Page 16 of Nashville Lights

“How’d the meeting with the developers go?” Luke asks, and I’m relieved by the distraction.

“About as well as I expected it would. It was a ridiculous plan which I’ll be making sure never happens.” Leo hands me a beer and I take a long sip. “Get all the hay in?”

“Around eighty percent of it,” Leo says. “We’ll get the rest of it in tomorrow morning. The weather report says it’s not supposed to rain until sundown.”

“You better hope they’re right.” If I’d helped them, we would have finished the job today. But I’ve learned by now I can’t be in twelve places at once. We all had to learn how to Get Shit Done a long time ago and despite my twin brothers’ happy-go-lucky attitude, most of the time they’re reliable. “I’ll give you a hand if we do it early. I’ve got to be at the Barrington project building site by one.”

The twins are both hard workers and strong as fuck, but they’re also a lot more laid back than I’ve ever been. Luke is more of a natural farmer. He’s genuinely passionate aboutlearning new things and he reads up on all the latest farming technology and techniques.

Leo’s more of a numbers guy and the more business-minded of the two. Which makes them a good team.

But neither of them has the relentless drive I have. What they’d rather be doing most of the time is jamming together and making music. I don’t begrudge them this. Hell,I’drather be sitting around making music too. But life isn’t like that.

The farm and all the challenges that go along with it don’t keep them up at night, and I’m glad. They haven’t had to carry the brunt of the burden of the responsibilities of the mortgage, the bank, the insurances and so on, but whatever. That’s my job.

Tobias places a huge platter of fried chicken on the table in front of the girls. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “this evening’s menu includes extra crispy fresh buttermilk fried chicken with paprika seasoning, skillet-baked cornbread, apple slaw, and home-harvested green beans. Ladies first. Rox, Ma, Daisy, Dee, get in there before these boys have a chance to clean the plate. And save room for dessert. Daisy helped with the pies and they are masterpieces.”

A small hand touches my arm. “I helped, Uncle Nate.”

I look down at Daisy’s angelic little face. “I can’t wait to taste them, darlin’.”

“Still warm and served with homemade vanilla ice cream and home-grown blackberries,” Tobias adds.

“Wow,” gasps Roxie, and I am beyond grateful that I’mnow seated with the tablecloth providing coverage, because her breathless gasp does things to me that are not suitable for family occasions.

I’ve dated a lot of women over the years, but nothing ever really took. I remember one woman I briefly dated was there the last time I saw Roxie. It was around five years ago. I’d gone to play pool with Kade and the boys at some bar in Nashville and I was pissed off because the woman—whose name I can’t actually remember—made a huge deal out of the fact that Roxie and I talked for a while. I broke up with her before we even left the bar and never saw her again.

I remember holding myself back from going after Roxie that night. I almostcouldn’thold myself back. But with her being not quite eighteen at the time and with her brothers surrounding her like a brigade of hell-bent bodyguards—and me among them—I hadn’t. I’m practicallyanotherbrother, or at least that’s how we all saw it at the time. In those days, I had a lot to prove and a mountain of responsibility I didn’t fully yet know how to handle.

But that was a long time ago. And the thought flares tonight like a neon sign in a bar window: I am not, in fact, Roxie’s brother. Not even close.

There have been a string of mostly one-night-stands between then and now. Occasionally the loneliness and the animal urges become too much to bear and I’ll go out with someone new. But none of these “relationships” last. None of themmeananything to me. I can barely remember theirnames, evenwhenI’m with them. Which has led to more than one pissed-off meltdown.

I’ve been accused of being cold-hearted and unfeeling. Of not being capable of love. Of using people.

The problem is, it’s all true. I chalked it up to the fact that I work so much and I don’t have time to give them the kind of commitment they always want and cry about because I don’t give it.

Deep down I think I’ve always known why, even if I haven’t allowed myself to fully acknowledge it for what it is. And I realize now that all those women were wrong.

About all of it.

Here, with the raucous sound of my family’s conversation and laughter surrounding me, I do my best to deal with the wrecking ball that’s currently pummeling its way through my soul.

Maybe I always knew. Maybe I just never allowed it enough oxygen to fully sink in, because it was a thing that happened when we were kids and I always figured she’d moved on. Or that her brothers would never allow it. Or, more accurately, thatIwould never allow it because she was too young and too close to home.

But now, with her scent and the sound of her laughter branding itself onto my broken, unfeeling heart, all those shattered pieces feel like they’re sealing hotly back together. The forging force of it kick-starts my pulse into a slow-burning high gear, as though it’s just realized what it’s pumping for.

The reason I couldn’t love anyone else is suddenly crystal clear, like the clouds have cleared away and the sun is shining directly onto the little hell-raiser sitting at my kitchen table with her mischief-glinting blue eyes and her thick dark hair and that banging little body that I’d fucking kill for.

It’s because none of them were her.

6

Nate Boone.

In a suit.

Not just any suit. Armani, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve organized enough fittings for my brothers leading up to events and awards ceremonies to recognize that by now.

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