the strongest. They bypassed the reasoning part of the brain and went straight to the vestigial animal brain that governed emotions.
That was probably why she imagined lime aftershave when she thought of Stanford.
Then why did she smell paint when she thought of Max? Why had she smelled it on her sheets when she’d awakened this morning?
She brought the damp fabric to her nose.
It smelled like fresh air and lemon detergent, nothing more. Of course, it would. It had gone through the cotton cycle of Grandma’s heavy-duty washer. There was nothing like hot water and twenty minutes of agitation to get rid of a few leftover molecules of imaginary turpentine. It used to do the trick with imaginary mud pies, too.
Delaney pressed her lips together as she hung up the sheet. She wished she could smile, but she wasn’t quite there yet. A five-year-old believing in a pretend playmate was considered cute. A thirty-year-old doing the same could be considered troubling, to put it mildly.
Her latest encounter with Max had been a dream, she reminded herself. Overall, it had been a positive one, and she should be grateful for that. In fact, she’d awakened feeling refreshed instead of worn-out. For the first time in six months, she’d managed to take control of her recurring nightmare. She’d turned its familiar elements of fire and water into something she could deal with. Sunshine and rain. It was actually very clever, the kind of thing Dr. Bernhardt might have suggested. He would have approved of her progress.
But what would a professional have said about the man she’d glimpsed in her bed when she’d awakened? The naked man? Delaney wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
While she’d been asleep and battling her terrors, Max had been a hazy presence, more of a feeling than a form. Yet the moment she’d opened her eyes, the image of him had solidified. For a flash, Max had been there. The image had lasted only a split second, yet she’d had enough time to see his familiar blue gaze and the lock of hair that always flopped over his forehead. She’d gotten the impression there had been a lot of bare skin, too.
Apparently, her subconscious had decided that the adult Max slept in the nude.
Max the boy had worn grubby T-shirts and jeans. He would have been too shy to show up with nothing on. The new version of Max seemed to have acquired an attitude along with his height and his muscles. A man like that would have no problem with his nudity.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
He’d sounded as surprised by her appearance as she’d been by his. The reaction had made him seem even more real. She’d heard his voice as vividly as she’d felt his touch. Skin that had been as good as dead for months had tingled beneath the warmth of his fingers.
That alone proved it had been only a dream. For one thing, a real man would have been repulsed by the scars on her body. For another, she hadn’t enjoyed a man’s touch in ages.
The thought gave her pause. It was true, she and Stanford hadn’t made love as often in the last few years as they had in their early days, but that was only natural. No one could honeymoon forever. She reached for a pillowcase and gave it a brisk flap to knock out the wrinkles. The back of her hand smacked hard against the clothesline.
The pain knocked her breathless. She dropped the pillowcase and cradled her hand to her chest, blinking away tears as she waited for the stinging to fade. An image of roses and rainbows flashed through her mind. It was the place Max had taken her the night before, where there hadn’t been any scars or skin grafts. There hadn’t been any vengeful stepdaughters or lawsuits, either.
Could that be why her mind was returning to him? Was it a sign she couldn’t cope with her real life?
Possibly. He’d certainly helped her cope with her nightmare, even though she’d had to plead with him to do it. That was an improvement over the way he’d rejected her outright
That was probably why she imagined lime aftershave when she thought of Stanford.
Then why did she smell paint when she thought of Max? Why had she smelled it on her sheets when she’d awakened this morning?
She brought the damp fabric to her nose.
It smelled like fresh air and lemon detergent, nothing more. Of course, it would. It had gone through the cotton cycle of Grandma’s heavy-duty washer. There was nothing like hot water and twenty minutes of agitation to get rid of a few leftover molecules of imaginary turpentine. It used to do the trick with imaginary mud pies, too.
Delaney pressed her lips together as she hung up the sheet. She wished she could smile, but she wasn’t quite there yet. A five-year-old believing in a pretend playmate was considered cute. A thirty-year-old doing the same could be considered troubling, to put it mildly.
Her latest encounter with Max had been a dream, she reminded herself. Overall, it had been a positive one, and she should be grateful for that. In fact, she’d awakened feeling refreshed instead of worn-out. For the first time in six months, she’d managed to take control of her recurring nightmare. She’d turned its familiar elements of fire and water into something she could deal with. Sunshine and rain. It was actually very clever, the kind of thing Dr. Bernhardt might have suggested. He would have approved of her progress.
But what would a professional have said about the man she’d glimpsed in her bed when she’d awakened? The naked man? Delaney wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
While she’d been asleep and battling her terrors, Max had been a hazy presence, more of a feeling than a form. Yet the moment she’d opened her eyes, the image of him had solidified. For a flash, Max had been there. The image had lasted only a split second, yet she’d had enough time to see his familiar blue gaze and the lock of hair that always flopped over his forehead. She’d gotten the impression there had been a lot of bare skin, too.
Apparently, her subconscious had decided that the adult Max slept in the nude.
Max the boy had worn grubby T-shirts and jeans. He would have been too shy to show up with nothing on. The new version of Max seemed to have acquired an attitude along with his height and his muscles. A man like that would have no problem with his nudity.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
He’d sounded as surprised by her appearance as she’d been by his. The reaction had made him seem even more real. She’d heard his voice as vividly as she’d felt his touch. Skin that had been as good as dead for months had tingled beneath the warmth of his fingers.
That alone proved it had been only a dream. For one thing, a real man would have been repulsed by the scars on her body. For another, she hadn’t enjoyed a man’s touch in ages.
The thought gave her pause. It was true, she and Stanford hadn’t made love as often in the last few years as they had in their early days, but that was only natural. No one could honeymoon forever. She reached for a pillowcase and gave it a brisk flap to knock out the wrinkles. The back of her hand smacked hard against the clothesline.
The pain knocked her breathless. She dropped the pillowcase and cradled her hand to her chest, blinking away tears as she waited for the stinging to fade. An image of roses and rainbows flashed through her mind. It was the place Max had taken her the night before, where there hadn’t been any scars or skin grafts. There hadn’t been any vengeful stepdaughters or lawsuits, either.
Could that be why her mind was returning to him? Was it a sign she couldn’t cope with her real life?
Possibly. He’d certainly helped her cope with her nightmare, even though she’d had to plead with him to do it. That was an improvement over the way he’d rejected her outright
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