When I was three years old, I started drawing a house with a red door. Next to the house I drew a happy family—a husband, a wife, a baby, and their dog. For years I cried every night, clutching the drawings, begging my mother to take me home to my real family.
I was labeled odd—a child with an overactive imagination. But one day I wandered straight to that house with the red door, and I found the man and the dog.
Alex was quiet. A sexy, brooding artist. A recluse hiding behind an eye patch. A grieving widower, suspended in time, never moving forward.
As I grew up we developed an unlikely friendship, bonding over our love of art. He felt familiar. But as the years passed I found it harder and harder to ignore not only my growing feelings for him, but the odd visions that played through my mind.
Dreams, reality, and sanity began to blur until I came to a startling revelation. I wasn't having visions. I was having memories.
Alex fights our connection, believing I'm off limits. He tries desperately to do what's right—pushing away the one and only thing he's been wishing for.
He was mine, once upon a time, in a prior life. And I'm going to make him mine again.
