Page 26 of Hats off to Love

“Noted.”

Together we eat in silence, except for the country music playing in the background, but I don’t hear it because my brain is too busy arguing with itself. The majority of it is urging me to tell him to leave, while the rest is saying I should hear him out. After all, I’m also trying to consider the success of my business here.

As he takes a sip of his beer, I have to force my eyes away from his face, his mouth against the bottle, and his neck as he swallows.

“So, have you thought about it?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and looking way too comfortable.

I could lie to him and say absolutely not, but he’d probably see right through me and know the truth anyway.

“I have,” I tell him as I match his posture and wipe my mouth with my napkin.

“And?” he asks, his brows raised, hopeful.

I lean forward, pick up the beer, and take a sip before I answer. “I just don’t know if I think it’s a good idea,” I say honestly.

He rubs the back of his neck as his predictable scowl is trying its hardest to drop into place, but he holds it off. “Tell me why.”

Oh, here we go.

“First off, I’m so busy I’m not even sure how I could help you if I agreed to this stupid plan. Second, anyone who knows us will know this is fake—there’s no love lost between us. And well, third, I don’t like who I am when I’m around you.”

He frowns, and this time the scowl wins.

“Being mean is not a trait I possess around anyone else but you. I’m not built that way, Stokes, and after every interaction with you, I walk away with a stomachache. I don’t like it. I don’t like you. You are not nice to me, never have been. I honestly feel like I owe you nothing, and I have no idea how you expect us to get along in front of people for extended periods of time.”

His lips press together, color dots his cheeks, and his eyes shift down and off to the side. He doesn’t like what I’ve just said, though I’m not sure exactly which part.

“I can do better,” he says sincerely, and then his gaze comes back to mine. “Look, it’s not for that long, only four and a half weeks. Then the season will be over, and we can slip silently back into our normal lives with no one the wiser.”

“Listen, I get it. I understand how the photos looked, and I understand that you are someone here in this town, and it could be good for my shop, but I’m just not sure I can do it.”

And I mean that wholeheartedly. When I’m in prolonged situations where I’m uncomfortable, I become anxious, and it makes me turn inward and lose myself. I have too much riding on this season to feel emotionally off my game. I like the place I’m in now. I feel strong, independent, and like I’m providing value to the community and to myself. Being with him could very easily squash how hard I’ve worked, and I can’t risk that.

“We’ll only have to be together a few times,” he counters, his bravado looking a little more shaken and less firm.

“Like how many and for what?” I start tearing the napkin on my lap.

“I have a work function coming up this weekend, and then there’s the Oaks and the Derby. Three times. Plus, let me take you to dinner. It doesn’t have to be a long outing. As long as we’re seen, that should be good enough.”

“I’m not planning on going to the Oaks. I have to work that day, and good enough for what? I don’t understand. This is so extreme, especially for you.”

Pulling out his phone, he opens one of his social media accounts and shifts closer to me as he flips it around to show me the inbox. Name after name, message after message from women—and some men—asking him out, wanting to know if he’d like to meet up and get a drink.

Then, he turns his phone back around to face him and opens his voice messages. Angling it my way, he scrolls down so I can see there are so many he hasn’t listened to from numbers not on his contact list, but the dictations are basically all the same.

“All of this is because of the one ‘bachelor of the season’ article?” I ask, suddenly irritated for him.

“Yes,” he says in that flat tone of his.

“How did they get your number?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I have no idea. I’m half tempted to change it.”

Then he pulls up his work email account. He slides the phone across to me, and I pick it up. There are more messages here, so many more messages, inundating his business account.

“But why?” I look up at him, confused.

“Who the fuck knows,” he says, surprising me with the harshness and leaning back in his chair. He runs his hand over his face, clearly annoyed and tired. “Why do people do what they do? I don’t get it. I’m not that interesting. I work all the time. Between the office and the farm, I hardly ever go out in public unless it’s required, and I’m honest enough with myself to know I’m a boring guy.”