Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,18

the colors.

“Pick a bag,” my own voice says.

I see the green, the color I DID pick, but I don’t reach for it. There are so many other colors. Whites, purples, browns and blacks. I could choose any bag, any bag of all these, and I don’t know which one to pick. I’m standing there, my legs cold in the chilly air blowing from the air vents done in bamboo like the smooth, slick floor. My dress flutters against my thighs. I smell the fresh, delicious scent of oiled, crocodile-skin bags.

I can see the snow. Not see it…sense it. I can feel the snow, the cold, cold snow. I choose a white bag and it disappears as soon as I start pulling it toward me.

I whirl around. What’s going on here? Am I dreaming?

I go for a purple bag with shaking fingers. Get it now and GO. Time is running out!

I grab the bag and hug it to my chest and then it’s gone. Black, brown, green: I grab them all and feel them slip away like ghosts. I try grabbing the green one two more times, aware that it’s the right bag, it’s the one I really chose. But I can’t hold onto it.

The shelves tremble and a bag falls by my feet. And I know, I know right then, I have to run. I can’t take a bag, but I can save myself.

I wake up soaked with sweat, feeling both triumphant and bereft...

With my damp, stiff hand, I shut the spiral notebook, set it back on my nightstand. My heart feels tight and heavy. My head aches from clenching my jaw while I was dreaming. I could grab my phone and check the time, but everyone knows that’s a losing proposition. Time crawls by when I know exactly how early it is. I can tell by the absence of light through my curtains that it’s sometime in the wee hours.

I want to get up and make some hot chocolate or tea, but first I fold my legs into a meditative pose, straighten my back, relax my muscles, and rest my hands on my knees. I shut my eyes and do a thing I learned in therapy.

Shut your eyes. Inhale. Smile inwardly. Exhale.

Smiling inwardly is a weird concept—you just imagine yourself smiling—but the exercise works almost freakishly well. I do that twice, and when I feel more peaceful, I pick the notebook back up, flip to a blank page, and attempt to draft a more favorable version of the nightmare.

I go into the bag room and I get a bag. I do the shoot, and during it, I let myself feel beautiful, not just on the outside, but also inside. I try to treat everyone with respect and love, try even harder than normal. I enjoy the way that heavy necklace feels around my neck and when I close my eyes so they can refresh my makeup, I inhale and try to bottle up the smells inside my brain so I can remember this. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one I can always remember fondly. I try to feel peaceful and good during the shoot, and when I leave, I go home, put my Birkin bag inside a plastic bag, and list it for sale online. I put the money in a savings account marked “Bear Hugs Inc.”

(It’s my daydream. I know what’s coming and I’m ready for it. So there).

I shut the notebook and set it on the nightstand. Then I take a long swig of my water and stretch slowly. Still no daylight peeking through the blinds. Not even a hint of blue.

I give in and check my phone. It’s 4:02 a.m.

Well, then.

I don’t feel sleepy. Not at all. In fact, my brain is churning. I tug my black cotton shorts out from wedgie position and straighten my hot pink sports bra before grabbing my fluffy purple robe from the corner of the headboard. This robe always makes me feel so cozy. It’s the little things. That’s what I’ve realized, I think, as I slide down off the bed, aiming my feet at my R2D2 slippers. This house has hardwood, and I’m thrifty, so I keep the heat on 65 at night—meaning it’s cold when I get out of bed. Colder if it’s 4 a.m. and the sun isn’t up.

I walk into my office, which adjoins my bedroom. There I turn on the desk lamp and push the curtains open. I drift into the den, turn on my half-moon