Page 36 of Holding The Reins

“Between the Center, the ranch and the bar, I’ve done the math.” Of course she has. “You can’t get more than three or four hours a night, if you’re lucky. That’s not good for you.”

I shrug, but she’s about right.

“I just don’t sleep. When I try to sleep, things… come back to me. I get a few hours, but I’m usually up long before the sun.”

“Oh.” She nods.

“Have you ever tried talking to someone about it?”

I smirk because she has no idea the lengths I’ve gone to. Her question doesn’t pry, it’s like she’s just curious.

“I’ve tried everything. Three different therapists, hypnosis, melatonin, every natural remedy you can think of that your Mama could dig up. It’s much better now than it was the first ten years after. I can sleep on and off now, but some nights and moments are just worse than others.” I shrug.

She reaches over and startles me by placing her tiny hand over mine and squeezes gently. Her hand is warm and soft on my skin. Heat races up my forearm with her touch.

“If you’re struggling, you’re living. You have to hold some peace in that, and I can be a good friend for listening if you ever want to talk about it.”

I pull my hand away, because I’m not used to people touching me when I haven’t planned for it.

“Here we are,” I say as we pull up to Town Hall.

CeCe replaces her hand back in her lap and nods as I mentally kick myself for shutting her down.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but after spending these last weeks with Nash I’m starting to actually care about him and his well-being. I know what he went through and knowing he is everywhere all the time tells me he doesn’t take time for himself and possibly works himself away from his demons.

He eats like he’s still in NHL training and never stops going physically, but that can’t be enough. It’s natural I worry—I’m used to seeing him everywhere now—at our dinner table on Monday nights, at the bar when I’m out with the girls and almost every day at the Center. It’s no longer uncomfortable like it was in the beginning. It’s now comforting, and somewhere over the last few weeks, I’ve come to look forward to seeing him.

As much as I hate crushing on someone I will never have, I look forward to coming to work and that makes my days easier. It’s easier to put up with Andrew’s constant voicemails and emails when I’ve come home from an otherwise good day. It’s also slow torture because he is just too gorgeous in any setting.

Business Nash, Backwards ball-cap-wearing bar Nash, Cowboy Nash, Hockey Nash—they’re all starring characters in my Saturday night imaginary reels. It’s not just his looks, it’s the way he brings Sonny her morning donut every single day, and the way he pays for the kid’s camp fees when their parents can’t afford it—I’ve uncovered a lot of that while I’ve been going over the books. It’s when I come outside the mornings that he’s at the ranch, to find Spicer’s coffee on the porch rail, always steaming hot, always perfect. We never really talk about it much but it’s always there and I appreciate the way he’s making me feel as welcome as possible to his team.

It’s giving me hope that we can be friends going forward. Real friends. Which is why I offered a listening ear to him, but I should’ve known he wouldn’t accept it.

Somewhere under there, he’s still the same elusive, closed off Nash and that will probably never change.

We meet with the Mayor’s assistant, Leslie and spend the next hour going over rules with her. I take notes as she flirts with an oblivious Nash. Everything he says is “so smart” and “such a great idea” that she “never thought of.”

My stomach growls as I shake Leslie’s hand to say goodbye. I’m pretty sure she has drool on her chin as she shakes Nash’s.

“Sage and Salt?” he asks, as we walk toward Main.

“Absolutely,” I reply as we pass his truck and opt to walk the short distance.

My hometown is so pretty and I’m getting all the homey feelings again as we take in the summer tourists and shoppers. We cross over the tiny bridge in the harbor and select a patio table to have our lunch at.

“Hey, honey!” Sandy calls as we sit.

“Rocket,” she addresses Nash. “The usual?”

“You know it,” Nash says in return.

“And for you, CeCe?” She turns to me expectantly.

“The breakfast croissant and home fries. And an orange juice, please,” I say. No menus required.

“Breakfast after too many sangrias,” she chuckles.

“That Shania cover was great last night,” she says to Nash. “We need to get her here again.”

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