“—do behind the ears. You tell me alla time.”

As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress…and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.

That would be absolute heaven.

Three tries were a charm.

Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.

Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.

He’d only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.

Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes—and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he’d been punched.

Abruptly, Nigel’s aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.

Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it’s-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh…and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?

Besides it wasn’t like he’d been master of his domain with any great frequency.

Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.

Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he’d been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he’d accepted some kind of mission…how the hell did he proceed—

“You’re awake.”

Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell…who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had…yeah.

“How you feeling?”

The guy was still wearing the black suit that he’d had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.

Surely it wasn’t possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.

“Hello?” DiPietro waved. “You in there?”