Love Me Like I Love You

by Willow Winters

  Feet pitter-patter on the hardwood floors, and a little voice calls out, “Uncle Grant!”

  I turn and scoop up our four-year-old daughter, Ella, propping her on my hip. She grins at me with that gap between her top front teeth, her blonde hair tumbling around her sweet face.

  I hold out a hand, and J fits his in mine. “Let’s go see your uncle, then.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” they say with such eagerness it has both Hollis and me chuckling.

  Although Hollis will be away at a car expo next week, thankfully, once he returns, he’ll be home for a month before he has another one overseas. It’s hectic, but we make it work. I manage the marketing aspect for the business, which allows me a flexible schedule so I’m able to volunteer in J’s classroom and at Ella’s preschool.

  My mother and I are still not on the greatest of terms, but we’re at least speaking—mainly on birthdays and Christmas when we call her. Her refusal to fully accept me and my choices, as well as the man who makes me the happiest woman on earth, has been a bitter pill to swallow. It’s unfortunate, but in the end, she made the decision to not be a prominent figure in our lives.

  Things between my stepfather and I remain stilted. After Hollis revealed the truth about Roy being his biological father and the offer of money to keep that fact secret, I lost so much respect for my stepfather. Afterward, the letter I’d stumbled on in Mrs. Barnes’ sewing room all those years ago made much more sense. It had been meant for Roy.

  We’re blessed, though, because Grant, Stephanie and Tommy, Grandpa Joe, and Uncle Johnny spoil our kids rotten with love, which helps to take away some of the sting of my mother and Roy being absentee grandparents.

  Grant is seeing a nice woman, and though I’m not sure if it’ll go anywhere, I’m thrilled for him. He’s a wonderful friend and loves our children to pieces. He and Hollis have grown close, which I initially expected to be awkward. But when I asked my husband about it, he said, “We both love you—just in different ways.” Then, in typical Hollis good-hearted fashion, he added, “I reckon he needs us—people who don’t expect anythin’ from him.” And that was that.

  Our little ones barely allow Grant a chance to greet us, instantly chattering with their uncle about everything that’s happened since his last visit. Our dear friend takes it all in stride, indulging them with unmistakable affection on his face.

  When our sweet boy darts off to his room to grab his newest favorite model car to show Grant and Ella rushes to hers to grab her favorite fairy tale for him to read to her, it allows him a quick moment to catch up with Hollis.

  I lean against the doorway watching the two men, their conversation so natural. Something Grant says has my husband tipping his head back on a laugh, his dark beard framing those familiar lips I love.

  While I watch Hollis chat with Grant, my husband so comfortable and undeniably confident in his own skin, I can’t help the surge of pride at how far we’ve come. We’ve successfully moved on from being those two people reeling from the mental and emotional wounds of inadequacy and self-doubt that had plagued us for years.

  Hollis’ eyes suddenly catch mine, and that secret smile graces his lips. The one that’s only for me. The one that silently says, I love you.

  And I’m reminded yet again, even though it took us a while to get our lives sorted, I did the right thing in choosing Hollis Barnes.

  There’s a saying that sometimes beginnings are hidden in what we’re certain is the end. And in our case, it’s true.

  We may have gotten our happily ever after, but that doesn’t mark the end for us.

  It’s the most beautiful beginning.

  “To be someone’s first love is extraordinary, but to also be their last is exquisitely magical.”

  —Unknown

  Thank you for reading! 100% of the profits from this anthology will be given to the Live A Thousand Lives charity.

  This charity donates audio players - equipped with hundreds of hours of classic stories - to low-to-no mobility patients in nursing facilities and hospitals.

  The Live A Thousand Lives Project has been fueled by prolific Romance writers and unabashed book lovers who appreciate that audiobooks boost mental health, improve memory and stimulate the brain in ways that mirror reading printed text.

  WAYS TO HELP:

  You can donate by clicking here!

  Or you can purchase an audio device for yourself - a Brilliant Blue Classic or a Red Hot Romance Device (with over $200 worth of audios from multiple bestselling authors) by clicking here!

  For every ONE player purchased, Live A Thousand Lives is able to donate TWO Brilliant Blue Classics.

  About the Author

  RC Boldt enjoys long walks on the beach, running, reading, people watching, and singing karaoke. If you're in the mood for some killer homemade mojitos, can't recall the lyrics to a particular 80's song, or just need to hang around a nonconformist who will do almost anything for a laugh, she's your girl.

