Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) (15 page)

“Jesus, just forget it,” I snap. Leave it to Henry to dig deeper.

“Don’t shut down on me.” Ugh, I hate when he says that, because usually because he’s right.

“What’s going on with you?” I demand, turning the microscope away from me.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

I want to hang up. This is not the conversation I planned on having when I answered the phone. I wish I hadn’t even mentioned coming home at this point. Fighting with Henry makes me feel terrible, and it’s honestly the last thing I need right now. “Never mind,” I grumble.

“You can’t just throw a grenade out there and walk away,” he says. “What do you mean, what’s going on with me? I don’t understand. What have I done wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything,” I request, trying to dismiss the comment.

“No, damn it, Paige! You always do this. You can’t put something out there and just let it linger. Explain what you mean.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling,” he insists, calming his tone.

“Well,” I begin. “Maybe you’re not yelling, but you’re making me really uncomfortable.”

“Then just tell me what you meant,” he presses.

“Fine. God, I don’t know why you always have to push me so much. But if you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“Please, do.”

“Every time we talk it seems like you’re more and more distracted. It’s like you could care less that I’m gone. I’m starting to think you prefer it that way.”

“Are you serious? Am I the only one who was there last week? I thought we had an amazing time.”

“Yes, we did, but—now, when I tell you I want to come home, it’s pretty obvious you don’t even want me there.”

“Do you really think that?” he asks gently.

I sit silent, thinking about his question. I don’t believe it. I know he loves me, and I know he’d rather I be at home with him. I also know he just wants what’s best for me, and that’s why he’s pushing me to stay. But on some level, it infuriates me that his desire to not be away from me isn’t overwhelming his desire for me to succeed. Selfishly, I want his world to stop when I’m not there. Granted, then I would probably think he was clingy. Damn it, I don’t know what I want.

“Well?” Henry asks again.

“No,” I admit. “I just can’t do all of this without you. It’s too much.”

“Then how about we hand some of the wedding details off to Grandmother. I could care less what the wedding looks like, as long as you’re there with me.”

I feel warmth envelop me at his words. I don’t know why I freak out and try to make a mess of things all the time. He will always love me, and I him. “Yeah, that might be good,” I agree.

“How about you give it another week, and if you want to come home after that, then we’ll get you on a plane right away.”

“All right,” I relent. I can do a week.

“Paige?” I hear Emmie’s voice call out as she steps in through the front door. She’s carrying a plate of food; this has become our routine in recent days.

“Over here,” I yell from behind a pile of boxes. “Babe? I’ve gotta go. Dinner time.”

“Okay, are we good?” Henry asks, uneasy that the conversation is coming to such an abrupt end.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I flipped out on you,” I reply.

“Are you sure we’re fine?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Okay, then go eat. I should probably do the same.”

“I love you,” I say softly.

“I love you, too, and goodnight.”

As I hang up the phone, I look to see Emmie standing directly in front of me. From the expression on her face, I can see she already knows more than I wish she did.

“He told you?”

“Huh?” She tries to play ignorant, placing the plate of foil-covered food on the table next to us.

“Please, you’re a terrible liar, so don’t even try,” I warn.

“I might have overheard Colin and Christian talking while I was cooking dinner.”

“How much do you know?” I question.

“He told you he’s still in love with you?” she inquires.

“Pretty much.”

“What are you going to do?” I have no idea how to answer that question.

“What am I supposed to do with that? I told him I’m in love with Henry now. Then I got the hell out of there.”

“What did Henry say?”

“I told him I want to come home, but he … he wants me to stay.”

“Did you tell him what Christian said?”

“No!” I exclaim. “Do you think I’m crazy? That will only make him think something has been going on, when it hasn’t. And besides, he’s been weird enough lately.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“I don’t know. He seems distracted. Every time we talk he has to go because he’s about to take a nap or something else. It just always seems like it’s something,” I explain.

“What do you think’s going on?”

“I have no clue. Maybe it’s work or his grandmother. I know she can be a nightmare, and I’m sure it’s worse with the wedding getting so close and me out of town.”

“So are you flying home?” she inquires, moving closer.

“Not yet. I promised Henry I’d at least give this another week.”

“What about what Christian said?”

“What about it?” I ask, narrowing my brows in puzzlement.

“Have you thought about giving him another chance?” I can’t believe she just asked me that question.

“When you were engaged to Colin did you ever consider giving one of your exes another chance?” I ask, not masking my disgust.

“First of all, I’ve only been with one other man besides Colin, and he killed himself so that really wasn’t an option,” she reminds me. Damn it! She always has the my-ex-committed-suicide card, which makes most of my comparisons completely irrelevant.

“You get what I mean. I’m committed to Henry. I don’t even know how you could ask me that.” Emmie looks away quickly, and I can tell she’s hiding something. “What?”

“Huh?” she mutters innocently.

“No, I know you! Spill it.”

“I might have heard Christian tell Colin that he’s not ready to give up on you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, irritated.

“I think he’s going to ask you out on a date.”

“What? Well, that’s too bad. I’m not going,” I say firmly.

I pull the foil off the plate she brought me. Mashed potatoes, chicken breast, and green beans are placed neatly in even portions. The smell hits me, and I can’t help but moan in delight. I skip the fork and dip a finger into the mashed potatoes.

“Umm …” Emmie begins, then stops herself.

I look at her, then demand, “What?”

Emmie shakes her head, and continues. “I don’t think he’s going to take no for an answer.”

