Page 40 of Hats off to Love

I remember when this picture was taken, too. It was Thanksgiving weekend my senior year of college. Stokes was heading back to law school, and his mother asked that we pose together. We were standing next to his car, but the way the photo is taken, all you see in the background is one of the fields with a horse’s head popped over the fence. He’s standing in the middle, and at the time I thought he’d wrapped his arms around both of us, but it turns out it was just me. His arm is draped across my shoulders, mine is around his waist, and Molly is leaning up against him on the other side. We look close, affectionate toward each other, and poor Molly looks like a third wheel.

I turn to look at him and find he’s watching me almost warily. I point to the photo without saying a word, and he just shrugs one shoulder before popping the cork.

A strange feeling courses through me. Part of me thinks I should ask him why in the world he would have a picture of me on his walls—after all, he’s always hated me—but the other part doesn’t want to know the answer. I might like his response, but it also might force me to take a deeper look at myself and the role I played in our never-ending feud.

Not touching that subject with a ten-foot pole, I steer the questions in a different direction.

“I always thought you lived more downtown—I had no idea you were here in NuLu. Why haven’t you ever come into the shop?”

“Would you have wanted me to?” he asks as he walks over and hands me a glass of red.

He’s got a point.

“Hmm,” I mumble as I walk over to the wall of windows and look out while he walks back to the kitchen and begins pulling things out of the refrigerator and placing them on the island.

There’s music playing throughout the loft. I didn’t notice it at first, but it fills the quiet space that’s grown between us. There’s also the deliciousness of barbecue floating in the air, and my stomach growls.

“It smells amazing in here. Where did you get the barbecue from?” I make my way to the island and sit down on a stool across from him.

“I made it myself.” He turns and points toward a crockpot on the counter.

My jaw drops, and he smirks at my reaction.

“You have a crockpot?” I hold up my hand. “No, wait—better question: you know how to use a crockpot?”

He gives me a flat look, even though I can see the humor in his eyes.

“Yes, Thorney, I do know how to read a manual and follow a recipe.”

“But . . . a crockpot is so domestic. This changes my view of you entirely.”

He chuckles, and the sound plus the image in front of me does strange things to my heart.

“I work late, I don’t want to eat out all the time, and it’s an easy way to have dinner ready when I get home.” He grabs our plates, pulls some Texas toast out of the oven, and moves them to the kitchen table. I follow, noting the large salad, roasted broccoli, and pie that are already set out.

That’s right, a pie.

I try hard not to smile but fail.

He sees me looking at the dessert. “I didn’t make that, but I know you like peach pie. It’s from that bakery a few blocks over.”

The bakery I love and get my scones from.

A blush burns through my cheeks. I don’t like peach pie—I love it, and he remembered. I take a longer look at him as he moves back into the kitchen, and it hits me: his favorite is apple. I kind of love that I know this detail about him too.

“I do, thank you.” I take a seat and set the wine down. “How often do you cook like this?”

“At least three or four days a week,” he says over his shoulder as he scoops out the barbecue and puts it in a bowl.

“Well then, make enough for two, because I’m officially inviting myself over.”

“Okay,” he says quietly as he puts the bowl in front of me and sits down. “I know you also like toast, so I was thinking you could stack the barbecue if you wanted.”

As I put my napkin in my lap, I take a look at the food and then at him. This entire situation feels surreal to me, and his overt kindness these past few weeks has my heart rate increasing.

He lifts his gaze to mine, and we stare at each other. His usual broody, stiff self is gone, and in its place is a guy who, if I’m not careful, I could fall for.

“The me prior to our little agreement wants to blurt out some type of snarky comment, only, I can’t come up with anything, nor do I want to.”