Nash Brothers Box Set - Carrie Aarons Page 0,83

those years ago, I could literally combust on the spot. Bowen Nash was bad boy charm personified, and we lived fast and loose together. Him, the cocky baseball player who’d fallen for the good girl, and me, the innocent pixie he’d spun around his finger.

“I … I don’t mean to be like that. It’s just … life moves on. I don’t want our bad blood tainting Keaton and Presley’s engagement, or marriage.”

“As if I’d ever do anything to spoil their happiness. You know me, at least give me that,” I say quietly.

Bowen looks down at his boots. “I know you wouldn’t.”

It’s the kindest thing he’s said to me since we stopped being us.

We’re interrupted when Presley comes bounding over, and I slap a smile on my face even though I feel like crying. “Oh my goodness, congratulations! I’m so happy for you two!”

She embraces me hard, and I try to give her the same enthusiasm back.

“I can’t even believe this. On my soft opening, too! You guys knew all along, didn’t you?” She gleams.

I look at Bowen, nodding. “Guilty. Keaton wanted help to make it a total surprise. You deserve it!”

Presley hip bumps Bowen. “You helped? Damn, I’m surprised, brother. A declaration of love in a yoga studio … and Bowie was in on it? Pigs really must be flying.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.” He bares his teeth at her.

I chuckle because she’s started to call him by the nickname Fletcher dubbed him with.

“Well, any who, I know it’s super early, but I just can’t help myself. Technically, it’s been like five seconds since we got engaged. Remember that? And I know I can speak for Keaton when I say he wouldn’t mind me asking. So … will you be our best man and maid of honor?”

Someone probably needs to get an ambulance over here and check my pulse. Because I’m pretty sure I’m flatlining.

Hopefully, I’ve managed to wipe the look of horrification that my mind is sure reads all over my expression off of my face.

Because how the hell am I going to organize a wedding with the love of my life, who no longer loves me?

How the hell am I going to stand across an altar from the man I was supposed to be standing there with?

4

Bowen

“I don’t understand why Keaton chose you to be his best man?”

Fletcher throws the ball at me, my glove catching it with a nice thud that ripples the leather covering my hand.

After the last rainy week of May, we’re finally into the warm June sunshine, and it’s the first chance we’ve gotten to come out and toss a ball around. Even if baseball isn’t my career, it’s still my passion. My fingers itch to touch that first hint of leather and laces as soon as April comes around, and the World Series is like a religious holiday in the Nash household.

Growing up, all of us played. Keaton was decent while Fletcher and Forrest had fun with it but weren’t ever really serious players. I, on the other hand, ate, slept, and bled the sport. I had been a shortstop; I was quick on my feet, could react in a split second, and whipped that ball so hard when I needed to make a play that scouts called me a dynamite. My bat was just as hot as my hand.

All that disappeared the night of the accident though. After the crash, the doctors discovered I’d broken my right arm, my throwing arm, in three places. My collarbone had a number of breaks and fractures. I’d almost punctured my lung, sprained my tailbone, and fractured my left ankle. I was a fucking mess for a while after that night, and even though everything properly healed and I’d done every inch of rehab asked of me …

I just wasn’t the same. The game didn’t click for me like it had before. My mind knew how to move, my heart still had the same passion, but my body was sluggish. The control I’d once exerted over my arm and hand wasn’t there anymore. My timing was off, I could no longer hit the way I once had.

For eighteen years, I’d harbored a dream. And in one night, I robbed myself of it.

The thoughts eat me alive daily, so I box them up, choosing to compartmentalize instead of talking about the rage. If a team came calling, I’d pack up my things, sell the barbershop and never look back. But that was a pipe dream