Page 6 of Hats off to Love

Molly is showing Grayson something on her phone and just whips her hand up in a wave without looking at me to say hi.

“Okay, I think we’re ready,” my mother announces, pulling out two sheet pans from the oven with six individual cast iron dishes filled with what looks like chicken pot pie. “Grab a plate, and I’ll place your dish on it. Be careful, they’re hot,” she tells us.

Stokes grabs his plate and moves to stand behind me. I don’t like that I can’t see him; I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, which isn’t at all. I glance over my shoulder and have to look up to see his face. I always forget just how tall he is until I’m forced to stand right next to him. A stodgy mixture of green grass and whiskey stares back at me, and I hate that he gets me so worked up by just being.

“You know,” I whisper, and he leans down a notch to hear me. “When you bury a body and cover it with endangered plants, it’s illegal to dig it up,” I tell him animatedly.

He jerks upright, his nostrils flare, and that bored expression drops into its natural state of a scowl. He says nothing in return, just regards me with disdain. I give him a wink then spin around to go get my food.

Walking into the dining room, I smile at the familiarity: green damask wallpaper, white wainscoting below, long sheer white curtains framing the windows, and two antique light fixtures that hang over the table. I’ve eaten so many meals in this room, from Sunday dinners to holidays, that even with Stokes’s presence lingering nearby, he can’t squash my good mood. I take my usual seat across from Molly, and Stokes takes his between us at the end of the table. He’s at one end, his mother at the other. Years ago, they firmly divided the children from the adults.

“So, how’s business going?” Grayson asks, glancing my way as he takes his seat.

Off and on over the years, he’s joined us for dinner, but recently he’s been to all of them. I’ve often wondered about him and Birdie. They would make a striking pair, and I would love to see her happy.

“It’s going great,” I tell him as I reach for the large salad already on the table and scoop some into the bowl next to my place setting. “Business is steady so I can’t complain, and I’m anticipating the rush for next month. It’s going to be exciting.”

And it is. I spoke to another hat shop in town a while back, and, granted, they are bigger and their operation model is different than mine, but she hinted that they sold thousands of hats in April. Now, I don’t have thousands of hats made to be sold, but I feel I have enough, and well, if the inventory runs out, I’ll be thrilled.

“How’s Ace doing?” I ask him in return as everyone is settling in at the table.

Ace—or Ace of Spades, which is his race name—is the only three-year-old thoroughbred from the farm running in the Kentucky Derby this year. Bloodlines and breeding have become such an intricate science for horse racing, and when his mother, Dash of Spring, a Whitlock Farm Grade I stakes-winning filly, was bred with The General from Seven Stallions Farm and Ace was born, a male, everyone in the barn cheered.

“He’s doing very well. Every time he runs, he gets faster, but that could be because he knows there are treats at the finish line.” He chuckles.

I have never seen a horse more spoiled than Ace. From the second he was born, he was hugged, petted, and stroked from head to tail. His legs get massaged, his face gets kissed, and he immediately became acclimated to humans. Now he’s a thousand-pound ham, and he soaks up any and all attention given to him.

“Well, I’m not a runner, but I’m sure with the right incentive at the finish line, I could be persuaded to go faster too.” I smile at him.

Beside me, Stokes lets out a sound, and I shoot him a dirty look. He returns it with one of his own, only his expression is blank, uninterested.

When I cut into the pot pie, steam wafts out along with the delicious smell of chicken, vegetables, and pie crust. I try to remember the last time I had a nice home-cooked meal, and I’m pretty certain it was when I was here last month. I’ve been so busy I’ve been living off of coffee, takeout, and toast. I have a thing for toast, all kinds of toast: avocado, ricotta, eggs, jam, tomato, melted cheese—you name it, I love it.

“I don’t understand why the two of you don’t ride out here together. You live so close to each other, and it just makes sense,” Birdie says, not picking up on the fact that I want to stab her aggravating son with my fork.

Stokes, who acknowledged his mother when she was speaking, now slowly shifts his gaze my way. This time it locks with mine. This room is brighter than the kitchen, and I suddenly feel as if he’s magnified. His light brown hair looks super soft, his eyelashes look long and thick, and since it’s Sunday, he has a weekend stubble across his jaw, framing his full lips. The double lines between his eyes that are ever present when he looks at me make an appearance at my perusal of him, and then it’s like I can mentally hear him say, “Go ahead, Thorney. Tell them why you won’t ride with me.”

I stare back at him as if it’s a challenge, one I refuse to back down from, and I mentally reply, “And why would that be? Because I’d rather be eaten by bears than be stuck in a confined space with you, or because I’m afraid for my life as I can see you pushing me out while going eighty miles an hour?”

We’ve done a great job of keeping our feud between the two of us over the years. I’m certain both my mother and his suspect there’s no love lost between us, but that doesn’t stop them from wanting or pushing.

Realizing I’m not going to give in, he eventually blinks and looks away.

I turn to look at Birdie. “Stokes comes out earlier than I’m able to, at least for right now. I’m keeping the shop open later during the season.”

“Well that makes sense,” she says, taking a bite of her pot pie and redirecting her attention to my mother. “This is delicious.”

The two of them begin talking about the recipe, and I turn back to look at him and pop one eyebrow.

His eyes narrow then spark with mischief.

Oh no.

“Actually…” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I did ask Rosie if she’d like to be my date to the party,” he announces. “But she said no.”

Across from me, Molly drops her head and shakes it in disbelief. Meanwhile, my mother gasps in disapproval, lowers her fork, and looks over at me. I mentally count down the minutes until I can leave, go buy oranges, and then smear them all over his smug face.

Stokes has a crazy allergy to oranges. The minute the citric acid in the juice hits his skin, it starts burning. In fact, it doesn’t even have to be oranges. There’s a whole lot I can do with lemons and limes too.