Only in Dreams(47)

“Just as classy as ever, I see,” Christian taunts.

“Hey, when you got it, you got it. What can I say?”

“So true,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Ready for that surprise dessert?”

I groan, “Oh my God, I can’t fit another bite.”

“Not even if it’s your favorite?”

I pause, investigating his expression. He can’t possibly remember all these years later, can he? “No way,” I say dismissively.

He walks into the kitchen and returns with a covered dish. I watch in disbelief as he reveals the most divine looking German chocolate cake.

“Shut up!” I exclaim.

“From scratch, just for my Paige,” he boasts, placing the enormous cake in front of me. “Oh, I forgot a knife, I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t bother,” I call after him, picking up my fork and proceeding to cut off the most massive hunk the utensil can hold before shoveling it into my mouth.

Christian busts out laughing at my display. With crumbs spraying out wildly, I defend myself, “It’s German chocolate cake, which means it’s not my fault.” Of course he can’t understand a word I say. He walks back over to the table, and I scoop off another bite, feeding him a taste. I don’t even think about it. I should have, but I didn’t.

He takes hold of my hand, guiding it in, as it nears his mouth. There’s an electricity between us as our skin touches. Damn it, Paige, no physical contact, and this one is your fault.

I drop the fork and back away. I know he can see the horror in my eyes. The regret. Even our hands touching is more than I am okay with.

“I better go,” I say. “It’s getting late.

“Paige, it was just some cake,” he pleads.

“No— it was fun. It was a fun night. Thank you. I’m just tired, and I have a full day tomorrow.”

“Please, I’ll walk you back. I just need to lock up real quick.”

“Don’t be silly. You made dinner. I think I can walk a few doors down on my own.” I don’t wait for him to reply, but rather, I race out the front door as fast as I can, heading straight in the direction of the gallery and a safe, Christian-free place. The entire evening had been perfect. The food was delicious. He made me laugh, he shared stories, he listened, and then I had to go and screw it up at the end.

I tiptoe up the stairs, careful so Colin and Emmie don’t hear me. It’s not extremely late, but I know if Emmie finds out I am back, she’ll want to ask me a million questions. I know this because I was the same way when she and Colin started dating.

I flop down on my bed, lying there for a moment, just staring up at the ceiling. My phone vibrates. Three missed calls from Henry. He’ll have to wait until morning. I close my eyes for a second, and suddenly sleep envelops me.





THE SUN POKES itself into my room. I reach out my arms, enjoying my morning stretch and yawn to the fullest, feeling my spine crack as I do. Immediately, I lean over and grab my phone, flipping through my music options. “Moth’s Wings” by Passion Pit catches my eye, and I hit play.

As I hop to my feet, my hips and hair swaying to the music, an image of a bad eighties movie flashes through my mind, and I can’t help but smile. In this moment I don’t really care if I look absolutely ridiculous. I’m not a morning person, but on this particular morning, I’ve awoken feeling absolutely amazing, and I’m not about to squander it.

There is a knock at the door, but I don’t notice, surrounded by the music and the moment. “Work it, girl!” I hear Emmie’s voice behind me.

Panting, I turn and see her smiling back at me, leaning against the frame of the door, watching my every move. I bend in half at the waist, laughing, and attempt to hide my face.

“Oh no—please don’t stop on my account,” she insists.

“Shut up,” I growl, collapsing onto the bed, snickering.

“I came up because I thought something must be wrong,” Emmie continues, standing upright and moving directly across from me.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You know it’s Saturday, right?”

“And?”

“You don’t wake before noon on Saturday, let alone start your mornings off dancing,” Emmie teases.

“Maybe I’m becoming a morning person.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Somehow I doubt that. Does this mean your date with Christian went well last night?”

“It wasn’t a date,” I correct her, avoiding the question.

“When everyone is calling it a date except for you, it doesn’t make it any less of a date.”