Page 19 of Hats off to Love

She smiles at him warmly and holds out her hand. “Hello, Austin. Call me Birdie.”

He takes it and returns the greeting. Meanwhile, I shove Stokes in the arm, and as his eyes flash to mine, I mentally tell him to knock it off and not ruin this for her.

He lets out a sigh, and his shoulders droop a little.

“And this is my brother, Stokes. Stokes, Austin. Austin, Stokes.”

“Hey, man. It’s nice to meet you,” Austin says, holding his hand out and grinning like he’s just found his new best friend.

Stokes plays his part. “It’s great to meet you too,” he replies, even though I know he’s gritting his teeth.

“Wonderful!” Molly claps her hands together, beaming. “Now that introductions are done, we’re going inside for a drink.” She wraps her arm back around his to pull him in, and as I go to follow, Stokes reaches for my hand.

“Wait,” he says.

Instantly, my eyes zero in on his hand wrapped around mine. His is warm and completely foreign, smooth, but still marked with callouses where he holds the reins from riding. Someone calls for Birdie, and suddenly it’s just the two of us standing here.

“What do you want?” I pull my hand away as it tingles strangely, and I watch as his fingers curl into his palm.

Looking up at Stokes, I trace the lines of the shadows playing across his face. His jaw looks more chiseled, his lips fuller, and his eyes are full-on hazel—the perfect mixture to make my stomach suddenly flip.

“Reconsider,” he says, taking a step toward me and almost entering my personal space.

“Reconsider what?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Tonight. Me,” he says, as if that’s the simplest explanation in the world.

His face is so open and skirting on vulnerable that I almost say yes, but let’s be real here—he’s never vulnerable. He’s Stokes Whitlock, the golden child.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask, and in an instant, shutters flip down, closing him off. He pauses for three breaths as he watches me, but he knows the rejection is coming. He takes a step back and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Never mind,” he says, more to himself than to me. That response is shrouded in disappointment and irritation as he dismisses me and looks over my shoulder and out into the night.

I stand there and give him two seconds to take back the attitude he’s just thrown my way, one I didn’t deserve, but he doesn’t. Instead, he ignores me as if I’m not even there. My emotional wall pings as if it’s been hit. Why, I don’t know. He’s always treated me this way, and he wonders why I said no. Whatever. Shaking my head, I let out a disconcerted sigh and wander off into the tent, leaving him at his post.

I can’t help but look back at him, suddenly feeling bad for telling him no, even though I have every right to. Birdie hasn’t returned and he’s standing there alone, and for the first time, I actually wonder if he likes his life. Has he embraced it? Yes, but has anyone ever asked him if it’s what he wants? They say it’s lonely at the top, and right at this moment, he looks really lonely.

Then again, he made his bed—he can lie in it.

Turning, I take in the scene before me, and it’s just breathtaking. There’s white gauzy fabric draped around the perimeter, high top tables decorated with green, blue, and white arrangements, too many hurricane lanterns to count illuminating the space in the most magical way, an eleven-piece band toward the rear, and a large bar where I find Molly, Austin, and a few of our friends.

Once Stokes left for college, I was finally out from under his thumb, and for the first time since moving to the farm, I made friends other than Molly.

Thirty minutes later, Stokes joins us, and while he doesn’t outright acknowledge me, he also doesn’t leave my side. When people approach me, he turns and stands there as if he is a part of the conversation. When we go off to dance, he follows and stands near me at the edge, and when people approach him, he somehow maneuvers me in front of him and forces me to participate in the conversation versus ignoring him and being rude.

Even though I shoot him a gazillion dirty looks, he pretends he doesn’t see any of them, and this goes on for a solid hour.

Having had all I can take, I grab Stokes by the sleeve and pull him through one of the tent flaps so we are standing on the outside and no one can see us. He shakes his arm free the minute we are alone.

“Seriously.” I grit my teeth. “What is your deal? Why are you hovering so close to me?” I growl up at him.

His eyes roam my face, and it feels oddly intimate. I mean, what is he looking at?

“Stokes?” I all but demand he answers.

“Well, I guess because you’re disposable if I need to save myself,” he replies, his pompousness shining brighter than the moon.

“Really? That’s what you have to say to me? You are unreal,” I hiss while mentally grabbing that expensive tie around his neck, yanking, and twisting.