But there was nothing but a pillow, which I’d obviously crushed into oblivion as I tossed and turned, my bed morphing into a wrinkled, clumpy mess. Maybe it had all been a dream. Despite the freezing morning temperatures, I was dripping with sweat and my sheets were soaked. Perhaps the whole thing was just some cruel, vivid dream, and he wouldn’t come after all. My stomach was growling and grumbling, and I forced myself to get up and slip on a t-shirt and snuggly old pajama pants, stumbling into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and find something to eat. I fumbled in the cabinet, looking for the coffee filters. I was cursing myself for being so disorganized, when a sound behind me startle me. “You really should lock your door.” I whirled on my heel and Mr. Wolf was standing behind me wearing a charcoal gray t-shirt that hugged his muscular frame and a pair of jeans.
