Page 22 of Hats off to Love

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze continues to travel over my face and trace the tracks of my tears. Then, as if my words have finally registered, he chuckles in that dark delicious way of his that has my eyes dropping to his mouth and now sends my toes curling.

No.

This cannot be happening.

“Don’t you mean sexual assault?” he mocks as he takes a step closer, and I lean back against my car.

Hearing him say the word sexual has my lower stomach tightening. Truth is, he and I both know he didn’t assault me; I was a willing participant.

Willing and stupid.

Looking up at him as he’s barely left any space between us, I mentally curse the moon for highlighting the angles of his profile, making his face even more handsome.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself, because it will never happen again,” I say through gritted teeth and a few more tears.

He raises his arms, and both of his hands land on my car, bracketing my head. I watch as he slowly lowers himself even closer to me and his smell, which I now realize is as familiar as home, wraps around me.

Squeezing my eyes shut as his warm breath brushes across my cheek to my ear, I shiver. I should be shoving him away, but I can’t. I’m frozen and stuck on the fact that he’s just so close to me.

After a beat, he gently wipes away the moisture with his thumb, his temple comes to rest against mine, and, voice low, he says, “Yes, it will.”

And then he’s gone.

LUVU TEA

WE’RE OFF TO THE RACES

Good morning, dear Louisvillians! We are up and running at full speed today as the season begins not only its series two championship races, but apparently also the race for our most eligible bachelor’s heart!

Last night, Whitlock Farm hosted its infamous annual season party. Dripping in grandeur and refined taste, Mrs. Whitlock outdid herself on creating an enchanting night. While we were intent on sharing all of the most delicious tea, none of what landed in our inbox is as tasty as this. It seems we have a filly who’s entered the race—the race for our bachelor, that is.

As you can see from the images provided, Mr. Whitlock and his date very much enjoyed each other’s company and the party last night. The pair were seen talking, laughing, dancing, kissing, and even leaving early. So who might this little filly be? A local by the name of Rosie May. Rosie owns a hat shop in NuLu and can be found on all major social media sites.

Sources tell us Stokes and Rosie are childhood friends and have known each other most of their lives. While their friendship has been unique, time and time again, the two have always gravitated back toward each other. Be still our romantic hearts. Friends to lovers is a trope we definitely stand behind here at the Tea. Is that what this is? Is this their time? And are you going to get a front-row view of their fairy tale? I hope so, but there’s only one way for you to find out—hit that subscribe button and come steep along.

9

The first time I saw Stokes was actually before we were introduced.

We had only been at the farm for two days. My mother and I, both still deeply grieving the loss of my father, were living more side by side than we were together. We were both quiet, internally dealing with all the sudden changes, and while she unpacked our new house, I spent time outside wandering the property. No one told me I couldn’t, and I found the endless fields of bluegrass and fresh air therapeutic.

That particular day, I had wandered off into the trees and found a stream running through the property. I was lying in the shade staring up through the leaves when I felt the ground vibrate. It was the telltale sign of hooves pounding against the earth, and as the seconds passed, it got stronger and stronger.

Sitting up, I did my best to blend in with the trunk of the tree just as a horse went racing by and then came to a sudden stop. There was a boy with light brown hair on the back of it wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. No shoes, no saddle, just him and the horse.

At the time, I didn’t know it was Stokes. It could have been anyone’s kid, but as I watched him slip off the horse, stand next to it, and yell as loud as he could into the trees, I knew it was him. My mother had told me about him and Molly.

Over and over, he yelled, sometimes bent at the waist with his hands in fists, ready to fight, and other times with his head thrown back like he was calling to God. In the end, he fell to his knees, slumped over, and cried. I cried with him because I knew exactly how he felt.

I never told him about that moment. It was meant to be private, but I felt bonded to him in a way he would never understand, and I thought of him endlessly as a kindred spirit.

When we did finally meet, a few days later on their front porch, although his height and hair color were the same, he was not. This boy was quiet, controlled, stoic. While Molly was excited to meet me, he just stared at me as if he was completely indifferent and it was a waste of his time. The strings on the bond I had created between the two of us began to unravel at a rapid rate, and I felt foolish. He inadvertently hurt my feelings, and he wasn’t even aware of it.

Although that might have been the first time my feelings were hurt by Stokes Whitlock, as we all know, it certainly wasn’t the last, which is why it should come as no surprise that I have dark circles under my eyes and a raging headache this morning.

I didn’t sleep a wink. How could I?

Never have I been more mortified as a result of my actions or, quite frankly, his. I still have no idea what he was thinking planting his lips on mine, and I have absolutely no understanding of why I agreed.