Page 24 of Hats off to Love

He’ll be left alone. Part of me wonders if there’s something more going on with him than we know, but then again, he’s a lawyer and should be able to handle these things.

Ignoring him, I open the box, and as I’m swiping my finger through the avocado spread, a thought hits me, and I find I’m now wondering about the spontaneity and legitimacy of that kiss after all.

“Did you plan this?” I ask, looking back up at him and sucking the spread off my finger.

His eyes watch the movement of my mouth, color rises to his cheeks, and then his gaze comes back to mine, a smidge darker than before.

“No, but I wish I had. It’s brilliant. You can be my girlfriend until the season is over,” he says so smoothly and in a way that is meant to leave no room for discussion.

Having just taken a sip of her coffee at that exact moment, Molly starts to choke, coughing loudly. He looks at her with concern pressing his brow down as she grabs a napkin to wipe her mouth, and then his eyes shift back to me, waiting for a response, only all I can hear echoing in my head is my girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

I’m speechless, and I’m never speechless. The sad part about all this is if it were anyone else, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. I’m loyal to my friends, so loyal I’m like a puppy that rolls over on command or will bring the shovel, if you catch my drift, but you have to be a friend to have friends, and Stokes has made it clear time and time again that he is not mine.

“I mean listen,” he says, “I firmly stand in the camp of a woman can do what she wants, but you’re trying to build a reputation here. You might want to think about which reputation you want to be labeled with.” If the knife that came with the toast were anything but plastic, he’d be lucky if I didn’t aim it at his chest like I’m playing darts and throw it.

No, he did not.

“Oh my God. What is wrong with you?” Molly yells at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He looks back and forth between the two of us. “All I’m saying is Louisville is in many ways a small town. People saw us together, it’s gone viral, and no matter what might or might not have happened, assumptions are being made.”

I hear him. I do. I just can’t help but wonder what he stands to gain from this. Is he being sincere, or is he doing this just to somehow get an advantage over me, and if so, for what purpose?

“Why do you want this so bad?” I ask him.

“I have my reasons,” he says, tilting his head up a little and refusing to elaborate.

“Maybe you should enlighten us,” Molly says, but he ignores her.

Letting out an annoyed sigh, he turns away and walks toward the front window, where he tucks his hands in the pockets of his pants. I know he’s just a guy—a guy I can’t stand—but even though he’s not in a suit today, it’s still easy to see how large he is, and not just because of his size. Just standing by the window, he has this air about him. It’s broody but powerful, arrogant but solid. He is someone, and I need to remind myself of that while I unfortunately contemplate this.

“I’d rather not,” he replies, his words clipped.

“You are so infuriating,” I yell at him across the store.

The thing is, I have no idea how we would even be able to pull this off. We aren’t friends. We really never have been. We’re forced together through circumstance, but even then, we barely tolerate each other. He’s always being condescending or dismissive to me. We’re spiteful to each other. I love to point out how he’s so boring and a stick in the mud, and he loves to remind me that he thinks I’m nothing more than a hot mess and a nuisance.

We are different.

We are different in the way we think, the way we live, and how we work.

There is no place on this earth where I think we can coexist and not kill each other.

Turning, he looks at me one last time before he walks out and says, “Just think about it.”

Yeah, pal, I think not.

10

It’s a little after six when my phone pings with an incoming text, and I’m up in my apartment in the second bedroom I use as a workshop. My plan had been to keep the shop open until eight each night this month, but since Avery’s picture and the article in the Tea was posted a couple of days ago, I have been swamped and am suddenly worried I might run out of inventory.

Stokes was right.

Granted, he’s rarely wrong, and just the thought of his smug face makes my blood boil. He will forever be silently gloating over this. He won’t even need to say a word; he’ll just raise one brow and his point will be made. Being seen with him is good for business. For that I hate him.

I reach for my phone, and the locked screen shows a message from Stokes. Instantly I grind my teeth together. Swiping it open, I see it says: Bringing over dinner, be there in twenty.