Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) by Owens Wendy

Author:Owens, Wendy [Owens, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Four Bean Soup Publishing
Published: 2013-12-06T23:00:00+00:00

WAKING UP AT six o’clock in order to avoid breakfast with the Bennett boys is starting to take a toll on my sanity. On one hand, I’ve been more productive in recent days than probably ever before, but on the other, I’m getting quite cranky. This morning when Henry called, I actually hung up on him.

This isn’t normal behavior for us. All morning I hope he will call back, so that I can apologize. Why on Earth I feel like he is the one who needs to call me, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just another instance of me not thinking rationally when I receive improper amounts of sleep.

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.

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