Page 13 of Hats off to Love

Ever since he mentioned that he wanted me to be his date, I’ve had a sinking gut feeling that I might have made the wrong decision. Stokes is someone whether I like it or not. He runs with the type of people I want buying my hats, and although he and I don’t really get along, it would have been a great strategic move for my business. Don’t get me wrong, though—I will never admit this and will take these thoughts to my grave, especially after he mentioned it again at dinner and mocked me.

Of course the whole idea is completely preposterous and just nonsense, but that feeling has me regretting my quick reply otherwise. Then again, on principle alone, I can’t, won’t, and shouldn’t even entertain the idea.

“What do you like about it?” I lean back against the wall to put a sliver more space between us and put him on the spot.

“The pictures and the content are gorgeous, the layout is easy enough to understand, and I like that she put a call to action button at the top and the bottom for people who have an interest in you designing something for them.”

“Hmm,” I mutter in response as I look back at the webpage. He’s right about the Inquire more here and Interested in a consult for your very own custom gown? buttons. The only other place she’s added a button like this is on the custom orders page for hats and fascinators where she states I am offering limited designs.

Beside me, Stokes reaches for his water. I watch as his mouth makes contact with the edge of the glass and he takes a sip, my stomach involuntarily dips, and I get angry with myself, because I should be watching him warily as if he’s a snake about to strike.

“What are you really doing here? You never leave your office, the weather is horrible, and this can’t possibly be one of your favorite restaurants.”

His eyes drop to my mouth for a split second and then cut away. Needing him to know I’m not some helpless prey he’s strategically cornered, I grab the lemon off the glass of my Diet Coke and suck it between my lips. He jolts away from me just a little and frowns, while I smile conspiratorially.

“Clearly I do leave my office, as here I am, and it is one of my favorites. The duck fried rice and beef pad thai are exceptional.”

“You venture all the way from your office downtown to eat at this little hole in the wall?” I ask as I toss the lemon back in the glass.

His brows pull down, and he shifts a little to face me as he studies me. “I do on my way home from work.”

“And where is home?” I tilt my head and examine him as he’s literally two feet away from me. His hair is drying, his eyebrows look perfectly shaped even though I’m certain he does nothing to them, and while his eyes are hazel, from this vantage point, it’s easy to see where the green ends and the whiskey begins.

He looks at me strangely. “Across the street.” He waves his hand in that direction.

“What?” I’m so confused, and he registers the shock stamped on my face.

“Molly never told you where I live?” The two lines between his eyes make an appearance.

“No, why would she?” I state with an attitude so he understands he’s an uninteresting topic to us.

Molly and I rarely talk about Stokes. In fact, up until two weeks ago, we never talked about him at all.

“Huh.” He looks down at the table as he ponders something.

No wonder Birdie asked why we don’t ride together to Sunday dinners. Apparently everyone but me knows Stokes and I are literally a stone’s throw away from each other.

Letting out a harsh breath, I grab the iced tea and take a long pull on the straw. I feel like my world has just shifted on its axis. For the last three months, this little neighborhood was mine and it felt perfect, and now I feel like it’s not. Now I feel like I can’t even go outside without wondering if I’ll run into him. Five minutes ago, I felt free; now I don’t. This is just the worst.

Clearing his throat, Stokes decides to change the subject. “So, you mentioned at dinner that Avery Layne is coming in. When is that scheduled?” His eyes lock onto mine, and my chest starts to squeeze. The laser beams are attacking me, and suddenly I feel super claustrophobic crammed in next to the wall. There’s nowhere for me to turn to breathe.

“What is this? Small talk?” I ask him, taking air in slowly and counting to five.

“You are familiar with the concept, aren’t you?” he fires back, and while I don’t see red, everything is slightly tinged with a shade of pink.

I stare at him.

He stares at me.

And then I feel my hair move.

The hand on the arm that is draped across the back of the booth has moved, and he’s slipped his fingers into my hair. Heat travels from my hair to my scalp, and it burns.

What is he doing?

This guy is unhinged and drives me bananas.

His eyes fall to my shoulder, and I watch his face as he rolls my hair between his fingers. It’s a little bit contemplative, a little bit sincere, and a little bit offended. This is the weirdest moment I’ve ever had with him. It surpasses the hand on my leg at dinner, and all I can think is What is happening right now?