Page 1 of Man of His Dreams
Chapter
One
“But according to my AirTag, my suitcase flew from Oakland and is now stuck in Chicago.” Flip Devin tried his best to sound calm and reasonable, even though he felt anything but.
In contrast, the agent on the other end of the line simply sounded bored. “Sir, as I explained, we haven’t yet found your luggage piece in the system. We’ll notify you when we do.”
“I’ve found it. It’s at O’Hare. I, however, am in New Orleans.”
“I understand that you’re in New Orleans, sir. We’re currently attempting to track your luggage piece. You can contact us in the morning for a status update.”
Working customer service for an airline was most likely no one’s dream job, and this poor guy probably had to deal with a lot of angry and frustrated people on a daily basis. That wouldn’t be much fun unless you were a masochist. So Flip was trying really, really hard not to be an asshole. But it wasn’t easy.
“Can’t you put out some kind of alert for them so they’ll search for my bag in Chicago? I can even pinpoint which part of the building it’s in.”
“Sir, we’re currently attempting to track your luggage piece. You can contact?—”
“Never mind.”
Flip ended the call abruptly—which ordinarily would have made him feel guilty—but it was better than swearing at the agent. Assuming that had actually been an agent on the other end and not a robot. If it was a robot, Flip didn’t feel guilty at all.
He set his phone on the couch cushion beside him and glared.
The wayward suitcase wasn’t a complete disaster. This apartment had come fully furnished, he’d packed his laptop and a few essentials in his carry-on, and he could venture out tomorrow to buy anything he urgently needed. But he was still annoyed and… uncomfortable. This whole situation was stressful anyway, and he wished he had his favorite old jeans and the ratty Ramones T-shirt he’d been hanging on to since college.
Well, dwelling on the situation wouldn’t solve anything. It was nearly midnight, and he’d eaten nothing today except an airport sandwich and a packet of pretzels. After a decent sleep and a good meal in the morning, he’d feel much better, even if his suitcase was still in another state.
With a theatrical groan, he hauled himself off the couch, but instead of heading straight to the bedroom, he decided to give himself a tour of his new home. He’d done a quick walk-through when he first arrived, but he’d been too distracted to pay close attention. Now he could get a better idea of what he was in for, plus he could start a shopping list for the next day. He’d have to find out where the nearest supermarket was and the nearest Target. Hopefully, at least one of them was within walking distance. Living without a car was going to take some getting used to.
The living room wasn’t huge, but it had twelve-foot ceilings with decorative cornices. Three French doors—which during the daytime would undoubtedly flood the space with light—led to a balcony overlooking St. Philip Street. The wooden floor looked recently refinished, one wall was exposed brick, and there was a fancy glass chandelier and a nonfunctional fireplace. The couch was comfortable. An antique desk was tucked into one corner. He might want to reorient it to face outside, but that could wait.
The small kitchen was big enough for his needs since he wasn’t much of a cook. As far as he could tell, the appliances were pretty new. A little round table with two chairs sat against a wall. Not the most inviting space, but he doubted he’d spend much time there.
Beyond the kitchen was a short hallway that provided access to the bathroom and a couple of closets, and past that lay the bedroom, where the floor plan was nearly identical to the living room. He hoped the morning sun wouldn’t shine through the transoms over the draped French doors.
Most of the furnishings were more utilitarian than stylish and the wall art was NOLA-themed but generic. It was fine. He’d be here only three months anyway, which would give him time to decide where he wanted to land more permanently.
Now if only he had his goddamn suitcase.
With that sour thought, he stripped off his clothes and got ready for bed.
The bed and the living room desk were the only pieces of furniture with panache, but whereas the desk was diminutive and delicate, the bed was enormous—a veritable continent with a headboard and footboard ornately carved with stylized vines, flowers, and birds. The motif continued even on the side rails. It looked like something French royalty might have slept in before the Revolution took its grisly turn. The snowy linens felt expensive, and there were a half-dozen pillows. Although Flip was tall, he almost needed a step stool to climb onto the thing. The mattress was exactly firm enough. He might not have his luggage, but he had a magnificent place to sleep.
And that’s exactly what he did, almost immediately. None of the restless tossing and turning he’d become accustomed to; he simply laid his head down and immediately fell into a warm, fluffy cloud of nothingness….
And directly into a dream.
He was still in New Orleans, but his new living space was much larger than in reality, with endless rooms branching in every direction. He was searching for his suitcase, which he knew was there. Somewhere. He opened closets and cupboards and door after door, and although he found lots of interesting furniture and knickknacks and several rooms stuffed with books, nothing in this place was his.
The more he looked, the more distressed he became, until finally he found an open French door and stepped outside. “My suitcase is in Chicago, not on a balcony,” he said out loud.
“That’s a gallery you’re standing on.”
Flip swung around to discover a smiling man standing a few feet away.
It was dark out, and since the balcony—the gallery—was poorly lit and the street below contained only a few flickering gas lamps, it was difficult to discern the man’s features. He was shorter than Flip by a few inches and wore an old-fashioned suit, complete with tie and pocket square. A Homburg perched on his head at a jaunty angle. All Flip could see of his face was the wide smile.
“A gallery is a place where people hang art,” said Flip, obscurely happy to have the chance to argue with someone in his sleep.