Page 35 of Hats off to Love

“It’s different,” she says gently. She can see that Grayson’s comment has affected me and I’ve gone into defense mode. I don’t know why, though. Is it for him? Is it for me? I don’t know, and that has me more confused than anything. “I know you, and well, random girls stalking our home hoping to get some time with my nerd of a brother is just ridiculous.”

It is ridiculous.

“Speaking of stalking our home, the staff even found one girl wandering around the barns. How she got there, no idea,” Birdie says.

I glance at Stokes, and his cheeks have also flushed pink. He’s now looking down at his plate, just holding his fork, and he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone at the table.

I really don’t understand. Who just goes to someone’s home and wanders around without being invited? That’s not normal, and in what scenario does that ever work out? Did she think he would just find her and be like, Oh, hey there. Want to have dinner with me? Just no.

Another unwanted surge of emotions hits me right in the chest. I can’t tell if it’s extreme annoyance or jealousy. Clearly there are pictures of us together floating around, and yet people are still coming after him. Lexington is over an hour away; it’s just absurd.

His jaw clenches, and he swallows. With this one subtle move from him, my eyes flare as the puzzle piece drops in place, and I know all these years I’ve pegged him wrong.

I’ve always known he shows me a different side of himself than he does others. I assumed it was because he was playing his part of prince of the castle by day and villain to me by night, but I was wrong.

He’s always been a bit of a quiet guy. Even when I was thirteen and had just met him, he didn’t say anything, just stood next to his mother and stared at me. He’s tall so he looks down at people, and with his ever-present scowl, he gives off a vibe of being broody and self-important, but now I’m realizing it’s because, in general, he’s shy.

He’s an incredibly shy guy, but with me, he’s himself—or at least he tries to be.

I am an idiot, and the urge to slap my palm to my forehead is fierce. If I apply this new image to what I already know of him, it changes everything.

Everything.

All. These. Years.

When we were kids, he would just follow behind me quietly. At past parties, he would stand next to his mother and let her lead the conversations. Last weekend, he shadowed me and rarely allowed himself to be in a situation where he might be stuck talking to someone he didn’t want to talk to, and at his work function last night, the way he breathed as we were walking to the door and the way his hands were sweaty most of the night—it isn’t that he thinks he’s better than anyone else. He’s just uncomfortable.

Which suddenly makes his desperation for this whole “be my fake girlfriend” situation because of that article understandable. People—strangers—going out of their way to meet him and contact him is so far out of his comfort zone, no wonder he all but begged.

It also makes sense now why he comes out here and rides by himself every weekend. He’s decompressing or recharging, whatever, and he just needs solitude, an escape from his everyday life.

But if he dislikes it so much, why is he doing it? And why do I suddenly feel the need to protect him? It’s like he cast a spell over me this week, and after one evening with him, just twenty-four hours later, my opinion of him has changed so much that I’m ready to storm those surrounding the castle and go into battle for him, this person who, for so long, I hated.

Well, if I’m being honest, hate is a really harsh word. It’s more like I greatly disliked him, and now I suddenly have whiplash from doing a one-eighty.

All of this is disorienting.

Letting out a sigh, I tell Molly that makes sense then change the subject to direct attention off of us by asking Grayson about Ace. It’s a topic he can go on and on about, and it was a good move as this gets us through the rest of dinner.

Yesterday was the last race for him until the Derby, the Blue Grass Stakes, which is held in Lexington every year. The points awarded were 100-40-20-10, and he came in second, earning 40, and secured his place in the top twenty to run the Derby. The horse who beat him, Windstar, came from Ocala, Florida, and is a real contender this year. With only one more race left, the preseason qualifiers will be over and the lineup will be set.

“Go for a walk with me before we head back?” Stokes asks almost hesitantly as we carry our plates to the kitchen, and my heart squeezes. He said he’d do better, and all week he has. I wonder if he thinks I’m doing better for him? I don’t think I’ve been too confrontational. In fact, I think I’ve been quite amenable considering all of our “public” appearances so far have been for his benefit.

“Sure,” I tell him, feeling a little bit optimistic, a little bit skeptical, and still a little bit disgruntled by how wrong I’ve been and the part I’ve played in our dysfunctional family over the years. I can’t help but wonder if things could or would have been different between us if I’d paid attention to him more, and that makes me sad, especially since he is someone who has been a constant presence in my life for so, so long.

The sun has started to set, casting its golden hue across the fields and the barns. The fields are empty, and it’s quiet. It’s pleasant outside, and as we start walking, I can’t help but sneak peeks up at him. The lighting amplifies the lighter tones in his hair and his skin. He’s always been handsome, but tonight it feels like so much more, more in a way that being alone with him is somehow now making me nervous.

“Did you like living here?” he asks. Most of the roads on the farm are laid out in a grid fashion. Yes, some of them wind around, but ultimately the pattern is the same. The way he’s guiding us, the full loop will be about a mile, and a part of me is wishing it were longer.

“Are you kidding? I can’t imagine a better place to live.” I truly can’t.

A small smile curves his lips as he looks across the field to our left. My answer pleased him, and something slippery moves through my chest. He seems so ordinary—we seem so ordinary, like taking a walk after dinner is something we do all the time. He’s relaxed here, and the stress that keeps him uptight and formidable seems to be gone.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still far too attractive and there’s nothing ordinary about his broad shoulders, his piercing gaze when it lands on me, or how he makes me just a little bit jittery, and yet after this past week, it’s precariously easy to pretend we’re more than we are.

To pretend we’re friends.

“But what about London and New York City? Do you wish you could have stayed in one of those places?”