Page 39 of Hats off to Love

“Thank you,” I tell him, feeling oddly sensitive to his kind words.

“Have dinner with me this weekend,” he asks, just barely over a whisper.

And for reasons I don’t quite understand yet, I instantly reply, “Okay.”

15

For the rest of the week, I have been stuck thinking about Stokes. I’m loving that oddly affectionate moment after the interview and how it feels to be wrapped in his arms, and I’m hating it too, because I’m so busy with my life that having him invade my brain is still throwing me off.

Yesterday morning, he texted me his address and told me to come on over today whenever I decided to close the shop and was free. I’ve been trying to stay open a little later on Sundays, but really between the store and Avery’s dress, I’m exhausted. I start at seven and haven’t finished before eleven once this week. Molly decided to leave halfway through the day to go spend time with Austin, and well, what is one or two hours in the grand scheme of things? That’s the whole point of owning your own business, right? To be able to make decisions as I see fit, even if somehow a six-foot-three, walking, talking distraction has hijacked my common sense.

Feeling anxious and out of sorts as I slip upstairs to change my clothes, I can’t help but wonder if he is regretting the invite or has changed his mind. After all, we agreed to public sightings, and this isn’t one. He’s voluntarily asked me over, and my mind is stuck somewhere between the old Stokes and this new one. Other than that time in New York and the night he came over to basically beg, we haven’t spent time together alone; it’s not who we are. I mean, he lives so close, and I had no idea. He kept this detail from me for months, and on purpose, so I feel uncertain as to why now. Panicking, I shoot him a text, giving him an easy out.

You know we aren’t really dating—you don’t need to invite me over. If you have work or something to do, I understand.

He immediately replies: Trust me, I know we aren’t dating, but we both still need to eat, and I have food.

His words sting a little bit; I’m not sure why. I’m well aware of what this is, and even though I started the conversation, still . . . those toddler butterflies roll in their wings, and I remind myself that after all these years, we are just now becoming friends.

Friends with Stokes. Who would have thought? Certainly not me.

My stomach growls. Did he buy this food just for me, or did he already have it? Curiosity gets the better of me, and as much as I hate to admit it, I do want to see him and where he lives.

Okay, I’ll be there soon.

Great.

Thirty minutes later, in a pair of trendy jeans and a long-sleeved slouchy green shirt with my hair in a braid, I’m standing outside his building. Stokes wasn’t kidding when he said his condo was across the street from the Thai place, two blocks away. How I never knew he lived here is beyond me, and why it took months for him to drop into the shop, I don’t understand either.

I take the elevator to the sixth floor, which also happens to be the top. It opens to a hallway where there is only one door. I walk to it and knock with an unwelcome anxiousness.

A few seconds later, it opens, and I’m face to face with my fake boyfriend. Tall, messy hair, weekend scruff on his jaw, and whiskey eyes ringed in green. We stare at each other for a beat too long. Those toddler butterflies wake up, liking being under his gaze, and the tension that is always present when we are together somehow shifts and crackles. He feels it too as his brows furrow, and without saying anything, he clears his throat then steps out of the way to allow me to come in.

Don’t overthink this, Rosie, I say to try to settle myself. It’s years of familiarity and nothing more, and then all thoughts dissipate as I take in the beauty that is his home.

“Wow, this place is incredible,” I say in an awed whisper.

“Thank you,” he says back, his voice oddly rough.

And it is. It looks like it’s straight out of an architectural design magazine. It’s a huge urban loft with an open floor plan for the kitchen, dining, and living room, and then on each end of the space is a hallway. The majority of the walls are brick, the floors are a light distressed wood, the ceiling has exposed pipes and beams, the kitchen is state of the art, and the far wall is lined with windows, framing a perfect view of downtown.

I turn to look at him, and his hands are in his pockets as he watches me take in the details of his home.

“How did you find this place?” I turn away to keep looking at his beautiful dwelling and not him and how those jeans perfectly fit and stretch across his thighs.

“Realtor,” he says, now moving toward the kitchen. “Do you remember Mike Casey from high school? He started his own agency, and I reached out. This building had just been refurbished, and with one look, I was sold.”

“I do remember that guy.” I slip off my shoes and drop them by the front door.

“Beer, wine, or water?” he asks, offering me the same as I did for him at my place.

“You know what, I’ll have a glass of wine.”

I hear him open a cabinet door, but I’m too busy walking into the middle of the room to pay any attention to him. I stop next to the couch and do a three-sixty turn. This place is exactly what I would picture for Stokes. It’s then that I realize I’ve never seen the inside of his house at the farm either. Is it urban or country? Both styles fit him, so I’m not sure what I’d expect.

Taking in the details, I drag my feet through the plush rug the couch sits on while trailing my fingers across the back of it. He has a huge television mounted on the wall over a fireplace. There are shelves that hold enough books to make a small library, and along the wall that goes to the left hallway, I spot large black and white framed photos of the farm and his family. They’re beautiful, and as I move closer, I’m stunned to find one is of the three of us: Stokes, Molly, and me. I’m in one of the photos in his home.

Me.