I steal another hit of it.
When she’s done inputting the address, she sits back and gives a small, apologetic smile. “It’s not too far away.”
“It’s no problem.” I’d drive her to the other side of the country if she needed me to.
“Thanks again.”
She doesn’t have to keep thanking me, but I don’t want to correct her post-breakup etiquette. Or any etiquette. I pull out of the players’ lot, nodding goodnight to Carmine at the security kiosk.
Remy looks away, purposefully, that hat still pulled low. But the second we pull out of the arena lot, she tugs off the cap, then runs her hands through her lush hair, combing out those gorgeous brunette locks.
“I’m not a hat person,” she admits, like it’s about more than the accessory.
I cruise onto the Embarcadero, the stars in the sky reflecting in the shimmering waters of the bay.
“What's the story behind this hat hatred of yours?” I ask.
As I sail past Fisherman’s Wharf, still teeming with tourists, a tease of a real smile appears on her face. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all night—better, even, than a goal. “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she says.
“I won’t laugh.” It also feels important, this assurance.
“You promise?”
“Swear.”
She exhales heavily. “They feel like they’re squeezing my head.”
I could point outYou can adjust a ball cap, you know.
But she doesn’t need a hat lesson. Feels like what she needs is maybe permission to be herself. I glance at her, holding her gaze for a short beat before I return my attention to the road. “You never need to wear a hat with me, Remy.”
She’s quiet at first, then says, “Thanks, Lake. And it’s ironic, isn’t it? Since my last name is Hatmaker.”
I bark out a laugh as I slow at a red light. “I don’t know how I missed that.”
“My last name? Understandable. You don’t have to remember it.”
Oh, I knew her last name. And more details about her than Ishouldknow. “No, about Remy Hatmaker’s hatred of hats.”
She leans her head back against the headrest, then sighs. When the light turns and I tap the pedal of my electric car, she adds in a tone full of regret, “I can’t believe everyone saw that.”
I won’t lie and say that no one noticed what went down on the Jumbotron. All I tell her is, “Yeah, it really sucks.”
“It does,” she says, slumping lower in the seat.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, tempted to keep up the convo and ask:Did you actually want to marry that trying-too-hard asshat?
Jameson always seemed like he was putting on a show when I walked past his craft beer stand on the concourse. Like everything was about being your cool brewmaster bud—from the vest, to the undercut, to the way he talked aboutmindful brewing.
Like that’s even a thing.
I keep my mouth shut though. The GPS tells me to turn left, so I head into the Marina District, and my forearms tighten when the cool, modulated voice says we’re less than half a mile from our destination. I don’t want to say goodnight to her.
As I maneuver through traffic, she blows out another breath. “I shouldn’t have…” she mutters, then purses her lips.
“Shouldn’t have what?”
She rolls her lips together as if sealing in her emotions. She looks like the bottle of Veuve Clicquot she’s clutching, like she’s ready to bubble over. Like she wants to.
