Dream Spinner (Dream Team Book 3), Kristen Ashley [reading eggs books txt] 📗

you know I’m here to listen

if you want to talk.

I couldn’t ignore that, so I didn’t.

You’re very sweet. And that’s very

sweet. But I’m not lying when I said

I’m good.

I, of course, was totally lying.

I was so not good.

OK, then you’d be good to hang

with me sometime.

And I was oh-so-totally not good to hang with him sometime.

OK. We’ll set something up.

It’s just that I’m busy right now.

Getting ready for the Revue.

Right. Tell me when it’s a good time.

Will do! ☺

Needless to say, I didn’t tell him when it was a good time.

Onward from that, he asked me a half a dozen times to meet up. Again at Mustard’s. Out for a beer at Lincoln’s Roadhouse. For black bean dip at Reivers.

He also asked if I was around to talk, either on the phone, or he’d come by my place with a bottle of wine and a six-pack.

I either ignored these texts or texted a day or two later, telling him I was sorry for the delay in reply, I’d been busy.

And then came opening night of Smithie’s Revue.

I didn’t even get home before (along with three missed calls I hadn’t picked up) I got:

Babe, WE NEED TO TALK.

Obviously, I totally ignored that.

Though the “babe” part gave me a little shiver.

Which meant, not long later, I got:

Hattie, this is serious. You know it.

You made that clear. And I’m taking

it serious. But so you know, I already

was taking it serious.

We have to talk this out.

I didn’t reply to that either.

Therefore, before I was even awake the next morning (not that I slept great, but I did eventually get to sleep), I had on my phone:

I don’t think you understand where

I’m at. And for me to explain that to you,

it can’t be over a text.

I want to see you, Hattie.

You’re driving me crazy, seems you’re

doing the same to you.

We have to put a stop to this.

Annnnnnd … yes.

I didn’t reply to that either.

And that was the last text he sent.

I kept staring at that one, specifically the “I want to see you, Hattie” and the “You’re driving me crazy” parts.

Liking the first, not liking the second (but still kinda liking it, in a very feminine, stupid, maybe even mean way that still gave me a hint of a powerful thrill), wondering how that fit in with him having a woman in his life.

I continued to do that until the phone was slipped from my fingers.

I watched Brett, wearing striped pajama bottoms, and nothing else, sit back in the turquoise Adirondack chair that was angled across from mine.

The minute he was settled, he scrolled my texts.

Important note: I was right. Brett had a great body.

Another important note: Brett took that “whip your ass” phone call more seriously than I did. Case in point, he’d slept on my couch last night and the night before.

Semi-important note: He was a big guy, and my couch was comfy and deep-seated, but it wasn’t huge. And he didn’t complain. He also refused to switch places and take my bed while I slept on the couch, seeing as he was the one doing me a favor, so I shared I thought that was only fair. He’d still declined. Which I thought was incredibly sweet.

Last important note: He made great coffee. But as we sat outside on my cute, square deck that led from a fabulous glass door in my kitchen, a deck that had high walls around it so there was privacy, but there were vertical openings with crisscross slats on them so you could see out, I kinda wished he’d put on a t-shirt. There was an intimacy to this that Brett seemed totally okay with in a big-brother way.

I’d never had a big brother, a little one, or ever been around a man with that good of a body that was that exposed outside a beach or a pool, definitely not on my deck, so I was not at one with it.

That said, after that weird phone call, I thought it was totally nice that Brett was all in to make me safe.

To the point he was hanging with me on my deck for coffee.

(Still wished he’d do it with a tee on.)

Though, it wasn’t nice that he was helping himself to my texts.

“Um …” I began my effort to share this thought with him.

He stopped scrolling and looked over my phone at me.

“Can I ask why you don’t go there?”

It was careful and gentle, the way this question came.

But I couldn’t tell him why because I didn’t know why.

I also couldn’t tell him there wasn’t a “there” I could go to any longer, not after the way Axl threw down with me.

I’d blown it.

It was over.

And now all that was left was to torture myself with how huge a fuckup I’d perpetrated.

I grabbed my coffee cup off the lime green ceramic stool that sat between us and served as a table, looked out the slats toward the street and took a sip.

“Message received, sweetheart, but seriously, this guy is into you,” Brett stated.

I turned my gaze to him.

“He wants to be friends,” I shared.

“No, he’s into you.”

“He has a woman.”

Brett made no reply to that.

“So, again, he wants to be friends,” I repeated.

“And you got a problem with that?”

“He’s gorgeous. He seems really nice. I had a shot at him, I blew it. But in a perfect world, he’d be mine and now it can only be friends. Can you understand how that might be hard?”

Brett put my phone on the stool but did this with his eyes moving over me in my sleep set that was shorts and a short-sleeved pajama shirt that was pink with big, bright blue and green flowers on it. I was curled up, heels to the seat, knees to my chest.

But still, there was a lot of me to be seen.

And as he did this, he said, “I get the gist.”

Oh no.

“Brett,” I whispered.

His eyes came to mine. “It’s okay, baby, ’cause, see, the thing is, you give a shit about