Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series)

by Owens, Wendy

  Shaking my head, I smile, realizing he was bringing some of the design stuff Henry shipped down to me. “It’s for work,” I explain, moving out from around the counter and crossing the concrete floors to take the package from him. As I reach out and place my hands on the box, his skin brushes against me as he pulls away. I drop the box as I recoil from the brief interaction.

  “Are you all right?” Christian asks, dipping low to pick up the package from the ground. Much to my dismay, I bend down at the same time to retrieve the dropped goods, causing our heads to smack into one another’s.

  We both stumble back, clutching our heads in pain. I grab a hold of the counter to steady myself. I realize Christian is wailing with laughter.

  “I’m glad you find my pain so hilarious,” I snarl.

  Christian quickly approaches, scooping up the discarded package, placing it on the counter. “I’m laughing because I see you are just as graceful as you used to be.”

  “Hey!” I gasp, then laugh, realizing he’s right. “How is it I can walk down a runway in four-inch heels, but damn it, anything else, and somehow I manage to hurt myself?”

  “No clue. I suppose you’re just gifted that way,” Christian adds, gasping for breath between laughs, before a silence settles over the room. He quickly attempts to alleviate any awkward silence. “So, I hear you’re not modeling anymore. Finally decided to hang your stilettos up?”

  I examine Christian, quiet for a moment, trying to gauge what his sudden interest in me means. Then, convincing myself he is simply trying to be nice, I answer, “When you say it like that it sounds like I was a stripper.”

  He laughs again. “I’ve missed your sense of humor.”

  I feel my stomach flip as I wonder what else he has missed, then remember the original question. “My fiancé helped me get into fashion design.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, too.”

  “What? About the show? They told you?”

  “Well, about that and about your engagement,” he says, watching my face for a reaction. I give him none.

  “At least one of us was told what was going on in the other’s life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just you, and being here, and—” I hesitate, and then think better of going deeper into the conversation. “Nothing, never mind.”

  “Wait, you didn’t know I was living in Bastrop? Did you?” Christian asks. I can see he is surprised that I have been kept in the dark.

  I shake my head. “Last I heard, you were a drifting roadie, a different band every few months, a different town every week.”

  Christian glances at the floor as he responds. I can tell he’s thinking about his past. “When you say it like that, it sounds like a bad country song. The ex-stripper and the washed up roadie, we would definitely be a chart topper.”

  I snicker. “Someone is going to hear that and actually think I was a stripper.”

  “Well, if the stiletto fits.” He grins at me.

  “Private showings I did for you don’t count.” Damn it, why in the hell did I just say that?

  He raises his eyebrows as my face turns to a bright shade of red, then says, “My days on the road were a while ago. I found a better gig.”

  I sigh a huge breath of relief that he moved our conversation back on track. Then, with my voice dripping with sarcasm, I comment, “I don’t know, from what I heard, you were leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you. Seems like you had a pretty decent gig.”

  He seems amused by my statement, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. “I don’t know about that,” he says with that crooked smile, the one I refuse to stare at. Damn it! I’m staring at it. Looking away, I allow my eyes to travel to his clothes. A flannel shirt with reds, browns, and creams in it hangs open, unbuttoned, with a white V-neck t-shirt peeking out underneath. His faded blue jeans hug his hips perfectly, a tear in the knee, beginning to unravel, allows his tanned flesh to show through. The way he dresses now is different than when we were young, but something is so right about it. He’s less kept, with his hair longer, the stubble on his face complementing his strong jaw line. He has a confidence that’s different. It feels like he’s found who he is, and I can’t help but wonder who that might be.

  “Emmie said you started your own business,” I add.

  He nods, glancing out the door over his shoulder. I wonder if he’s expecting someone. “I did. I make furniture, signs, well, just about anything you can make out of wood. Actually, I made that counter.”

