Page 5 of Holding The Reins

“I didn’t hear that,” I say nonchalantly as I let myself take in the sight of Nash on the other side of the bar. He’s offensively gorgeous. I’ll admit it. Everything about him is ominous and big. At 6’4, he towers over me by more than a foot. He’s the rugged type with dark wavy hair, close-cut stubble and a wide jaw. He looks like he should be leaning back in a wooden chair, drawing off a cigar in his flannel and Wranglers. His stacked, muscular form has always been so perfect. Ever since the days of playing hockey with my brothers in the driveway or shoveling hay, shirtless at eighteen on our ranch as I watched him from my bedroom window. Although, it seems his NHL years have honed his body to almost godlike chiseled proportions, judging by the way his upper arms are testing the limits of his flannel right now. I notice he’s added even more ink to his skin since I saw him briefly in January at my dad’s funeral. Vines creep out of his shirt collar and trail up the side of his neck now. Nash’s eyes meet mine across the room for a split second before I look away. They’ve always sucked me in, deep cobalt and intense. They render me a bumbling idiot any time they focus on me.

There’s no doubt that Nash Carter is insanely gorgeous, but he’s always been a cocky, older brother type that treated me like a pain-in-the-ass kid and tormented me for as long as I can remember—at least until I left for college. He was always showing up at our house with a different girl on any given day, making out with them on our living room sofa when my parents weren’t home, with absolutely no regard for me keeping my lunch down. More memories flood my mind of him eating all the snacks in our house, tailgating with my brothers before football games, pulling my hair, knocking my hat off my head, and helping my brothers prank me to their hearts’ content.

It’s been a long time, but as I watch him exude the same confidence and charisma talking to his bar patrons, while adjusting his Dallas Stars baseball hat, I just know he’s still the same.

Nash Carter is a full-of-himself, womanizing superstar, and he’s the type of man I just ran half way across the country from.

The last thing I ever expected to see midway through my typical Sunday night was that flash of honey-colored hair. No one has hair like hers, it’s not even blonde, it’s like the color of the sun itself. But here she is. CeCe Rae Ashby, all grown up and in the shortest, tightest mini skirt this bar has ever seen. A skirt that’s making me consider dragging her ass out the back door and tying a jacket around her waist because not only did I notice her, so did all the other men in this place.

Thankfully, on ladies’ night, the men are few and far between, so I can handle them if any of them get out of line with her.

I picture how her face looked in January, the last time I saw her, as I slice lemons and limes behind the bar. She was so heartbroken and pale then. Puffy, tear-filled eyes, long, black wool dress and her hair in a tight bun. Her dad’s funeral. I could only stay in town for one night because I had the All-Star Weekend starting in Nashville the next day. But I had to be there for the family when Wyatt died, at least for the bulk of it. Every damn one of them has always been there for me, even CeCe.

Aside from that day, it’s been at least five years since I’ve really seen her, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes, I fall right back into protective mode—just like when she was younger. It took all three of us boys to watch out for her when she became a teenager. She’s still just one of those girls who never understands her own beauty and that makes her all the more enticing to every man in this room. And for reasons I don’t understand, I can’t seem to take my eyes off of her tonight, either.

The last thing I need on a busy ladies’ night is to play CeCe’s bodyguard, but if she’s here, it’s bound to happen, so I suppose I’ll be adding that to my list of jobs.

I glance up at the large, framed photo of half the town in this very pub with The Stanley Cup that I brought home three years ago. The locals love having a hometown hockey player, but it means I always have to be on my game. Sometimes it’s exhausting but I try not to complain, if all I have to do is sign a few autographs and offer cheap drinks to keep this downtown core alive, I’ll do it. This town has always been good to me, and watching it thrive gives me a tiny bit of peace—something I don’t get a lot of.

I keep myself busy slinging whiskeys and mixing sangria pitchers as CeCe sashays her tipsy little self out to the dance floor an hour later with Olivia and Ginger—Charlie’s Not Angels, that’s what the Ashby boys and I used to call them after bailing them out of every situation imaginable. Drunken party pick-ups when they were in high school, covering for them when they smoked pot and almost burned the damn house down making pancakes. These girls were a full-time job. I wonder, as I wipe the bar down, why CeCe is even here. Last I’d heard, she was engaged to some hot shot lawyer in Seattle.

I can’t help but grin as I watch her. She looks as far away from Seattle as possible right now, with three glasses of sangria under her non-existent belt, and Morgan Wallen on the sound system. Out there on that dance floor, she’s all southern and all Kentucky. I restock the glasses at the bar as Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” comes on and the crowd goes crazy. It’s their damn anthem.

Visions of CeCe in braces and a long braid dancing in the Ashby living room to Shania’s Rock This Country tour flash through my mind. I can’t help but smirk at the memory, she’d just get into a rhythm and then crash into something clumsily and cuss.

“You feeling social tonight?” Asher, my weekend bartender, asks, knowing this is out of the ordinary. He came from New York to run Laurel Creek’s Fire Department and he’s been working here since before I took over the bar. I couldn’t say why the hell he moonlights for me on his weekends off, but he’s quiet, always sober and scary-as-fuck looking so it helps to keep things in line around here when he is tending bar for me. I grin at him. Normally, I come out and check on things periodically, but I mostly work in my office on Sunday nights. Of course, he’s one of those men that notices everything, probably why he’s a good firefighter.

“Yeah, just keeping an eye on Wade and Cole Ashby’s little sister.”

I nod in her direction and Asher looks toward the girls.

“So that’s CeCe Ashby, is it?” He looks her over in a non-threatening way but it irks me just the same. I can’t get a read on the guy, even after four months of working with him, as hard as I try. “Well, I hate to tell you this but every man in here is keeping an eye on her. Nothing like a pretty, new smile to get the attention of drunken men.”

I grit my teeth and look her way. I ponder the drag-her-outside-and-toss-a-coat-on-her option as I avert my eyes, trying not to notice how her waist curves to the small of her back and the way her long, thick hair meets it. She certainly doesn’t look clumsy now as she sways to the music. Times have changed.

Just as I’m about to go back to my office so I can stop myself from feeling like a depraved pervert, all hell breaks loose in the crowd and our resident Not Angels are at the center of it, forcing me right out to the dance floor.

“You’re lucky I don’t smack that sleazy little smirk right off your face, Gemma.” I hear CeCe yell as I approach, her southern drawl is back in full force. Kentucky fire rises in her emerald eyes, as Olivia holds her back.

“What kind of a mother tells her daughter she’s coming to see her then gives up her only night to hang out in a pub?” she barks out.

“Says the girl in the booth next to me sucking back her second pitcher,” Gemma scoffs.

Gemma is a real treat and Cole’s ex-wife. She’s basically dumped Mabel on Cole full-time for the last two years while she revisits her youth. Having these two together a few pitchers deep is bad fucking news.

“I don’t have an amazing daughter I could be spending time with, but you do.”

“Come on, honey, she’s not worth it.” Ginger leans in to CeCe’s ear.

“Let her wallow in her self-pity and shattered dreams. She’s a worthless little slut anyway, cheating on Cole with half the damn town.” Ginger puts a hand on Gemma’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, darlin’?” Ginger smirks sweetly just before Gemma lunges at her.

Fuck me.

It’s a flurry of nails and long hair flying as I cut right into the middle and pull Ginger and CeCe off Gemma, while Victor, my bouncer, holds Olivia back.

“I’m gonna have to call the cops on you girls. Jesus, it’s your first night back, Rae, and you’re already getting yourself into shit.”

“Please call Cole, let’s get his fine, grumpy ass down here.” Ginger giggles as I roll my eyes.

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