I had the weirdest dream.

It wasn’t the first dream I ever had about meeting Mark again, of course. And it probably won’t be the last. But it was different.

It doesn’t matter, though. It never does. Weird or not weird, it was just a dream. In reality, I’ll never see him again.

I let out a big sigh as I open my eyes.

White walls. White sheets.

Where am I?

Am I . . . wearing a bra? I don’t usually wear a bra to bed.

I blink a few times, forcing myself awake. My heart starts to beat faster.

Framed paintings hang on the wall. I never bothered to decorate my apartment.

Why should I care about interior décor when my whole life has crumbled? My apartment is barren, just like my soul.

I prop myself up on my elbows.

“Hello,” says a painfully familiar voice.

I turn my head to find . . . Mark. Sitting on a navy-blue couch in the corner of this strange room.

He puts his phone on the side table next to him and leans back in his chair. He interlaces his fingers and rests his hands on his lap. Then, he watches me.

Am I still dreaming? If I am, I never want to wake up.

My eyes fill with water. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I don’t get to see him much. I don’t want my view to be clouded by tears.

His voice. Deep and soothing. I’ve almost forgotten what he sounded like. I don’t often get such vivid details in my dreams.

“Say something again,” I say, my voice soft and trembling. I’m terrified if I talk more loudly the whole illusion will shatter.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“I . . .” My voice cracks as tears pour out of my soul. I get out from under the white covers and stand up, facing him.

The soreness in my chest from the underwire of my bra digging into my flesh. The soft, plush carpet under my bare feet.

This feels too real to be a dream.

Was it real? The whole thing? I wasn’t hallucinating when I saw Mark at the office? And I wasn’t dreaming when I saw him again at the cemetery?

I kissed him . . .

I swallow as my eyes focus on the man sitting in front of me, looking like he’s completely relaxed.

He’s wearing a black leather jacket, just like Mark’s favorite. His sharp, unyielding eyes seem as confident and determined as Mark’s used to be.

But there’s something cold in those eyes.

And, when we kissed . . . He felt different. But not in a bad way.

God, just admitting that makes me feel guilty. Disloyal.

I’ve never enjoyed physical contact with any other guy after Mark. Except for this guy. This . . . lookalike.

“Logan?” I ask, my heart pounding as I wish, against all hope, that he’d give me a negative answer and say a different name.

“That’s me.”

“I . . .” What was his question again? “I feel . . . okay, I guess.”

I stand awkwardly by the bed, the back of my thighs pressing against the soft bedsheets. No doubt the linens have a high thread count.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asks, getting up from his seat.

Should I just stand here? Should I step closer to him?

The way he moves unsettles me.

His movements look exactly like Mark’s did. But, there’s something about Logan that feels dangerous. Predatory.

Suddenly, I become aware of the fact I’m no longer wearing my jeans. My legs are bared to him. Come to think of it, he was probably the one who took my jeans off.

This is probably how a deer feels when she senses a lion hiding in the tall grass. Except, a part of me wants to be caught. Needs to be devoured.

I glance over my shoulder. At least, if I fall, I’ll land on something soft and luxurious. Not a bad way to go, I guess.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Logan asks again.

“I . . . I was . . . at the cemetery. It started raining,” I say as my memory comes back to me.

“Yeah. And you just stood there while it poured.”

I stare at him. My instincts tell me to watch his eyes, to be careful of what he’s about to do to me. But instead, I let my gaze fall to his feet—the same size as Mark—his long legs, his big hands, and his dark hair.

Sure, he feels different. And even though Mark had a closed casket funeral, I’m certain his family must’ve identified his body beforehand. They seemed like they were genuinely mourning.

And yet, how can this man be anyone other than Mark?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

I look back into his eyes. There’s not a shred of recognition for me in them.

Something pops into my head. Something ridiculous. Something that doesn’t ring true. But I have to ask.

“Have you ever had amnesia?” I sound dumb.

“What?”

“Amnesia,” I repeat, feeling even dumber.

“Nope.” He stops a few inches away from me. “Have we met? Before the cemetery?”

So, Mark didn’t get amnesia after the accident and acquire a new personality.

Cloning? Could there be multiple copies of the same person? Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt to ask. I’ve already come this far.

“Have you ever found yourself in some high-tech research facility?” I ask.

This is probably the dumbest question I’ve asked so far, but I’m done feeling stupid. If I don’t eliminate all possibilities, I won’t stop wondering.

Logan laughs. “What are you, some conspiracy nut?”