  I look down and stare at the stained red wood top, the edge cascading to a waterfall point that leads the wood grain all the way to the floor. The polish and stain accentuates the knots in the woods, the simplicity in the piece is part of its beauty.

  “Are you kidding?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Nope, I do most of their frames here, too,” he adds.

  My eyes dart around the room, taking in all the variations of wood tones in front of me. My stare stops at one of Emmie’s oversized paintings. It’s one of my favorites called The Breaking. Walking up to the six foot painting, I run my hands along the frame, which looks like driftwood that has been smoothed down and sealed. The wood is so soft it’s like silk under my fingertips.

  “Christian, these are beautiful,” I remark, moving on to the next frame, which has ornate scroll carvings to complement the realistic oil painting it surrounds.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it! I can’t believe you made all of these,” I gasp.

  “I have a lot of time on my hands, I guess. I mostly make furniture, now that the shop’s open. I have enough custom orders to last me the next six months,” he adds proudly.

  I turn and look at him; he looks away, his eyes shifting nervously around the room. It’s not a reaction I recall ever seeing from him, nor one I expect.

  “Seriously, you’re very gifted.”

  He clears his throat, my compliment making him uncomfortable. The Christian I knew was confident to the point of arrogance. The man that stands before me has a sense of humbleness about him. “Thanks, I enjoy it. And I get to be here and watch Olivia grow up.”

  “She’s amazing,” I say, walking over and remembering my tea, which has now shifted to a muddy coloring. Pulling out the bag and placing it on the nearby saucer, I drop in the sugar cube that was waiting on the plate. I can’t believe I’d been nervous to see Christian. It feels completely normal to be around him. There is none of the intensity or tension I’d worried about.

  “Let’s go to dinner,” he suggests.

  My body jolts; perhaps I am wrong. There is nothing normal about him asking me out to dinner. How could I be so stupid? Of course, leave it up to Christian to assume he could just charm his way back into my life, even after knowing I’m engaged to someone else. Maybe he hasn’t changed that much.

  “Um, yeah, so that’s not going to happen,” I answer, not shielding the disgust.

  “Why not? We have years to catch up on.”

  “Because, I’m engaged or did that slip your mind?”

  “Wow.” Christian laughs. “I see you’re also still very sure of yourself.”

  “Excuse me?” I bark at him.

  “It’s all right, I always liked your confidence.” he says, waving his hands in the air defensively.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean—well—you’re the one who asked me to dinner. I don’t think that means I’m full of myself.”

  “I asked an old friend to dinner. It’s not like it is a date or something.”

  “Yeah right,” I scoff, squinting at him, before sipping my over-steeped and bitter tea.

  “Oh, now I get it,” Christian says, nodding.

  I furrow my brow. “Now you get what?”

  “You’re scared to go to dinner with me.”

  “What?”

  “You are!” he exclaims. “You’re scared it might stir some of those old feelings.”

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “All right
then, so you’ll go to dinner with me? I’ll pick you up tonight at eight,” he adds, not waiting for me to answer before setting the time.

  “No!” I gasp, unsure how the conversation slipped away from me so quickly. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I know when you’re manipulating me.”

  Christian flashes that slightly crooked smile at me. That damn cavernous dimple of his is staring at me. I can’t look away, so I just make myself look annoyed. He walks up, leaning onto the counter, so he’s only inches away from me now. He smells like cedar chips, and I feel my knees begin to buckle under me. I grab the counter top to steady myself.

  “No manipulation, I really just want to have dinner with one of my oldest friends. You can even talk about Henry all night if you want,” he offers before standing upright.

  “Fine, I just might.” Yup, I sound like a moron.

  “Great, see you tonight at eight,” he says, spinning around and exiting the shop. The bell dings before I can say another word.

  Then I’m alone, still gripping the counter, and wondering what on Earth just happened.

