I'd meant to retire the hat. The itchy, hair destroying, clash-with-everything hat. I didn't want the reminder of that delectable hug, didn't want to remember the way his arms wrapped me up. In a fit of anger, I'd shoved the damned thing into the black-hole that was my glove box.
Until the next day. Just before the Falcons took the field, John grabbed my attention. "Aren't you missing something?" He asked ruffling my hair.
Now the hat, the cursed hat was a permanent ornament to my work look, an obligatory uniform I had forced onto myself. Three games later, I was out of dresses that didn't clash violently with the flaming orange color.
I let out a groan as I threw on a deep purple sundress and my stupid hat.
Fuck Florida.
I longed for hurricane worthy winds to snatch the hat from my h
