Page 71 of Hats off to Love

“Not at the moment. We’ll just have to wait for that syringe to be run through drug testing. At the end of the day, he wasn’t supposed to be here, he knew he needed an appointment, and whatever he was about to inject into your horse, he was not given consent. Once we speak with our people, we’ll let you know. Keep your phone near you in case we have questions. We’ll be in touch soon.”

Stokes lets out another sigh and glances over at the monitors. No one says anything as we all watch him. Birdie hasn’t spoken at all; I guess they informed her of all of this before we got here, but everyone is acting as if Stokes is the one in charge. I suppose, in a way, he is. After all, he’s the second-in-command, but I’ve never seen this side of him here at the farm, and I like it.

“We’re sure there’s something going wrong here, right? Is it possible all of this is a miscommunication?” he asks one more time.

The tall security guard answers him. “Sir, I don’t think so. We’ve looked at the security footage. His behavior was suspicious, and combined with the fact that he broke the farm’s visiting rules and was caught in the wrong barn with an unapproved medication, it’s definitely better to be safe than sorry.”

“I suppose you’re right. Keep me updated, okay?” He looks around the room. Heads nod, and then all but two of the security guards begin shuffling for the door.

“Do you two want to come to the main house for dinner?” Birdie asks. Bless her, she looks hopeful, but even I can tell Stokes is done peopling. He needs to decompress and ruminate on all of this.

“Thanks, but I think we’ll head to my house. I still have some work to do, and I need to call Christopher,” he tells her, letting her down gently.

“All right, darling. I’ll see you later.” She smiles at both of us, her eyes lingering on me for a second longer, and then she’s gone, whipping away in one of the golf carts.

Climbing back into Stokes’s SUV, we drive the short distance to his house and walk in together hand in hand. His grip is a little tight, but considering his mood, I don’t even think he realizes.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, flipping on the kitchen light.

Like his condo in the city, this is also the first time I’m entering this home. It definitely has Birdie’s touch, but it is all Stokes and looks straight out of a Restoration Hardware catalog: warm brown leather, a farm table in the kitchen, and white cabinets and walls. There are pops of color here and there, and his personal items are casually found all over, from shoes by the door and mail on the counter to a book open and upside down on the coffee table to hold its place, a cell phone charger stuck in the wall, and a sweater thrown over one of the island chairs. This home looks comfortable, almost more lived in than the condo, and my heart squeezes that it’s been here all along, but I haven’t.

“Maybe a glass of water,” I tell him. There’s a pinch in my chest at the thought that there are things about him I really don’t know. Granted, I do feel like I know more than most, but when it comes to his daily life, I’m still learning. Like the book—I wander over to see the cover: a biography about Roosevelt. Although I’ve never given it much thought, considering Stokes is a lawyer, he probably does like to read, but biographies? Is it that he loves history or politics? Does he enjoy nonfiction more than fiction? I have no idea.

He pulls two glasses from the cabinet and fills them with ice and water from the refrigerator. We’re standing in the middle of the large room next to the island, and we stare at each other as we each take a drink.

“I’ve never been here,” I tell him, almost whispering.

His brows pull down. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never been in your house.”

His face smooths out with understanding. He looks around—I imagine he’s trying to see what it is that I see—and then he looks thoughtfully back at me. “You know today wouldn’t have happened if not for you.”

“You don’t know that. Your security here has always been very good.” I smile sheepishly.

“I do know that, because we wouldn’t have been on alert like we have been otherwise. Also, Ace’s barn only had cameras that showed the outside, not the inside. We installed cameras throughout the building so we could see what happens inside as well, specifically Ace’s stall. The vet’s strange behavior and catching him on tape holding the needle—it just adds to the case.”

“Oh.” I take another sip, my mind reeling a little bit. I had been hesitant to tell him about my crazy theory, but maybe it really wasn’t so crazy.

“Oh is right.” He moves a step closer. “Are you hungry? I didn’t even think about dinner.” He runs his hand down my arm. It’s so sweet, him and his constant need to touch me. I love it.

“I probably could eat something,” I say, just as my stomach growls.

One side of his mouth tweaks up, and he sets his glass on the island. While moving toward the smart television to turn on some music, he informs me, “You have your choice of steak and fries or spaghetti.”

“Which is easier?”

“Both are easy, but let’s go pasta.” He walks back to the kitchen and to the freezer. He pulls out a package of ground mild Italian sausage, opens it, and puts it on a plate to defrost in the microwave. I move to the pantry and retrieve noodles and a jar of sauce. Simple, easy, and it’ll be delicious.

Side by side, we work together to make this dinner, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how life would be if I was with him every night, if we lived together. I know I’m getting way ahead of myself, but being with him, imagining a future with him, it’s not hard to do. Would we live here or in the city? Would it be at one of our current places or somewhere new? My heart lights up like a sparkler with excitement. Together would be so good.

We’re quiet as we sit down to eat. It’s an easy quiet where we don’t feel forced to fill the silence, but we talk about our day, speculate over Dr. Miller, and laugh at stupid things. For the most part, I think he’s calmed down a bit, but the reason we’re here lingers in the background.

Just as we’re finished, his phone rings in his back pocket, and we both jump at the sound. Pulling it out, he flashes me the screen so we both see on the caller ID that it’s his security team. His eyes connect with mine and hold as he takes the call.

“Whitlock,” he murmurs as I lean back in my chair and watch him. His back has gone straight, and his face has turned to stone. At this moment, he’s the other Stokes I know, the prince of the castle, the one who dutifully knows his role. “Right. Okay. I’ll meet him at the station, and thanks for all you’re doing. We appreciate it.”

“Duty calls?” I ask after he hangs up, trying to lighten the mood.