Page 28 of Hats off to Love

My hands find their way to my hips. I feel grounded, my feet planted firmly. I’ve kind of trapped him next to the window, and my words leave no room for the topic to turn in another direction.

His eyes lock onto mine, and he isn’t just looking at me; he’s imploring me to do this with him, his laser gaze aiming straight down into the heart of me.

“I am hearing you. I can see how, from your point of view, this might not be the best arrangement for you, but I promise I will be better. I do recognize my part in our dysfunctional relationship over the years, but Rosie, I’m begging you—you and only you. Please do this with me. I will not bother you, I will be there for you if you need me in any way, and I’ll do my part by talking up your shop.”

Curse my personality. The loyal side of me is screaming to help him, even after all the things he’s said and done, and the insecure side of me is upping the ante by insisting it’d be nice to have some support outside of myself and Molly for the next couple of weeks.

But I know how these things go. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. There will be no three strikes and he’s out—it’s one and I’m done.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asks, a small grin moving in. He looks so relieved it’s almost palpable.

“But, I’m only going to tell you this one time.” I point my finger at him. “No one is allowed to treat me badly, especially you. One wrong move and it’s over. I don’t trust you, and don’t think for one second that I’ll keep my mouth shut either. Just as quickly as this went viral, I can make your golden boy persona disappear. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” he says gently.

His words hit a tender spot deep in my soul, a spot I thought I washed away years ago, but apparently it’s just lain dormant and covered with dust. Then, to top it all off, he smiles at me. It’s not a fake smile, not one he uses for other people. It’s not even one he uses for his family. This smile is one I’ve never seen and always wanted, and deep down where that spot lives, it recognizes that it’s just for me.

This situation has nothing but disaster stamped all over it, and I realize he still hasn’t answered my question.

11

When we first moved to the farm, I was in awe of the fields, the trees, and the space, space I’d never had before. Granted, I was sad to leave my childhood home, but it was in an outlying neighborhood of Louisville, where the streets are lined with houses one next to the other. The two houses are about the same size, and while I hated leaving my friends, I didn’t hate leaving behind all the stares, whispers, and pity.

Like my mother, I needed to move on and start fresh.

Hours and hours I spent wandering the property, breathing in the fresh air, and mending my broken heart. Of course scars remain, as that’s what happens when a loved one dies—it’s permanently with you—but under the trees and by the stream, little by little, pieces of happiness found their way in.

Occasionally, Molly would join me, but most of the time I was by myself. Well, that is except for when I discovered Stokes had followed me at a distance, sometimes on foot, other times on horseback. I never was certain why he was following me. It wasn’t like I was going to get into any trouble or cause problems out in the middle of nowhere, but he was there lingering in the background, which always made me feel like I was doing something wrong, even though I wasn’t.

All week now, with this fake title hanging over my head, I again feel like I’m doing something wrong. I know I’m not, but still. I’m an honest person, and in a way this feels dishonest. Dishonest to who? I don’t know. I just feel strange, and he isn’t helping matters at all.

He came over two nights ago, which was when we decided to do this thing until the Derby. Then yesterday he showed up with a huge bouquet of light pink roses, which of course was photographed outside my shop and almost immediately posted online, and then this morning he brings me coffee.

It’s unnatural and confusing.

We don’t even say anything; we just stare at each other. Well, I would say I more glare, but that’s my default, and around him, I’m not sure how to be any different.

Yesterday, I was so shocked I barely uttered a thank you, and all he gave me was a small closed-mouth smile. Today, I was so mesmerized by the scent of espresso and caramel wafting out of the hole in the lid, I forgot he was there until he told me to have a nice day and left.

Of course Molly thinks this is hilarious and is loving watching her brother do nice things for me, but it’s such a contradiction to the Stokes I’ve known for so long that for a split second, I wondered if he’d poisoned the coffee.

Coffee I savored until the last drop.

Now, hours later, as customers filter in and out, faces, hats, and colors are blending together. Every time I go to help someone new, I see Stokes’s eyes instead of theirs, and when I stand at the counter, the memories of his strange newfound kindness and then his lips on mine threaten to overwhelm me. What have I gotten myself into?

“I just can’t believe someone stole their horse!” I hear whispered animatedly from the counter adjacent to mine.

I frown as the dark-haired woman’s words register, and I switch to eavesdropping. Who knew owning a hat shop would involve such gossip, as if it is a salon?

“Right! That horse is worth millions, too, from what they paid for the bloodline, the purse winnings, and the stud fees that were sure to come,” the woman next to her says.

Someone stole a prize horse?

How is that even possible? And which farm was it? I glance to the other side of the shop to see if Molly heard them, but it doesn’t appear so. She’s helping two younger customers with fascinators.

I scan the women to see if I might have some sort of recognition, but I don’t. Both appear to be in their forties, and both appear to have money as they are wearing and carrying brands like Gucci and Valentino. They didn’t have an appointment, they just wandered in from the street to try on hats.