Page 73 of Sweet Dreams

Working under Ezra is exactly what I wanted. He’s sweet and sassy, reminding me of myself. But when he works he’s quiet, focused, and demands perfection, but he doesn’t yell. He just points and expects you to understand his vision.

“The texture on this silk is incredible,” I say, running my hand over the fabric. “The gold color catches the morning light. It looks warm. If we use a heavier thread to stitch the edges, we could give it some structure.”

“You are brainstorming,” Ezra says. He finally closes his sketchbook and looks at me. He has a small smile. “Good. Love it. I did not hire you just to fold trousers. I hired you because your designs have real promise, Avery. Keep looking at the details. We need this new line to feel like it belongs to this town.”

“I have a few ideas for botanical prints,” I admit, feeling my cheeks get a little warm from the praise. “I was thinking we could incorporate the local flora. Things like wild sage or even the pattern of honeycombs.”

Ezra nods slowly, his eyes bright with interest. “Show me those sketches some time. If they are good, we might use them for the main display. I’d love to design this together and help you get your name out there.”

My lips part with shock, my dream of being a real designer feeling possible for the first time ever. Before I can answer, the bell above the heavy front door chimes.

“Ezra! Tell me you have the fan running, because it is hot as balls out there,” a loud, friendly voice calls out.

I turn around. A tall, handsome man with messy dark hair walks in. This is Olly, Ezra’s fiancé. He’s carrying a large box of supplies. Right behind him, Emery, the lead singer of Arcade Lake walks in.

“Dear lord almighty, I got used to seeing celebrities in the office of the fashion magazine I used to work at, but I’m going to have to get used to famous rock stars strolling into this tiny little town, aren’t I?”

Ezra laughs. “Yup! Totally.”

Olly has a soft, relaxed posture and immediately walks behind the counter to press a kiss on Ezra’s cheek. It’s sweet. Really fucking sweet. Emery, on the other hand, strides with the confidence of a lead singer, has several rings on his fingers, painted nails, and is wearing a black graphic shirt. The box he places on the counter is just as large.

“We brought the display samples for the launch,” Olly says, pointing toward the door. “But they’re heavy. We brought some help to carry the rest.”

I hold a bolt of gold silk tightly against my chest, waiting to greet them.

Then, the helper walks through the door.

My breath hitches. My hands go completely still on the fabric.

It’s Gideon. My Gideon.

He’s just as massive as I remember. He’s six-foot-four, with a broad chest and shoulders that block out the sunlight coming through the glass door. He is an incredibly handsome Filipino man with rich, golden-tan skin that is glowing from the heat. The sleeves of his grey shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing off thick, muscular arms with dark veins running down to his wrists. His work jeans are tight, highlighting his heavy, powerful thighs. A mop of thick, wavy black hair falls slightly over his forehead, framing a strong jawline and deep, dark eyes.

My heart starts beating fast. My skin tingles.

Five months ago, we met at the Pride parade. We had a romantic evening picnic, talked for hours, and then we went back to his place. I still remember the heat of his skin, the grip of his heavy hands, and the low rumble of his voice in the dark.

Does he hate me for leaving that morning before he woke up? I was terrified of how fast I was catching feelings. Oh shit, and that note. That silly note I couldn’t seem to stop myself from writing.

Now, he is standing fifteen feet from me.

I look at him, my mind spinning. Does he still live just outside of town in that cute little cabin, or did he get pulled back into his celebrity bodyguard job? Did he hate my note? Did he forget about me?

Oh god, I’m spiraling.

Gideon steps into the shop, carrying a large wooden crate under his right arm like it weighs nothing. He sets the crate down on the floor. The wood makes a loud, solid thud against the floorboards.

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and looks up.

His dark eyes lock onto mine.

Gideon freezes. His entire body goes rigid. His mouth opens slightly, and he lets out a quiet, sharp breath. The serious, stoic expression he usually wears vanishes.

A dark, intense blush starts at his collarbone and creeps up his neck, staining his tan skin a deep red. His ears turn bright crimson. For a man who looks like he could defend a building by himself, he looks unbelievably bashful. It’s fucking adorable. He shifts his weight, his large fingers twitching at his sides.

“Gid?” Emery asks. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Gideon doesn’t answer. He just stares at me. The air in the boutique feels thick and warm, heavy with the memory of that one night and the five months of silence between us.