Page 3 of Hats off to Love

When I was thirteen, my father suddenly died. So did theirs.

Coincidence? Yes, and the loss set each family on a different trajectory. My mother suddenly found herself needing a job, and their mother suddenly found herself to be the sole owner of the third largest thoroughbred racehorse farm in the state. To say a lot of people had a lot of opinions about what she should do with the farm would be an understatement, so to mute the noise, she fired a handful then hired my mother, an outsider, to be her personal assistant.

We moved to the farm, and that’s where she remains today.

Taking a step back, Stokes turns and slowly looks around the store, the store I designed all by myself. When something means as much as this place does to me, it feels like being looked at naked with the way he’s analyzing and taking it all in, and I’d rather die than ever be naked in front of him.

“It looks good in here,” he says, his shoulders dropping just a little. It’s a compliment, and I’m not quite sure how to take it from him.

“It looks the same as it did when you came to the grand opening party,” Molly reminds him.

He did come—showed up with a bottle of champagne and demanded we put down our swords for the evening to toast to the future success of the shop. It was one of the few times I can remember him ever not looking at me as if I were placed on this earth just to be an annoyance to him.

That’s the thing about Stokes—he really is a nice guy, at least he is to everyone but me.

Which makes him even worse.

It’s like I’m forced to know the real him, the good and the evil, and for that I hate him.

I hate how he turned out to be the perfect height and build for a guy. I hate how his light brown hair always looks sexy and disheveled, but there’s not a hair out of place. I hate how he wears a suit so well it molds to his body as if it’s hugging him. But I mostly hate how he has the most perfect hazel eyes, and when they look at me, they scream, I know something you don’t know.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He evades the question and begins walking around. I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s pacing, he’s thinking hard about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. I already have this sinking feeling in my gut that it isn’t going to be good. Nothing good ever comes from Stokes when he paces. I wait and watch him take in the details, one by one.

I know there are other hat shops in town. I don’t have the benefit of being unique in that aspect, but I wanted to create a unique experience for my customers, which is why I decided on boutique and intimate.

The store isn’t small, but it’s not large either. It’s in a two-story brick building that houses two storefronts on the first level and an apartment over each. The other is a succulent store and gallery. They offer over two hundred different types of indoor/outdoor plants, as well as wall art made by local artists. In the apartment across the hall from mine is a newly married couple. She is a teacher, and he is a sommelier in a wine bar. They keep to themselves, which is perfect for me.

This store is my life.

Which is why it’s so weird to see him casually wandering around my space.

“The whitewashed bricks do look better than I thought they would,” he says, coming to stand back in front of the counter.

I’m not sure how to take this.

“Okaaaay.” I drag the word out, unsure where his mind is headed.

“But I still think you should have left them the color they were. You disrupted the integrity of the walls,” he states.

Molly sucks in air at the insult, but I just roll my eyes because that’s so Stokes. He is an old man in a young man’s body. He’s always been serious. I swear he has zero sense of humor, and from what I’ve witnessed over the years, he has a hard time with change.

“Stokes! Really?” Molly chastises.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I understand that Stokes would break out in a rash if he actually had to pay me more than two compliments in a row. He can’t help it.”

He looks at me and frowns. Those two little lines strike between his eyes, and I’m surprised they’re not permanent at this point. It’s his go-to expression when looking at me. I’m used to it, although I wish I weren’t. I seriously have no idea what I ever did to him to make him dislike me, but I’m not one to roll over and take it. I can give as much as I get. In fact, I can give more.

I actually put a lot of thought into the interior of the store. Yes, the brick walls were in their original state of brown, but I wanted the store to be brighter, to have that antique feel of the bricks but be modern at the same time. So, I whitewashed them. All the shelves are glass, and I found a company who makes black velvet mannequin heads to hold the different hats. On the outer wall of the building, the shelves run the full length of the shop to hold the large hats. Ceiling to floor, they are evenly spaced, with a light pink pillbox hat box in between each one. The store logo is, of course, on display. In the back of the shop is the checkout counter on one side and a fitting room on the other. Outside is a platform to stand on surrounded by three silver-framed mirrors, and on the interior wall, I have it broken up into thirds. The front third is the social media wall, in the middle I’ve set up a selection of headbands, crowns, and fascinators, and the back portion is all fascinators. Also, hat stands are strategically placed around the shop, stocked with color-coordinated hats and fascinators.

I love the image I’ve created. From the tables to the chandeliers and the black, white, and pale pink color scheme, it’s perfect and it’s me.

“Would you just spit it out already? We all know you didn’t come here for a social call. What do you want?” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s a defensive stance, one I am certain he’s picked up on, but I don’t care. So what if I have to protect myself? I’ve learned over the years to be on guard when it comes to Stokes Whitlock, from the condescending glares and comments to flat-out insults. Oh, and I’ll never forget the pranks, or as he calls them, “jokes.”

Standing at the end of the counter closest to Molly, he leans one hip against it, faces me, licks his bottom lip, and says, “I’ve been thinking you should be my date to the party.”

No hesitation. No doubt. No inflections in his words. No hopefulness.