." |
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"They were very much in love?" |
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