Molly sniffed, eyes still closed. Then she sniffed again, this time taking in a deep draught of air as she crested the surface of wakefulness. No mistaking it. Bacon. Coffee. During her sleep she must have been kidnapped by aliens and dragged into an alternate reality. Then the activities of the night before spoke via their translator—a dull ache between her thighs—to remind her she was alive and well and living in her own reality, which just happened to be her best fantasy come to life. She wondered which one of the men was the cook in the family, and blessed her good fortune that they wouldn’t automatically expect her to be all female on the domestic front. The way she figured it, yowza between the sheets trumped talent with a spatula. If the reaction of the men in the middle of the night could be anything to go by, yowza she had. Molly reached up to rub the rest of the sleep out of her eyes but halted before her fingers could make matters worse. It wasn’t sleep that clogged her peepers, but mascara, not removed properly the night before.
