Page 83 of Hats off to Love

Taking a deep breath, I unlock it, crack it, and then, with my back to him, move to the table. That heat rises to near boiling, and I have to remind myself to stay calm as he pushes the door open and follows me inside. He locks it behind him, just for precaution’s sake. I take a seat and look at him.

I see red.

Betrayal.

He takes a quick look around the store, and I realize I never turned the lights on. He’s also getting his first look at how drained of inventory I am. He doesn’t comment. Instead, he turns those laser beams my way and holds steady.

“You okay?” he asks, taking a few steps closer to me. He looks tired and unsure. His hair is a mess, he hasn’t shaved, and his clothes are wrinkled.

“Of course I am. Nothing a good solid night’s sleep can’t cure.” I smile. It’s one hundred percent fake.

His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare. From the way he originally approached, it’s easy to see he was feeling uncertain about what he was walking into, but with my tone right there, he knows.

Cutting to the chase, he asks, “Why did you leave?”

“What do you mean?” I play dumb and bat my eyelashes at him.

The two little lines strike. “Last night. The Derby. I know you well enough to know you weren’t sick. You lied to me, and you left knowing I couldn’t go with you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I shrug one shoulder. “I mean does it even matter?” I’m just poking the bear to see how he might respond.

He opens his mouth to say something but then shuts it. His brows pull down in bewilderment.

I can’t help the spike of confusion I feel too as we stare at each other.

“Explain,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

Explain! He is not going to talk to me like this. He doesn’t get to anymore. I wouldn’t have ever thought it was okay for him to boss me around in that haughty tone, but in my deluded state of wanting to please him, I would have answered.

I roll my eyes before answering. “Because . . . well, this is over, and I just didn’t see the point of being there any longer.”

“Over.” He parrots the word as if it is somehow foreign to him and he doesn’t understand.

“Yes.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Is that what you want?” he asks, as if he’s having trouble understanding this conversation.

“Me?” I point to my chest. “It’s literally what you have been saying to me all along, even less than forty-eight hours ago. And I quote, ‘This is almost over.’ ‘Let’s get this over with.’ I’m under no illusion that this arrangement between us was ever going to be anything more. It was always ending with the Derby. That was the deal.”

“That’s not what I meant when I said those things. You know this.” He’s stiffening, feeling the need to be defensive, and this is something I was hoping to skip. He doesn’t need to get all worked up; this is what he wants.

“Do I? Hate to break it to you, but that’s exactly what it sounded like. Besides, this whole thing between us was set up with your terms and with the expectation of a deadline. We’ve reached it. Yay us!” I wave my hands sarcastically like jazz hands.

“Right,” he says. As his lips turn down into a frown, he tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at the ground.

And look at that, he isn’t pacing. He doesn’t feel the need to argue with me. He just strangely looks like a beautiful fallen angel. But why? Ugh. It pains me to look at him.

I’ve always tried to think and be three steps ahead of Stokes. He’s a master when it comes to this unhealthy thing between us, but this time I outsmarted him and was five steps ahead.

After all, one of the things I know about Stokes is when he says something, he means it. He said this thing between us would only last through the Derby, and I should have listened. I would have saved myself a lot of unnecessary pain, and my heart wouldn’t feel as if I had laid it on the track at Churchill Downs. Forget getting run over—I let it get trampled.

“This is what you want?” he asks quietly. His voice makes me ache.

The knot that has been sitting in my chest moves to my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it keeps rising, and with it, my eyes start burning. I should answer him, but I can’t. I just stare and weep on the inside. I really do love him.

“Well . . . thanks for agreeing to help me out. I appreciate it,” he says, finally lifting his head. His color has drained, and his eyes look red, but that can’t be. He’s probably just tired from the late night.

“Of course. We did have fun, didn’t we?” I mean to keep things lighthearted, but I know he hears the tinge of insecurity between my words.