The Stubborn Love Series: Books 1-5 Contemporary Romance Series

by Wendy Owens

  “Sorry, I should have called.”

  “No, I’m sure you’ve had a ton of catching up to do with Emmie. Have you girls been going on non-stop?”

  I pause, wondering if I should tell him about Christian again. “Actually, I fell asleep.”

  “You’re kidding me? Are you feeling all right?” Henry asks, chuckling.

  “Yeah, I set my bags down, and next thing I knew I was asleep,” I answer honestly.

  “I’m a little jealous. I tried to nap earlier, but I couldn’t sleep without you next to me.”

  “You? Nap?” I question. “You never nap. Who is this?”

  Henry laughs again. I’ve missed that laugh. He enjoys my sarcasm, which I love because that means I get to hear that laugh a lot. “Actually, I’ve had a headache I can’t seem to shake. I thought a nap might do me good.”

  “Honey,” I begin, my voice shifting to one heavy with concern. “You had a headache before I left.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s not normal.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve just not been taking as good of care of myself as I should. Someone keeps me up all night, not that I’m complaining. I’ll give up sleep any day for that.”

  I realize I’m smiling.

  “I miss you,” he adds softly.

  “Me too.”

  “I miss your body,” Henry continues.

  “Oh yeah?” I inquire, hoping for more, as I make myself comfortable on the bed.

  “Yeah.”

  “And what exactly about my body do you miss?” I ask, eagerly awaiting the details.

  “Your legs.”

  “You like my legs, huh?”

  “Especially when they’re wrapped around me. When I can run my hands down your soft back until they meet your ass. I love holding your amazing ass while you rock against me.”

  “Henry!” I squeal.

  “What? I thought that’s what you wanted,” he replies in an innocent tone.

  “You’re going to make me fly back home tonight if you don’t watch it.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I love you.” The words slide out of me effortlessly. It’s not a part I’m playing—it’s my life. In the back of my mind I am processing the idea. I’m okay with Christian being here, because I mean those words when I say them to Henry. The things I feel when I see Christian are hauntings from my past, and I can handle that, because I have Henry. And I love him.

  “I love you, too. Can I call you tomorrow?” he asks.

  “You better,” I say, staring at the ceiling.

  “Go hang out with your friend, have some fun tonight, and then get to work tomorrow,” he instructs.

  “Okay, you don’t have to twist my arm. Promise you’ll get some rest?”

  “I’ll do my best in this cold, lonely bed.”

  “Don’t make me feel bad or anything,” I gasp, acting as though I were hurt.

  “You should feel bad. You’re forcing me to get takeout for one. Do you know how pathetic that is?”

  “Very,” I say, taking in a deep breath. “Smells like I’ll be having a home-cooked meal.”

  “Oh, you’re so cruel.”

  “I try,” I say before laughing wickedly.

  “I miss you.” His voice is now soft and sincere.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, baby,” I say, and then wait for him to hang up first.

  Chapter Seven

  I WATCH IN amazement as Emmie and Colin scurry around one another. Their movements are like a dance—there is no music, but they’re in harmony together. Colin grabs the baby bag, throwing it over his shoulder, while Emmie, with Olivia on her hip, grabs a couple snacks with her free hand. She spins, tossing them to Colin, who catches them effortlessly, placing them with the other items he has been collecting. Emmie wastes no time grabbing Olivia’s favorite blanket, and Colin places the stroller on his spare arm.

  “Now, you have our cell phone numbers, in case you need us,” Emmie reminds me as if I were a clueless teenager.

  “I’ll be fine, I told you,” I insist.

  “I’m serious, if you need anything at all, just call one of us, but like I said, in the middle of the day during the week it’s rare we get a lot of foot traffic, so I’m sure you won’t even have to do anything,” Emmie continues, clearly unsure about leaving the gallery completely in my hands for the afternoon.

  “It’s thirty minutes to the pediatrician and then thirty back, we should be home within a couple hours,” Colin adds.

  “Go!” I exclaim. “I’ve got this.”

  “All right, all right, we’re going,” Emmie says, lifting a hand defensively.

  I watch out the kitchen window as Colin and Emmie pack Olivia, and the massive amount of objects it takes to care for her, into their Prius. It amazes me how much they have fallen into the family role. Even when Colin and Emmie met, I knew they would be a perfect pair, but if you would have told me five years later they would be married with a baby, I’m not sure I would have believed you.

  The idea of commitment terrified Emmie, after such a tragic ending to her first marriage. Who could blame her? Colin was so patient, though. I’ve always thought of him like a big brother, but for him to treat her with so much understanding through their relationship only made me love him all the more. Eventually it became natural for her to let him love her. It was like an acceptance settled over her, she finally seemed to realize Colin wasn’t going to turn into something else. He was being who he really was with her, and he was in it for the long haul.

  I think the end of Christian’s and my relationship was more of the shock for everyone. For the first year Emmie and Colin expected us to figure things out and find our way back to each other. Once I moved in with Henry, those assumptions seemed to fade away, slowly though. There was a time even I thought Christian was my soul mate, but we eventually all have to grow up and realize that when we’re young we can mold things into fairytales they’re not. We romanticize situations, making more of something that doesn’t exist.

  Walking to the stove, I remove the screaming teakettle and pour the boiling water over the tea bag at the bottom of my mug. Just as I set the pot onto one of the cool burners, the bell in the front of the gallery rings, signally that the door has opened. Yeah, this place is dead on weekdays; I didn’t even have time for my tea to steep. Staring at the mug, as I carefully carry the hot beverage out to the front counter and set it down, looking up to greet the customer, which I know I have no clue how to really do, but how hard can it be? It’s not a customer looking back at me, though; it’s Christian.

  “What are you doing here?” The words escape my mouth before I can even process what I’m saying.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Christian laughs, both arms wrapped around a large package.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—” I begin, stopping myself to take a deep breath before continuing. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were a customer.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I do come bearing gifts,” he replies.

  My face contorts and twists into a look of puzzlement.

  “Well, I hope it’s a gift. I really have no idea what’s inside, but it’s addressed to you. I was picking up a delivery this morning, and they asked me to drop this off to the shop.”

  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 count
er 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 jus
t 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.

  Chapter Eight

  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.