Chapter 3
PIPER
It took an hour to find my phone, and Nash didn’t complain even once.
Luckily, the land that stretches out at the side of the road is mostly grassy, so my phone didn’t get damaged by the impact. It was Nash who found it, about twenty minutes after he insisted I sit in the truck because I was in no state to be on my feet with the heel of one shoe broken.
He spent those twenty minutes bent over, searching every square inch of the ground with the flashlight he had in his truck.
Because of course Nash keeps a flashlight in his truck.
While I was checking my phone to make sure it wasn’t damaged, I noticed about two dozen texts and calls from Crew. I didn’t check any of them. I powered off my phone and stuck it in my purse.
Everything that’s happened since we got in the limo to drive home has been utterly surreal. Frankly, I want it to keep feeling that way for a little longer. I don’t want to deal with the reality of what happened. I don’t want to have to think of what I need to do about it.
My and Crew’s wedding is scheduled for next freaking week, so I’m going to need to start formulating some answers soon.
Reminding myself of that fact has a stab of anxiety digging deep into my stomach.
Yeah, I need to work on answers soon, but at least for the rest of tonight, at least until I get some sleep and wake up tomorrow morning, I want to prolong this bizarre night where reality is still at arm’s length.
The powerful but mellow purr of the truck’s engine starts up again as Nash turns the key in the ignition.
“So, where should I drop you off?”
Disappointment curls in my chest, and my lips dip into a frown at the thought of getting out of Nash’s truck and seeing him drive away. Just another bizarre phenomenon on this bizarre night: the guy I can’t stand has become something like a security blanket for me.
“How about the crappiest dive bar you can find in Austin?”
I’m staring out my window, but I can sense Nash turn toward me. I can feel the weight of his assessing gaze, sizing me up.
He grunts. “Sure. I guess I could use a drink after dealing with you.”
The way my heart does an excited leap should really concern me. “Just inviting yourself along to my sad girl sulk, Nash?”
“Let’s not call it that,” he grumbles. “If you don’t have a chaperone tonight, I’m concerned about what might happen.”
“Trying to keep me out of trouble?”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever been able to keep you out of trouble, Piper. But hopefully I can mitigate it until your head’s screwed on a little better than it is right now.”
I do feel a bit loopy. The emotions swirling through me are too intense, too contradictory, too confusing. It’s like the Earth’s axis is constantly shifting underneath me. Frankly, I could use a chaperone.
“Fine. But you’re buying the first round,” I say.
A low chuckle rumbles from Nash’s throat. “I’m a pro hockey player, and you’re a baker. I think I’ll buy every round.”
“You might have a low opinion of my common sense, Nash, but I’ve got enough of it not to look a gift horse in the mouth.” I reach for his radio. “Let’s put some music on.”
I switch on the radio, just in time for the first twangy, forlorn notes of Neon Moon by Brooks & Dunn to play.
I bring my palm to my face as the singer starts to croon about heartbreak and lost love. Of course one of the saddest country classics is the first song I hear after what just happened.
“The universe is having a laugh at my expense tonight. That’s the only explanation.”
“We can change the station,” Nash says, reaching toward the radio.
“No, no, I actually like this song,” I dismiss Nash’s concern. I reach out to swat his hand away—and when I brush against his, electricity bolts through me.
Just the slightest glance of my fingers against the rough skin of his big, strong hand has sparks dancing all over my body, pulling my nipples into firm beads underneath my dress.
I glance at Nash. In the weak light from his dashboard, I notice his jaw muscles pop, his eyes unusually wide as he seems to strain to keep his gaze fastened on the windshield.
I pull my eyes away from him, swallowing thickly. I try to focus on the music and will my body to calm down.
After living next to him for two years, that was the first time we’ve ever touched.
Soon enough, we’re in the city proper, surrounded by lights and cars and other people.
“What shoe size are you?” Nash asks suddenly.
“Eight,” I answer, a little taken aback by the random question. “Why?”
Without answering, Nash pulls into a strip mall and parks right in front of a shoe store that’s improbably still open at this hour of the night.
“Just stay here,” he tells me, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You can’t hobble around on that broken heel anymore.”
I’m too bewildered to react as Nash exits the truck and strolls into the store, his long legs eating up the distance in a couple quick strides.
Not too quickly for me to get an eyeful of his firm butt in those broken-in blue jeans, though. A muscle tugs low in my center.
