"Yes, 1889," I correct. "Archibald chased another tiger that got loose from the circus—a younger tiger, some even say a cub. The cub was on the train tracks and Archibald sensed the train was coming so he chased the other tiger out of the way and was hit by the train himself. He sacrificed his life to save the cub, it's our town legend. There's a statue of him near Cave Run Park."
"Aww.." Avery says.
"You know that's all bullshit right?" a deep and even voice says from beside me. One I know well.
I brace myself and turn to meet the face I know is waiting for me. "
Is not," I argue, one eyebrow raised.
"It's true. Turns out Archibald was just a selfish asshole that always tried to escape from the circus, probably because they treated those animals horrifically." A corded, inked forearm places a handful of napkins on the center of the table and I note the number ten, in Roman numerals incorporated into honeysuckle vines that disappear up into his rolled up flannel sleeve.
"Anyway, he got away one night and was all by his lonesome when the train hit him. The whole 'saving a cub' story was made up to make him appear like a hero. Good press. But none of it was actually true."
Ginger and I gasp.
"How dare you?" Olivia Sutton, my other best friend and final portion to our lifelong trio pipes up.
"You get away from our table with those lies, and stop tarnishing our town lore Nash Carter!" She wags a finger at him.
He chuckles at Olivia before he responds.
"Alright, well I was bringing you this, just to welcome Rae home, but I guess I'll just give it to another table then?" Nash holds up a fresh pitcher of the best sangria in three counties, grinning at us and goddammit, if he isn't the most devastating specimen of a man I've ever seen. He always has been, but his looks are even more perfect than I remember and the worst part is, he knows it. He uses it to his benefit and I, for one, have had enough of men like that to last me a lifetime.
"No, no, no," Ginger says, flashing him a wide smile. "No need to rush off, I'm sure we can work something out. I guess there could be two sides to every story. We'll consider your version of Archibald's history. Thanks for bringing us a refill...on the house, Nashby?" She winks and pats his forearm, calling him by a blend of his first name and my last name. He's like my parent's fourth child and has been since he was a teenager.
He nods and puts it on the table.
"My pleasure, ladies. Enjoy. Avery, see you tomorrow." She smiles at him and nods, fresh-faced. "Sure thing."
I look her over—long dark hair, a skater's figure, petite but strong, tan skin and olive eyes. She is beautiful and young and doesn't know yet that he'll probably just use her until he's had his fill. He's definitely banging her, I decide.
Nash puts a hand on my shoulder and leans down before he speaks. "Good to see you, Rae," he says in his deep tenor, his eyes momentarily connecting with mine, as he gives me a gentle squeeze that makes me feel sort of melty all over.
I watch him over my shoulder as he walks away, trying to make sense of what is going on. Nash 'The Rocket' Carter—record breaking, slap shot scoring, Stanley cup winning, Laurel Creek fan favorite hockey star and my brother Wade's best friend—now works as a server at the Horse and Barrel?
"I know what you're thinking." Olivia leans across the table. Her copper hair falls around her shoulders as she does, and her glossy pink lips turn up into a grin.
"He has been helping Rocco Pressley since he retired and moved back here in April. Rocco just can't do it anymore, but he can't let it go either. Nash doesn't even get paid. He just apparently can't sit still."
"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 the 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.