  I LOOK AT myself in the mirror, the third outfit I’ve tried staring back at me. The first one was far too sexy for a friends-only dinner, the second one looked like I should be painting a room in it, and now there is this one. I’m pretty sure it is stylish while still saying, ‘This is not a date, so please don’t get the wrong idea.’ Though Christian had made it quite clear this was not a date already.

  When Henry called earlier and asked what I had been up to, I considered telling him about the dinner. I then reconsidered, because, after all, it isn’t a date. If it is just dinner with an old friend, then it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, and why even bother telling him. At least that’s how I justified it in my head.

  Flattening out the ruffles on the dress, I marvel at one of my creations. It is a veritable fountain of lace and frills, from the handmade appliqué on the form-fitting bodice, to the cascading layers of chiffon cream and cocoa colored ruffles on the skirt, stopping just above the knee. It’s young and flirty without being inappropriate for the purpose of the evening. Considering I’m in Texas, I only think it proper to pair it with my favorite pair of Frye cowboy boots, which come midway up my shin. I look pretty darn adorable if I do say so myself.

  “Paige,” I hear with a knock at my door, my heart jumping a little. “It’s me, Emmie, can I come in?”

  I turn to face her as she enters. “Sure.”

  “Wow, I love that dress. Is that an original Paige design?”

  “It is,” I reply, spinning around, showing off the details.

  “Oh my God, you have to make me something,” Emmie begs, rushing in and rubbing the ruffles between her fingertips.

  “Hey, I made your wedding dress!” I remind her.

  “Trust me, I remember, it’s my favorite piece of clothing I own, but I think people might begin to wonder if I’m crazy if I wear it around the shop all day.”

  “Artists are eccentric, right?”

  “Very true, so maybe I could get away with it.” We both burst out laughing and take a seat on the bed.

  “So what’s up?” I inquire.

  “Christian told Colin to have you meet him at his studio at eight instead,” Emmie says hesitantly.

  “Oh … all right,” I reply, trying not to make it sound like a big deal.

  “Well?” she pushes. It is clear she isn’t going to fold easily.

  “Well what?” I continue to play dumb.

  “I came back from Olivia’s doctor appointment and you said nothing happened. Clearly that wasn’t true.”

  “Oh, Christian, that’s nothing,” I insist.

  “Nothing? You look amazing, your fiancé is in New York, and you’re supposed to meet up in a few minutes with the only guy who ever broke your heart? That’s not nothing.”

  “Emmie,” I say, grasping her hands. “Really, I promise, it’s nothing. If it were something, don’t you think I would have told you?”

  “No, I don’t think you would have said a word either way. That’s how you work.”

  I laugh. “You do know me too well. But I swear, it’s nothing.”

  “Nope, no way—that’s not going to work for me. Spill it, what’s going on?”

  “Honestly,” I begin. “I have no clue. It all happened so fast. He came by the gallery this afternoon to deliver a package to me.”

  “A package, huh?” she interjects with a sly grin.

  “You’ve been down here with the Bennett boys too long,” I remark.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Go on, what happened next?”

  “We got to talking and before I knew it, I’d agreed to a friends dinner. Whatever the hell that means.”

  “I don’t know, sweetie, do you think it’s a good idea?” Emmie asks, her voice heavy with concern.

  “No! I think it’s a terrible idea. But before I could change my mind, he was gone. And now, if I don’t show, he’ll make it into a big deal, I’m sure, and say I’m not over him,” I argue.

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Over him?”

  I look at her in shock. “Of course I am. How could you ask that? I love Henry.”

  “I know you do,” she confirms.

  “Then why do I always feel like I have to convince you of that?”

  “It’s not whether you love Henry that worries me. It’s how much you loved Christian.”

  “Loved. That’s in the past. I don’t love him any more,” I reply firmly.

  “Okay,” she relents. “I’m sorry. If you say you’re over him, then I’m sure you are.”

