Only in Dreams(41)

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.