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Only in Dreams(16)

By:Wendy Owens


“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.