Page 73 of Hats off to Love

“Mmm,” I murmur. “Anything on Dr. Miller?” I’m trying to appear calm and collected.

“Not yet. He was denied bail until the drug test comes back. With the Derby being days away, everyone is on notice for shady activities.”

“Well, hopefully they’ll figure it out,” I tell him, and mean it. Part of me wants Dr. Miller to be the guilty party, because then that means this is over, but the other part of me doesn’t due to the long relationship they’ve had with him.

“Hopefully.” He lets out a sigh then pulls me closer and presses his lips against mine. Should I worry about morning breath? Maybe, but right now I just don’t care. Stokes is kissing me.

Shifting, I move so I’m lying on top of him, and I smile down at him.

“You have too many clothes on,” he says, pulling on his T-shirt, which I put on last night.

“You should take it off me,” I tease, and he does. He slides it up over my chest and head so we are skin to skin. He flings it somewhere as I prop my chin up on my hands, my elbows resting on him.

“How did you sleep last night?” he asks, smoothing the hair back off of my forehead.

“Perfectly.”

He smiles. It’s one of my smiles, and it spears me in the heart just like one of Cupid’s arrows.

“What time do you need to leave this morning?” He’s now running his hands up and down my shoulders, back, and sides.

“Not until later. I gave myself this afternoon and tomorrow to deliver hats.”

Surprisingly, I had quite a few people call the shop and ask if I would deliver to their hotel the weekend of the event. It didn’t occur to me that this would be something I would need to do, but as order after order came in from out-of-towners, I ended up with a list of fifteen different hotels I need to drop by.

“Are they all packed up?” he asks.

“Yes, I packed them when they were ordered. They’re sitting in the second bedroom at my place.”

“Smart.” He pushes a piece of loose hair off my face then runs a finger down my cheek. It’s sweet, and the way he’s looking at me sends off cherished vibes. My poor fallen heart doesn’t know whether to stumble around love drunk or strap on its running shoes with the adrenaline pumping through it.

Pushing up a little bit, I decide to do the same and run my hand through his messy hair. His head tilts a little to push into my hand; he wants my hands on him.

“What do you think about letting me borrow your car? It’s bigger and will hold the boxes better.”

“Fine with me. I don’t need it today, and you can either come back and get me tomorrow, or I’ll catch a ride back into town.”

I trace his eyebrows, press my finger between his eyes where those two little lines have almost permanently left their mark, and then drag my finger down the bridge of his nose to his lips, which I outline softly. Stokes has the softest lips. Needing to feel them, I lean up and kiss him chastely. His eyes crinkle in the corners; this made him happy.

“Tell me something about you that I don’t know.” I move to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Like what?” he asks, the grumble of his voice vibrating into my chest. His hands have moved to my back, where his fingertips are inching down my spine, one bump at a time.

“I don’t know. I just want to know you.”

The warmth of his gaze shines on the details of my face. The room is a little brighter than it was a few minutes ago, and being this close to him, I can see the tiny details on his face as well. There are small freckles on the bridge of his nose from years of being in the sun, there’s a tiny scar on his forehead near his hairline, and his eyes really are a mixture of three colors: green, chestnut brown, and splashes of amber. They remind me of a paint palette with the way the colors are spread around.

“You do,” he tells me, and I’m certain he believes that.

“I want to know the little things. I saw you have a book you’re reading in the living room—I didn’t even realize you like to read. Do you always read nonfiction?”

“I do like to read. I always have. I’m not a very social person, as you know. I do nonfiction mostly, but I like it all.”

“What else?” I ask curiously.

“Does this little game go both ways? Do I get to ask you questions?” He grins.

“You can ask me anything you want.” And he can. I can’t think of one thing I wouldn’t tell him—well, maybe one, only because I’m still coming to terms with those three little words associated with Stokes.