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life! This is Dr. Jim Monroe’s house.
    Of course.
That’s
why I’m dreaming this! That’s why it’s so vivid and real, so alive that I can smell the money oozing out of every corner.
    Ayla … 
Monroe
.
    Oh, REM sleep is a wild and wonderful thing, isn’t it?
    For some reason, this realization comforts me. It’s like, if I know why I’m dreaming something, then it isn’t a nightmare, not so scary and uncertain. Not that anything about this is scary.
    Still, good to know that this is just a product of a magazine article and an emotionally electrified day. Wait’ll I tell Mom about this dream! I swear, I’m gonna tell her every single detail I remember.
    With a little bounce in my step, I head down the stairs, not really that surprised that I know where I’m going. Dreams are like that, senseless and crazy.
    And fun. This will definitely go down as the best dream ever.
    Toward the back of the house, I turn left and head through a short passageway with counters and cabinets on either side. I think I’ve heard Mom, when in realtor mode, refer to this as a butler’s pantry, leading to a kitchen. There, another woman, wearing the same uniform as Loras, is cooking.
    She’s light-haired, broad-shouldered, and huge. Like, linebacker huge. And that big teen guy, who I’m going to guess is Trent, is at the table scarfing cereal.
    And another woman has her back to me, looking outover a patio, and, oh, there’s the infinity pool! Beyond it, a forever view of water, boats, palm trees, sun, and a sky that’s Windex-bottle blue.
    I clear my throat. “Mom?”
    The woman doesn’t turn, and I realize she’s talking on the phone. Instead, she holds up one finger, as if to say,
Just a second
, and keeps talking softly.
    I walk closer, and the lady at the stove glances my way.
    “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” Her words are also slightly accented, but definitely not Spanish. She scowls at me, not nearly as sweet as the woman cleaning my room.
    “Believe what? That I’m up and dressed?” Apparently this is some kind of major coup for Ayla.
    “And dressed so … simply,” she adds.
    I glance down at what has to be a six-hundred-dollar outfit. If this is simple, I can’t wait to wear complex.
    She waves me toward the table. “I have your yogurt chilling, Miss Ayla.”
    Do they all have to call me Miss? When she angles my way, I see that she has a gold name badge pinned to her uniform that says
Mathilda
. Are there so many staff members that they need IDs?
    “Thank you, Mathilda.”
    That earns me another fierce look. Am I not supposed to use her name?
    “Is it in the refrigerator?” I glance at the side-by-side Sub-Zeros. “Refrigerators,” I amend.
    “What are you doing?” she asks, blocking my way like a human wall.
    “Um … getting the yogurt?”
    She gives me the same look Loras did when I picked up the T-shirt. “Sit down, Miss Ayla. I promise you it’s not strawberry. You don’t have to test me.”
    “I’m not …” I close my mouth and nod, then head toward a table that could seat at least ten.
    As I get closer, Mom-on-Phone turns away even more, still hiding her face, murmuring. The boy, who I’m going to take a wild guess is my dream brother, pops the earbud and glowers at me. His green eyes match the ones I just admired in my mirror. His hair is lighter, his face the male version of great-looking.
    “What the hell’s up with you?” he asks, all accusation and disgust.
    “Nothing.”
Just don’t screw up my dream, bonehead brother. I’m not ready for it to end
.
    “Why are you acting like a freak?”
    I scowl at him. “How am I acting like a freak?”
    “What do you want? I’m not letting you drive today, so you can take that learner’s permit and shove it where the sun don’t shine. It’s not my fault you and your posse are too dumb to pass driver’s ed. You want to drive that car Dad gave you? Find someone else with a legit license to sit