Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) (9 page)

He snickers. “All right, I’m just playing. He was your date at Em and Colin’s wedding, wasn’t he?”

“I didn’t think you noticed I was there.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You didn’t even say hello. I mean, really? I was the maid of honor, and you were the best man.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. I had every intention of making nice, and then you showed up with a date, and … well, I couldn’t.”

“I get it, it’s not easy. I was kind of relieved we didn’t have to speak.”

“It’s not so bad now, is it?” he asks, huge puppy dog eyes staring back at me.

“No, but I think it’s because we’ve both moved on and have other things in our lives.”

Christian looks back at the kitchen, searching for any sign on the status of our food. “Henry does seem to make you happy,” he adds at last.

“He really does.”

“I’m happy for you. So tell me all about this guy. How did you meet, what does he do? I want all the details.”

I wrinkle my forehead and ask cautiously, “Are you sure?”

“Of course, this is the kind of stuff friends talk about. I want to know everything about your new life,” he insists.

And so I tell him everything. We talk all through dinner, the drive home, and then even stand in the courtyard talking. Nothing is off limits. Nothing feels weird. He isn’t jealous, and he actually seems genuinely interested. I wonder if he misses our friendship as much as I do.

When a silence at last lingers, he chimes, “You better get to bed.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep, or is it back to the studio for you?” I question.

“What can I say, it’s my routine,” he answers, walking backward as he watches me quietly sneak in through the back door of Em and Colin’s home.

I WAKE UP late, look at my phone, and realize I’ve missed a call from Henry. I decide he can wait, as I sit up and get a look at the clock. 9:26.

When I came upstairs, after my evening with Christian, I was suddenly troubled with a case of insomnia, something very rare for me. I’d sketched into the early morning hours.

Reaching down, I pick the pad up from the floor and flip through the pages. Examining the ideas that had flooded out of me, I’m expecting nothing usable. Much to my surprise and delight, I see design after design that I still love in the morning light. To be quite honest, they are better than anything I’ve ever created. I find myself loathing the designs I’ve already made for my show. There is cohesion in the images that I have seemingly struggled with before. I’ve never included a vest in any of my designs, yet here are at least three within the pages of sketches.

The words urban country pop into my head. There it is, the entire show, the concept shifting in the blink of an eye. The beauty of the south is taking things slow, doing it right. I want to take all the textures and patterns that make you think Southern style and put them on urban lines. The cut of a nice blazer paired with the perfect blue jean. Oh shit! If I’m going to commit to this, it means starting over from scratch. I have to think on this some more; any major decisions prior to my morning coffee always leads to disaster.

Stumbling out of bed, I slip on my robe, pulling the fabric up to my nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells of home, my home with Henry. I decide I’ll call him after coffee. He will be honest about the makeover idea—complete and total honesty is something I can always rely on from Henry.

Shuffling down the stairs, I weave through the halls and make my way into the rustic kitchen, the smell of muffins filling the air. Emmie is dancing with Olivia near the stove to a song on the radio I’ve not heard.

She spins around, dancing her way over to me. “Oh my, Ms. Olivia, look who joined us. Can you say hi to Auntie Paige?”

My heart warms as Olivia giggles and gurgles, her mom suddenly dipping her back in a dramatic dance move.

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replies, throwing a puzzled glance in my direction.

“Dancing in the morning … what did you do with the Emmie I know?”

“Tell Aunt Paige that just because she’s a grumpy puss, and her date must have went terrible, she doesn’t need to bring us all down,” Emmie says in a baby-like tone.

My stomach twists and suddenly my face flashes with heat. My reaction is pure instinct. “How about you tell your mommy to hush it when she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.”

“Whoa!” Emmie replies quickly. “I was just kidding. No reason to get nasty.”

I sit silently, avoiding eye contact, unsure why what she said bothered me so intensely.

“I’m serious,” Emmie continues. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Did something happen?”

“What?” I snap. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” She grabs a mug and pours me a cup of coffee without asking. “Clearly something has you on edge.”

“I’m fine, but I just don’t like the jokes about Christian and me.”

“All right, I’m sorry.”

I feel bad and wish I hadn’t reacted so swiftly. “Since when do you bake?” I ask, shifting the attention away from my behavior.

“There are a lot of things I started doing since we moved down here,” Emmie says. “I know you’re all Manhattan girl, but I think this town will really start growing on you.”

“I think it already has,” I say, remembering the recent inspiration in my designs.

“What? My ears must be deceiving me.”

“You’re not the only one who has changed,” I say with a smile, scooping the sugar into my black coffee.

“Oh, do tell.” Emmie plops a muffin on the table in front of me, no concern for a plate or napkin underneath it. I smile, thinking of Henry’s pet peeve. Pulling up a chair, she sits down, bouncing Olivia on her knee.

“Tell what?”

“All these things that have changed about you. I feel like we never get to talk these days, and when we find time to Skype, it’s always baby stuff.”

“Seriously?” I gasp. “You can’t just put me on the spot like that. It’s not like I can just list things off.”

“Today is Colin’s morning for the gallery, so please, let’s talk about something,” Emmie pleads, grabbing my arm. “What about last night?”

“What about it?” I reply quickly.

“You went out with Christian, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, tell me, how did it go?” she pushes.

“You do realize I’m engaged to be married,” I remind her.

She glares at me. “Um, I know. I’m not accusing you of—” She pauses to place her hands over Olivia’s ears before whispering, “screwing him.”

I laugh. Screwing has somehow become a curse word since Emmie became a mother. It is actually quite endearing, and I want to squeeze my friend to pieces.

