Page 2 of Hats off to Love

I jump in one with her, she gives me a quick friendly hug, and then she’s on her way.

“I swear that wall was so worth the time we spent mounting each rose. The tags and hashtags alone have made my job so easy,” Molly says just after the door closes.

“Right?! There’s nothing better than free advertising.”

I’m always surprised by the number of followers some of these women have. Right now, the tags don’t even show the hat, just the store, the wall, or the box. I can’t wait to see what kind of action will happen once the hats are revealed.

I walk back to the counter and pull up the full digital catalog I created for this year’s inventory, and I mark the navy and pink one as sold. I worked really hard in the months leading up to opening the store to build up my stock, and there are very few hats that look similar to each other. Part of the shop’s mission is that when you come to Rosie May, your hat will be one of a kind.

“I think I’m ready for some lunch,” Molly says as she closes her laptop and gathers her things off of the table.

“I could definitely eat.” I’ve never met a meal I didn’t like, and lunch is kind of our thing. Mornings are always busy for both of us, and as for evenings, Molly still lives at her family’s farm, which is about thirty minutes outside of town, whereas I live above the shop. It just so happened that the previous shop owner also rented the two-bedroom apartment over the store, and when they decided to relocate to another town, both spaces became available. It could not have been more perfect.

With her belongings in tow, Molly heads to the office in the back of the shop. Meanwhile, I pull out my large day planner and cross off today’s date. There are eight weeks left until the Derby, and I couldn’t be more pleased with how things are going. So far, the last two months have exceeded any expectations I had for myself and the shop, and if things continue like I think they will, it’s going to be amazing. The income from the season will be enough to sustain and prepare the shop for next year, and in my book, I’m calling that a success.

I’m so close, I can almost taste it. As long as customers keep coming in, at this halfway point, I’m not sure what could go wrong.

The bell rings over the door, announcing a new customer’s entrance. I glance up, and there with the sun at his back providing a deceptive halo, striding toward me with long muscular legs wrapped in navy suit slacks, a swagger that can only be found on one man, and a smirk I’d know anywhere is William Stokes Whitlock III.

2

I can’t even say anything.

That joyful moment I just had—it’s gone, instantly swept away. The mere presence of him in my vicinity increases my blood pressure and has my face flushing with annoyance and my hands balling into fists.

What is he doing here?

I can’t think of one possible reason he would ever need to step foot in my shop, yet here he is infecting the space with his arrogance and uptightness.

Molly comes strolling out of the back office and lets out an audible sound at the sight of him.

“Molly,” he says, addressing his sister first as she comes to stand next to me.

That’s right, his sister. It’s the one and only negative in my over-a-decade-long friendship with Molly.

She doesn’t answer him. Instead, her eyes narrow as she knows he’s just entered the lion’s den.

One corner of his mouth tips up even further as his smirk grows at her irritation, and then his eyes land on me. I feel like I’ve been shot with two invisible laser beams.

“Thorney,” he says, his deep, smooth voice rolling over my skin. Thorney is a nickname he gave me not long after meeting me, and I’ve hated it ever since. I thought about returning the sentiment, but the only nickname I could conjure to go with Stokes is Strokes, and well, if I had so much as even uttered the word, I know without a doubt he would have indefinitely had a field day with snide, suggestive remarks.

No thank you. I never would have lived that down.

“Do you see what I see?” I ask Molly, never once taking my eyes off of Stokes as he comes to stand directly on the other side of the counter. He’s tall, foreboding, and unfortunately incredibly handsome—that is until he opens his mouth.

My teeth grind together as I take him in. I rarely see him on weekdays, mostly just the occasional weekend or holiday, so I forget he can look like this, and I swear this man can wear a suit like no other. It’s actually not navy, rather a shade lighter with a little gray in it. His shirt underneath has a pale gray pinstripe on it, and he’s wearing a tie that has a mixture of blues, grays, and pink. His shoulders are wide, his biceps can easily be located under his sleeves, his stomach is completely flat, and his waist is wrapped in a nice black belt. He looks like a GQ model, and my insides ache at the unfairness of the world.

“Yep,” she answers, popping the P.

He raises a brow at her closed-off demeanor, but then again, he should know after all these years, Molly and I stand in solidarity when it comes to him.

“Do you think he’s lost?” I ask her, tilting my head to the side to study him as if he’s an endangered species, which he is. He has no idea how many times I’ve come close to taking him out.

“Lost his marbles, maybe,” she replies.

“And his rocks,” I state.

We both snicker, and he briefly closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh that says he’s already bored with us and wishes he were somewhere else.