Dreams of Perfection (Dreams Come True) by Rebecca Heflin

workout. But first, he’d call the people locator service and get the ball rolling on Blake Garrett, M.D., if that was even his real name.
    The doorbell buzzed, interrupting Darcy’s train of thought. Since her first surprise encounter with Blake, she’d been lucky to keep that train solidly on the track. Something would trigger a memory of the sparkle in his eyes, his spicy scent, or the way his hair fell over his forehead concealing the scar, and the train would derail, leaving mayhem in its wake.
    At this rate, her latest manuscript might be finished sometime next year, instead of in the six months she’d contracted for.
    She still couldn’t explain the mystifying manifestation of Blake Garrett. She’d been up most the night trying to figure it out, but it defied explanation. While she believed in fairytale happy endings, she didn’t believe that a pumpkin and mice could actually become a coach-and-four. She believed in love, not magic. She’d finally fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning no more enlightened for her loss of sleep.
    How could she wait a whole week before she saw him again? To confirm that he was indeed real and not just some illusion? Or de lusion, for that matter?
    She glanced over at the ARC bearing his likeness. At least there was that, she thought.
    She’d recently completed the renovations on the third-floor bedroom that now served as her office and writing retreat in her brownstone. She’d previously been sharing the downstairs office with her assistant, Millie, but Virginia Woolf was right, a woman must have a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
    The soft yellow walls and bright white trim gave the space a cheery feeling. She’d found some great antique floral prints at the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market, and the colorful area rug at the GreenFlea Market.
    Her antique Queen Anne desk faced the window overlooking her tidy backyard with its sizable elm tree, where a pair of mourning doves had built a nest. She looked forward to watching the pair incubate the eggs and then feed the downy-covered creatures until they fledged the nest.
    But the pair of doves also acted as a bittersweet reminder of her own single, childless situation. Hopefully that would change—and soon. At least the single part.
    “Sorry to interrupt.”
    “Oh, Millie, perfect timing.” Darcy didn’t glance up from her computer. “I need a million-dollar word for ‘new.’”
    “Nascent.”
    “That’s it! Perfect.” Her fingers clicked across the keys at lightning speed.
    “Glad to be of assistance,” Millie said dryly. “The reason I disturbed you in the first place was to bring you these.”
    Darcy finally turned to see her assistant practically staggering under the weight of an enormous bouquet of peach calla lilies that dwarfed her petite frame. 
    Millicent Stephens, with her dull brown hair pulled back into a severe bun, sharp facial features, and slight overbite, resembled the little brown mouse Darcy had once encountered in her parents’ garage.
    Millie, awash in browns from head to toe, including the eyes behind her brown-rimmed glasses, gave the flowers the appearance that they’d sprung from a patch of soil. But her attention to detail and dependability made her the perfect personal assistant. And there was no mistaking the intelligence in those dun-colored eyes. Plus, the woman was a walking thesaurus—a real bonus for an author. According to Millie, one should read the dictionary cover-to-cover at least once a year. 
    “Calla lilies are the symbol of purity and chastity among Christians, but the symbol of lust and sexuality among the Romans. I wonder which meaning he had in mind when he sent these.” In complete contrast to her appearance, Millie’s voice had a sexy bedroom quality to it, honey with a splash of fine aged whiskey.
    Darcy snorted and, taking the vase, placed it on her desk and opened the card.
    These calla lilies may embody your elegance and grace, but they pale in