“He took me to dinner, then we came home, and I went to bed,” I say at last.

“Oh no, that won’t do at all,” Emmie protests. “Where did you go to dinner?”

Picking up the muffin, I take a sniff, trying to identify what is inside. There is a hint of banana and cinnamon. “You made these?” I ask nervously.

“Yes, and they’re good.”

“Do you have the number for poison control handy?”

“Shut up! They’re good.” Emmie slaps my arm playfully. “Quit changing the subject and tell me about last night.”

Lifting the delicious-smelling muffin up to my lips, I take a huge bite, allowing the moist mixture to dissolve in my mouth.

With a swallow, I take a sip of the coffee in front of me, then moan in delight. “Oh my God, that is crazy good!”

“Told you.”

“I’m going to get so fat by my wedding.”

“Somehow I doubt that. Now spill it. Where did you go to dinner last night?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” I ask, delighting in her torture at this point.

“I don’t have a ton of girlfriends I get to dish with down here. Can’t you throw me a bone or something? I mean Jesus, it’s spit up and dirty diapers all day long. I could—” She’s getting heated.

“All right, all right, I’m just messing with you. Careful before you start lactating. He took me to Roadhouse.”

“Mmm …” Emmie moans. “I love their portabella burger.”

“That’s what I got! And dear God, those sweet potato fries? That place just isn’t right,” I say. “And I go back to my original statement that I am going to be so fucking fat by the wedding.”

I see Emmie flinch, and then realize my use of curse words in front of Olivia. “Sorry.”

“Was it weird?” Emmie continues, ignoring my apology.

I think about her question for a minute. “Honestly, no. It was like old times—well, not exactly like old times.”

“So you only went to dinner?”

“Yeah, we ended up staying until they closed. He was really curious about Henry, and when I talked about him he didn’t get weird at all. I would have never thought we could be friends again, but apparently it’s possible.”

“Did he talk about you guys at all?”

“Not really. It was more catching up on what’s happened over the past four years. I was glad to hear he seems to have conquered the drinking again.” Then, before I thought about it I ask, “Why wouldn’t you have told me?”

“Huh?” Emmie grunts in confusion.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’d stopped drinking? He seems to really have his shit together.” I wince, the curse word slipping past my lips again.

But this time Emmie doesn’t seem upset, as she is focusing on my question. “Why would I have told you?”

“Because it’s Christian,” I answer quickly, slightly annoyed she would think I wouldn't care.

“You were moving in with Henry when Christian came back.”

“So …” I still don’t understand her reasoning.

“The best way for a new relationship to work is to leave old ones in the past.” Emmie’s words feel sharp, and my defenses go up.

“I still care for him. I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t want to know. I’m a little hurt.”

“Are you sure that’s why you’re upset?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, pushing my mug away and fixing my eyes on Emmie’s face.

“Why are you flipping out on me?” Emmie asks, increasing the pace at which she is bouncing Olivia on her knee.

“I’m not flipping out,” I correct her, making sure my tone was in check. “I just don’t get why you would think I wouldn’t want to know that Christian got his life back on track. We were together since we were kids. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“Look, Ashton haunted my relationship with Colin for the longest time. I just didn’t want you to have the same baggage with Henry,” Emmie explains, her voice shaking. Even though the conversation is clearly upsetting her, I am too angry to care.

“Christian wasn’t my husband, and he wasn’t a bastard who killed himself!” I snarl, without thinking my words through.

“No, but he was someone you still loved when you broke up. And just because I wanted to leave Ashton when he killed himself, didn’t mean I didn’t still love him when he—” She stops herself. “Forget it. I guess I should have told you.”

“I don’t have feelings for Christian.” I’m not sure if I’m telling Emmie or myself.

“Good.”

“I love Henry, and we’re going to get married,” I add.

“I’m glad.”

Suddenly, my phone begins to vibrate in the pocket of my robe. Pulling it out, I see Henry’s face smiling at me. “See,” I say, flashing her the phone. “I love him so much, I’m going to tell him about my evening, and he won’t even care.”

Pushing away from the table, I wish I could rewind and redo the entire end of our conversation. Even though I know I looked like a complete and raving lunatic, I just keep going. Walking up the stairs, I swipe the bar on my phone, clearing my throat. “Hello baby.”

“There she is,” Henry says softly. “God, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Have you gotten work done?” Henry asks, and the complete show makeover immediately returns to my mind. I tell him everything, describing each sketch in great detail. He loves the concept, confirming the insane idea that I will have to start over.

We talk for at least an hour, discussing plans for the wedding, as well as all the things I’m missing in New York. His grandmother apparently isn’t happy with us. Not surprisingly, she wanted to be much more involved in the planning, and with me in Texas it is making it next to impossible for her. Toward the end of the call a silence lingers between us, neither wanting to hang up with the other one.

“So anything else going on down there?” he asks me.

A lump grows in my throat. I need to tell him. Christian is only a friend, and by keeping it from Henry I’m making it into something else. I am making it into something wrong and something that has me snapping at my friends.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Uh-oh.” Henry laughs.

“What?”

“You’re making me nervous. You’re not breaking up with me are you?”

“Yup, you’ve got me. I secretly wanted to come to Texas and manipulated you into sending me here, so I could break up with you over the phone. Excellent plan, huh?”

“I knew it!” he exclaims. “But that’s okay.”

“What?” I gasp.

“I was manipulating you at the same time. I wanted you to go to Texas so I could hit on all your model friends while you were gone.”