  I stand, straightening out my dress and quickly glance in the mirror to fix my hair, but not too much as to make it look like I care. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I doubt I will,” I say and head out the door and down the wooden stairwell, my boots clicking as they hit. The gallery is closed, and I have to exit out of the rear door, which is the one they use for their residence. The wood studio was only just off to the side of that.

  I push open the door that has a note with a phone number printed on it advising visitors to call for an appointment. The room is lit in soft, yellowy light. Immediately, the wood smell hits me—intoxicating. The room is set up like a showroom floor. A rustic looking dining room table and chairs are front and center, and an ornate, hand-carved rocking chair is in the far corner. I even see a pair of wooden skis hanging on the wall, and I laugh, imagining someone on skis in the desert terrain.

  “I’m back here,” I hear Christian’s voice call from an open door at the back of the room.

  I walk across the pine floor, noticing all of the knotting and patterns as I move. Even the floor is a work of art.

  “Oh my God,” I say as I approach. “This place is amazing.”

  Moving into the open doorway, I see Christian standing there in just a pair of jeans and a face-mask, wood shavings sticking to his sweaty chest. He moves in long strides, rubbing the sanding block up and down on the top of the large flat surface in front of him.

  “I’m sorry—” I shriek. “I thought you said eight.” I turn around, my cheeks shifting to a fiery red.

  “I did, but I got a call rushing an order, so I thought I’d work on it until you came over,” he explains.

  “Shirtless?” I can’t help my snarky tone.

  “I didn’t want to get sawdust all over my shirt, so I thought I’d take it off until you got here. You always took forever getting ready.”

  As I turn around, he is rubbing a towel down his washboard abs. I swallow hard. His body has changed, his shoulders and arms are broader, but his waist is trimmer. I always liked his body, but now, with the cuts just below his hips, I can see his new physique has a lot to offer as well.

  “Besides, you’re engaged.” I can tell he’s making fun of me.

  “Shut up. Do you need a few minutes?” I ask.

  “To what?”


  “Get dressed.”

  “You’ve seen me in a lot less than this.” He laughs. Damn him, now I am thinking about him with less—he had the most amazingly firm ass. I always loved seeing him walk from our bed to the bathroom … naked. I shake my head and tell myself to think of something else.

  “Whatever. So where are we going for dinner?” I ask, trying to think quickly, careful not to look away again. I don’t want him to think for a second that his undressed state makes me feel uncomfortable. If I’m being completely honest, I also don’t mind looking a little longer.

  He grabs a nearby white t-shirt, slipping it over his head, then pulls on the same flannel he had on that morning. Clearly, it is not a date.

  “There’s a great little place called Roadhouse, but it’s not in walking distance, and I’m kind of in the mood to walk.”

  “Seriously? What is it about this Roadhouse place? The cab driver mentioned it, too.” I laugh.

  “It’s good!”

  “Can a place called Roadhouse really be that good?” I joke.

  Suddenly his face shifts, and he becomes very serious. Turning, he picks something up from the chair and faces me. I watch as he places a cowboy hat on top of his head and secures it firmly into place. His glare never shifts as he says, “Why yes, Ms. New York, a place called Roadhouse can be quite delicious, and I would be careful if I were you.”

  A massive amount of air blows past my lips, sending saliva flying everywhere as I cackle and ask, “Why’s that? You plan to hog tie me, buck-a-roo?”

  “Hey,” Christian wails, pulling his hat off to stare at it, then back at me as if he is deeply wounded by my remarks.

  “I’m sorry, you just look—” I’m not quite sure of the word I am looking for, though ridiculous has popped into my mind.

  “Ruggedly handsome?” he suggests, placing the hat back on top of his head. “Why yes, I think so, too. And you better be careful, because the locals here, they take their food very seriously, and if any of them hear you badmouth Roadhouse, they’re liable to run you out of town.”

  “That’s it, it’s settled. No walking. You’re taking me to this Roadhouse, so I can see it for myself,” I demand, still trying to contain my laughter from seeing him in his hat.