A few minutes later, Nash walks out, shoebox in hand. He hands it to me when he gets back into the truck.
I open it to find a pair of comfortable-looking New Balances. They’re even the style I’ve been meaning to buy for my next pair of sneakers. Who knew Nash had decent taste in shoes?
“Almost perfect,” I say.
Nash side-eyes me as he backs out of the parking space. “Almost?”
“I’d have gone with the silver instead of the blue.”
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t dignify me with a response.
As Nash drives us through the busy streets of Austin, I replace my heels with the new sneakers.
When I lift my right foot to slide on the new shoe, the hem of my dress rides up, revealing a long, bare expanse of my leg.
I can feel the burn of Nash’s gaze on my exposed thigh while we’re stopped at a red light. My cheeks heat.
I’m more convinced I’m not just imagining it when the light turns green and the truck stays stopped for a couple seconds, not moving until a car behind us honks. Nash lets out an embarrassed grunt before driving through the intersection.
Nash maneuvers the truck through the busy streets of Friday night Austin, on the lookout for a suitable destination. Then he turns down a new street, and I spot a place in the middle of the block.
There’s a shabby-looking door built into a shabby-looking brick building.
A neon sign saying nothing but Bar glows above the doorway.
There are two windows next to it, covered with too much iron mesh to see through, with the weather-worn backs of portable air conditioner units sticking out above them.
Exactly the kind of place that suits my mood right now.
“There,” I tell Nash.
“There?” I can hear the skepticism in his voice.
“There,” I say again, with a definitive nod of my head.
Nash shrugs beside me. “If you say so.”
He finds a spot to park on the street, and we get out. Wow, these shoes really are comfortable.
When we get to the entrance, I find that the old wooden door is covered with carvings. Names, dates, curse words, propositions, phone numbers, slogans, and other markings.
One line of text catches my eye right as I grab the door handle. Broken Hearts Welcome, etched with thin letters into the aged wood.
Even if everything tonight went wrong, at least I’ve found the right place to mope about it.
The interior lives up to what the exterior promised. Dim, smoky, neon-lit, old, and full. We find two stools and take seats at the bar.
Next to us, a customer walks up and orders “a beer and a shot,” and the bartender efficiently fills the order as if this place is only serving one beer and one kind of liquor, so she didn’t need to ask for specifics.
I order the same thing. I’m usually a sucker for a fancy cocktail when I go to a bar, but when in Rome. Nash follows suit.
Nash holds up his shot glass, the whiskey matching the amber tone of his eyes. “Should we toast to something, or …?”
“Fuck it,” I pronounce, before throwing back my shot and letting the liquor burn down my throat in one gulp.
I clench my jaw and screw my eyes tightly shut to keep it down. Once the worst of the burning passes, I cough. “Wow, is that bad,” I grit out, wincing.
Nash’s nose twitches after he downs his in one gulp. “I’ll say.”
I crack open the tallboy beer can. It’s a brand I don’t even recognize. “I hope the beer is better.”
Nash cracks his at the same time. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”
Even though Nash is twice my size, I chug my beer a lot faster than he does.
Wait—he’s still drinking, though. How is he supposed to get home?
I can’t imagine someone as straitlaced and uptight as Nash would drive after drinking.
Does he live around here in the city? He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would ever want to live in a downtown area, surrounded by people, but maybe if he’s got a top-floor penthouse in one of those fancy new Austin skyscrapers, it’s different.
Nash is the one to break the silence. “So … wanna talk about it?”
I scoff. “When’s the last time you had a heart-to-heart with someone about their emotions?”
“Never.” There’s a bitterness to Nash’s reply that catches me off guard. I feel bad for how dismissively my own question came out.
Actually, Nash might be the perfect person to talk to about what just happened. He’s an outside observer with no vested interest.
Normally when I have something really serious to talk through, I’d go to my sister, Hallie.
But I know she’d treat this news like the bombshell it is. She’d ask me what I’m going to do about the wedding, something I’m not ready to think about yet.
The full reality of what happened hasn’t truly sunk in, and talking about this with someone who’s close to me would make that happen. I’m not ready for that, either.
The bartender walks by, and I order another beer and another shot. Nash does the same.
I guess tonight I’m getting drunk and confiding in the guy I haven’t been able to stand since college.