Only in Dreams(53)

“I have to go home; I need to be there for my show. I’m sorry, I can’t help that you took on a job out of town,” I explain, slightly relieved we won’t have to go through any further charades.

“I’ll work through the night to get it done faster, and I’ll be home in ten days. Promise me you won’t leave before I get back,” he begs.

“I can’t,” I say, knowing full well I can give him those two weeks.

“Please, I wouldn’t take the job except this guy is important for another one of my projects.”

I consider saying no, but with Christian gone for two weeks, I know I’ll have a lot of focus time to finish up the details. “I can stay the two weeks, but then I have to go.”

“Fair enough,” he says, a slight smile on his face. “Thank you.”

I nod in response. And that is it; by the time I wake in the morning, he has already left for Dallas.





RUNNING MY FINGERS across the garment in my hands, I take a deep breath. That’s it; it’s done. My entire show is ready for the runway. I even managed to create the two alternate pieces I was certain I wouldn’t have time for.

Standing up and walking to the other side of the room, I place the dress on a hanger and slip it into the shipping box, before taping it shut. Anxiety floods over me again, my heart nervously fluttering for a moment. The idea of shipping a box of my garments—garments I’ve spent months working so tirelessly on—is a little overwhelming.

I take a deep breath, then push out all of the air from my lungs. I move on to another box along the wall. Pressing a couple stray fabric samples inside, I tape it shut. The last couple days have been a whirlwind. Part of preparing to return to New York, means shipping back all of the supplies we brought here. I’ve certainly rethought Henry’s suggestion about hiring a personal assistant.

Damn it, focus, Paige! I’ve been telling myself that for over a week now. It seems like I do anything but focus. For the past couple days, every time I call Henry, he either doesn’t answer, or is about to head off to some meeting and has no time to talk to me. Things feel unnatural, to say the least. I can’t figure out if it’s him, or if somehow I might be at the root of the issue.

Then there’s Christian, who, no matter how many times I tell myself not to think about him, in the end my thoughts seem to always end up settling on him.

“Hello?” Emmie’s voice calls out as the sound of the door opening fills the room. “Hey sweetie, how’s it going?”

“I feel like I’m drowning in boxes,” I reply honestly, looking around at the massive amount of work ahead of me. “But, on a positive note, I finished that last dress, and the entire show is boxed up and ready to go.”

“That’s awesome!” Emmie exclaims as she crosses the room to give me the awkward sideways squeeze-hug.

“Yeah, but now I have to start packing up all the other stuff to ship back. God, how in the hell did Henry get all of this stuff down to me? It must have taken him forever,” I remark.

“Well, I’m here to help. And then Colin can head over later and carry the boxes to the post office for us.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, thrilled at the offer.

“Of course, you’ve helped us so much over the past couple months between Olivia and the gallery, it’s the least we can do,” Emmie insists, immediately digging in and placing items from the work table in a nearby discarded box.

“You do realize you were the one who opened up your home to me and who has been feeding me every night since I got here,” I remind her.

“And you’d do exactly the same for us,” she replies. We both continue our work in silence until she asks, “Is Henry excited about you coming home?”

I mull over the question in my mind for a few seconds. Had she asked me only weeks ago, the answer would have been a resounding yes, but honestly I just didn’t know what was going on in his head anymore. “I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Emmie parrots, then laughs. “What’s with the melancholy? I thought all you could think about was going home.”

“It was. I do, I mean—” I stammer. “I don’t know. After Thanksgiving I was so sure about where I was and where Henry and I were, but now, everything just seems fucked up.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, setting down the scissors in her hand and walking over to face me.

I shake my head. “I just feel … confused.”

“Wait.” Emmie gives me her I’m-gonna-nail-you-with-tough-questions look. “Is this about Christian?”