Even his laughter sounds like Mark’s. Except, Mark would never say something that mean to me.

Ignoring his question, I ask, “Do you have a twin?”

Logan lets out an impatient sigh. “Look, lady, I suggest you make an appointment with a shrink as soon as you get home. Check with your insurance. It may be covered.”

“I do have a therapist.”

“Good.”

Logan puts his palm on my forehead and instantly, I feel something crackle between us. Some kind of electricity. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

As he studies my face, I can clearly see the surprise on his. He feels it, too.

He clears his throat and declares, “You don’t have a fever.”

“Are you a doctor?” I ask.

He may not be Mark, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever come across. And this . . . pull I feel between us. I can’t deny it, even if guilt pangs in my chest.

“Yeah.” He slides his hand down from my forehead to my cheek. His thumb caresses my skin as he stares into my eyes, a frown on his forehead.

Obviously, he’s no longer trying to check my temperature. He’s got a less clinical question on his mind now. The same question that’s on my mind.

What is this . . . thing?

I look up to meet Logan’s gaze.

When we touch, why does it feel like we must never part?

And, if he’s not Mark, then who is he?

As if he can read my thought, Logan asks, “Who is Mark?”

I remain quiet. I haven’t talked about Mark to anybody in a long time, except for my therapist, of course. It feels strange—almost wrong—to start now.

“Well?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. “Mark . . . He . . .”

“Hold on,” Logan says. He takes his hand off me to to pull a cell phone out of his jacket. He looks at the screen. “Fuck.”

“Anything wrong?”

He stares at me. Then, he takes three steps back as if I’m poison and he’d get violently harmed if we made physical contact.

Fair enough, I guess, considering I’ve already caused Mark’s death.

“I have to go,” he says distractedly.

“Now?” I ask. I was just about to figure out what’s going on.

“Yeah. Now.” Logan runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

Then, he walks away. Disengages. It’s like I’m not even here.

He grabs a black duffel bag from the table. Apparently, he has already packed up his things. He walks toward the door and grabs the handle.

“Hey, wait,” I say. I can’t let him just walk away like that.

No explanation. No goodbyes. No phone number. No way to contact him. How am I supposed to solve this puzzle?

I know if I just let him walk out that door, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I’ll forever wonder about who he is and why he makes me feel the way he does.

Logan stops and turns to look at me, his hand resting on the door handle. “What?”

“That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”

He frowns. “Well, yeah.”

“You’re not going to . . . We were having a conversation.”

“And now we’re not. See how that works?” he asks.

“There’s no need to be rude.”

“Rude?” Logan chuckles. “Look, Harper—yes, I checked your ID—most people would thank me for doing what I did for you. I carried you from the cemetery to a place that’s safe and warm. I made sure you’re okay. And now, I’m done being a good Samaritan. I’ve got shit to do.”

“We’re not done talking.”

“Yeah? Says who?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

I glare at him. I can’t believe not too long ago, I thought he was Mark.

“Look, you can stay here until tomorrow morning,” Logan says as he glances at his watch. “I’ve paid for the room until tomorrow morning. If I remember correctly, check-out is at eleven. You can call front desk and ask them to make sure. I think there’s breakfast in the morning, too.”

Logan pulls the door open without waiting for my response.

“Wait,” I demand.

“Like I said, I’ve got shit to do. Enjoy your stay.”

I rush toward the door and grab his arm. I can feel his muscles underneath the leather of his jacket. I can’t physically keep him from leaving. Obviously, he’s much stronger than me.

“Harper, I’ve done enough for you,” Logan says. Every time he says my name in that voice, my heart skips a beat. “Most people would just be grateful I’ve done this much. For free, no less. Now, stay here and rest like a good girl.”

Logan pulls his arm free and walks out into the hallway.

I almost jump out after him. But then, I remember I’m not wearing any pants.

Damn it!

I watch helplessly as he reaches the row of elevator doors and presses a button.

He’s left me with no other option. Reluctantly, I take my gaze off him and get back inside, letting the door shut on its own behind me.

I find my jeans carelessly thrown on the floor and put them on.

Ugh. They’re still damp and cold.

But, I have no choice.

I throw on my jacket and dash out of the room.

Screw a night at some upscale hotel. Screw free breakfast.

Like hell I’m going to just stay here and rest while Logan gets away from me, never to be found again.

He’s no longer standing in the hallway when I get out.

But there’s no way I’m leaving him alone. I’ll find him again and get my answers if it’s the last thing I do.