Page 30 of Hats off to Love

“He throws this party every year?” I ask him, ignoring his jab and smoothing down my skirt for the three hundredth time.

“Yes.”

“And you’ve gone to it before?” I’m trying to gather some background information.

“Yes.” He lets out one of his annoyed sighs.

“I guess I just don’t understand why I need to be here. You already know all these people, and you’ve been to this party before. Wait . . .” I turn to look at him. “Do you always bring a date with you to these things?” It had never occurred to me that he might have.

He shoots me a look that says, You can’t be serious.

But I am. Other than seeing Stokes once a month and on holidays, I really don’t know anything about him or his social life. He doesn’t strike me as the player type of guy with his pristine reputation, but who knows? I certainly don’t.

“Well?” I ask as I turn to face him a little more.

“No, I don’t, but you’ll see why I need you today,” he says as he parks next to the other guests who have already arrived.

Need.

Such a strange word to hear coming out of his mouth.

He turns to face me, and we sit in the car in silence and stare at each other. His face is tight, and there’s something more severe about the way his jaw is clenched.

My eyes narrow as I take him in. He’s wearing a black button-down, black slacks, black shoes, and a black belt. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in all black, and he looks like someone else, more outlaw and less preppy polo spectator. I’m also glad I chose to wear this black and white striped dress. We match, even if it was unintentional.

“Why do you look like that?” I ask.

“Like what?” He runs his hand through his hair and then over his face.

“Like you’d rather be stabbed repeatedly than go in there to spend time with your colleagues.”

He lets out another deep sigh, and his perma-scowl drops into place. Breaking eye contact, he looks out the window. “You’ll see.”

“Is there anything you should be telling me before we go in there?” I flip down the visor to look in the mirror one last time.

He turns back to me as he opens his door. “Lawyers—be careful what you say.”

With that, he gets out of the car and comes around the front to open my door.

“Thank you in advance for doing this,” he says with low-level exasperation as he takes my hand to help me out then keeps holding it as he shuts the door. I can’t tell if his irritation is because he’s saddled himself with me for the night or because he doesn’t want to be here. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on how Stokes is holding my hand, and I keep glancing down at his large palm wrapped around mine.

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s quite possible I let everyone know how you really are and ruin your reputation.” I smile at him conspiratorially.

He tilts his head as his hand loosens so he can thread his fingers between mine. “And how am I really?” he asks as we start walking toward the front door.

It takes a second to register his words as I’m still baffled by the fact that we’re holding hands at all, and now in an intimate way.

“Cunning, two-faced, mean—”

“What?” He jerks us to a stop on the porch, two steps away from the front door, and looks genuinely disturbed by my assessment of him. Why he is surprised, I have no idea. His favorite pastime is insulting and ignoring me, with a splash of kindness like the champagne at my grand opening.

I’m just about to answer him when the door flies open and there’s a man in his early fifties smiling at us. Instantly, I feel on guard with the way he’s staring at Stokes, and then his eyes fall on me. Stokes’s hand tightens around mine.

“Son! So happy you could make it,” he says as he takes a step forward and pats Stokes on the arm.

Son?

“I said I was coming,” Stokes replies in that bored, uptight tone he’s perfected, and I almost snicker.