“He’s just going to have to. Thanks for dinner, but I better get back to work.” I’d had enough fun talking about Christian and his sociopathic behavior. Henry’s right. I simply need to put my head down and get through the next few weeks. The only way Christian is going to distract me anymore is if I let him.

WAKING UP AT six o’clock in order to avoid breakfast with the Bennett boys is starting to take a toll on my sanity. On one hand, I’ve been more productive in recent days than probably ever before, but on the other, I’m getting quite cranky. This morning when Henry called, I actually hung up on him.

This isn’t normal behavior for us. All morning I hope he will call back, so that I can apologize. Why on Earth I feel like he is the one who needs to call me, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just another instance of me not thinking rationally when I receive improper amounts of sleep.

Basically, I can trace all of the blame for the recent argument straight back to Christian. Had he not confessed his love to me, then I would not feel compelled to get up at an ungodly hour, missing precious hours of sleep, in order to avoid him. Damn it Christian, is everything your fault?

The door to my little studio space opens. I look up and—fuck—it’s him!

“What are you doing here?” I demand, disgusted that he would ruin my plans to completely avoid him for the remainder of my stay in Bastrop.

He walks in, with one hand behind his back, and pushes the door closed with his foot.

“I’m serious, you can’t be in here. I’m working.”

He reveals a bundle of fresh-cut flowers. The violets are a soft purple and touches of creams and whites are scattered about, acting as a perfect complement. “Truce?”

“Excuse me?”

“I come bearing gifts. I’d like a cease fire between us,” he says, walking across the room. I want him to stop moving toward me. Every step he takes, I can feel the heat in the room increasing.

“Okay, whatever. We’re fine. I just have a lot of work to do,” I say dismissively, hoping he will catch the hint and turn to leave. He doesn’t. In a few more seconds he is now only a few feet from me, looking around at all of the scraps of fabric on the table.

He pushes the flowers in my direction, but I wave my hands, unwilling to accept the gesture, for fear of what that might say to him.

“Please. I got them for you.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t even have anything to put them in,” I explain, still refusing them from his extended hands.

He drops his arms, staring at my face silently. I look around at my work, picking up a strip of fabric and trying to seem extremely busy again, in hopes he will leave. Instead, he places the bundle of flowers on the table between us and proceeds to walk around it. There is no longer a barrier between us, and my heart begins to race. I wish we weren’t alone.

He lunges forward, and I hold my breath, close my eyes, and prepare for his touch. But there is nothing. I lift my lids and realize he is leaning over to pick up one of the garments I’ve been working on, and not to touch me.

“Are you all good?” he asks me with a confused stare.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I insist. “I just have a lot of work to do, so if you don’t mind …” I look to the door, trying to make the request clearer with my eyes.

“This is really gorgeous, Paige. These tones, they’re almost like what you find in cedar planks,” he comments, examining the garment closer.

My head tilts. “I was going for a wood tone in my selection of the fabric.” Suddenly I’m not thinking about the fact that Christian, my ex who is still in love with me, is standing in front of me. I am instead excited that my design resonates in the way I intended.

“Here,” I continue. “I was going to pair this leather vest with it.” I turn and reach over around behind the sewing machine to retrieve the piece I’d been working on the previous evening. “I think the black will contrast it well. And I like the idea of black leather and old woods. I want to design a metal chevron necklace to go with it, but the jewelry will have to wait until I actually finish the garments.”

“That’s going to look incredible. Jesus, I knew you were talented, but my God,” he comments, reaching out with a free hand to run his fingers across the stitching on the vest.

“Oh please, this is nothing. I can’t exactly make furniture out of a hunk of wood.” Did I just say that? I want to cut out my tongue. What in the hell am I doing? He needs to get out of here—the sooner the better.

He drapes the tunic dress across the chair next to us, never taking his eyes off me. The silence feels uncomfortable, and my eyes dart around the room, trying to avoid his stare. I can see he does not feel compelled to look away. His stare is intense, and though I fight as hard as I can to avoid it, eventually I’m caught. He steps closer, licking his lips and narrowing the gap between us to only a little more than a foot.

The intensity in his eyes is more than I can bear; I force myself to stare at his dimple, avoiding the penetrating glare. But that only makes me want to press my lips against the small cavern.

“We never got to finish our talk,” he says in a soft, but deep and raspy voice.

My back is up against the table. There is nowhere for me to go, and nowhere for me to look accept at him.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, trying to find an escape.

“I think there is. If you don’t want to talk, then just listen,” he continues.

“Christian,” I whisper, wishing with everything in me he’ll stop and walk away, because I know I don’t have the strength to make him stop.

“When I saw you with him, it was the most intense pain I’ve ever felt. I managed to fool myself into believing I could get over you, but I can’t. And I don’t think you’re over me.”

“I’m getting married,” I say firmly.

“That’s not what I said. I said, I think you still love me, too.”

His words hang between us. I back up, standing on my tiptoes, and place my bottom on the table to increase the distance between us, if only by inches. He uses the opportunity to move in closer, maneuvering in between my legs, and pressing his body against mine.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, his hot breath now on my cheek.

I freeze. I can’t think, say, or do anything. Reaching up with one hand, he tucks a stray hair, which hangs in my face, behind my ear. I tell myself to push him away, but my arms aren’t listening to me. Instead, I find myself licking my lips, wishing for a taste, just once more.

I part my lips, and I close my eyes and let go, giving all control to him. I can taste the bitterness from my morning coffee in my saliva. My chest begins to ache, and my stomach groans in anticipation of what might be coming next.