  RC loves hearing from her readers at rcboldtbooks@gmail.com. You can also check out her website at http://www.rcboldtbooks.com or her Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/rcboldtauthor for the latest updates on upcoming book releases.

  Find RC here:

  Facebook: https://goo.gl/iy2YzG

  Website: http://www.rcboldtbooks.com

  Instagram: https://goo.gl/TdDrBb

  Facebook Readers Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BBBReaders

  Acknowledgments

  This book ended up going through edits right when I had something unexpectedly happen: I had to undergo emergency eye surgery to fix a detached retina as well as a few other issues. Without having my vision restored, I suffered from brutal eye strain in my good eye and had to have my husband (who’s typing this as I dictate to him) step in and help with things he had no idea about. Talk about a crash course!

  Massive thanks to my editing and proofreading “fairies”, Tamara Mataya, Editing 4 Indies, Diamond in the Rough Editing, Deaton Author Services, and Judy’s Proofreading Services; to my assistant Melissa, my publicist Nina and the team at Social Butterfly PR, and my close author friends who have helped me out while I’ve been unable to read and be online to post to social media.

  Without the help of those gracious individuals, there’s no way this book would have been published on time like I’d planned—nor will a heartfelt thank you ever come close to being enough. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention my dearest friends who helped me through this and kept me [somewhat, haha!] sane with their messages and thoughtfulness. I love you all to pieces.

  Of course, I most definitely wish to thank the following (in no particular order):

  My beta readers—Thank you for offering feedback and helping me fine tune this story.

  My readers—Without your support, your sweet emails and reviews, and you sharing my books with others, none of this would be possible.

  My readers group—I am beyond grateful for your support, excitement, and feedback when I share my ideas with you.

  All the book bloggers & reviewers—Please know that the time you take to read and review my books and/or do promo posts is appreciated beyond words.

  Ember

  By Emma Renshaw

  For the Texas Rangers. It doesn’t matter if y’all are above or below .500; I will always love watching y’all play on summer nights under stadium lights.

  And, as always, for my husband. There’s no one else I’d rather enjoy a baseball game with. I hope our life has endless extra innings and the game never ends. I love you forever.

  “Baseball has a way of ripping your heart out, stabbing it, putting it back in your chest, then healing itself just in time for Spring Training.” — Noah Syndergaard, All-Star pitcher

  Prologue

  Gunner—10 Years Ago

  Fire crackled and hissed over the tower of burning logs. Sparks jumped from the flames and floated to the ground, singeing the dry grass. It hadn’t rained a drop in over a month. I tilted the neck of the
amber beer bottle toward my lips and let the cool liquid wash down my throat.

  “On the count of three,” Marissa shouted, raising her maroon cap in the air.

  We’d walked across the graduation stage only hours earlier, and the weird combination of nostalgia and power was taking over my now ex-classmates. A group of girls to my left stood with their arms around each other and silent tears tracking down their faces. On my right was a mixture of guys and girls, but they weren’t shedding tears and they weren’t reminiscing. They were foaming at the mouth, with their graduation caps clenched in their hands, ready for the three count.

  “One,” everyone shouted at the same time.

  “Two!”

  “Three!”

  I flicked my itchy polyester graduation cap toward the flames along with everyone else. The fire hungrily grabbed the hats that landed on the bonfire. A few caps fell short and littered the ground around the towering Jenga-like structure that I’d helped build with some of the guys.

  “Are you packed?” Declan bumped my shoulder with his beer bottle.

  I tugged at the chain around my neck and shrugged. Tomorrow was the day I’d been waiting for and dreaming about since I played T-ball. Declan had been waiting for this day too. We’d been talking about it for as long as I could remember, and it was happening tomorrow night. We weren’t heading off to college like our classmates. We were taking a completely different path.

  “Mostly. My mom had my suit pressed at the dry cleaners. We’re picking it up in the morning on the way to the airport. You?”

  “Brother, I’ve been packed for days. There’s no way I’m sleeping tonight. I’m ready to go and leave all this shit behind. Except Makenna. I can’t believe we’re going to be on different teams. It’ll be weird crouching behind home plate and not being able to see your ugly mug in the outfield.”

  “You don’t know that we won’t be on the same team.” I scratched the label on the bottle with my thumb and turned my attention toward the flames. They were jetting out of some of the holes in the bonfire. It was twice my height. We’d used ladders to build it and kept stacking until it started swaying.

  “I know we’re both going first round.”

  “No, you don’t.” I pulled at the chain around my neck again.

  “Yeah, I do. Who the fuck wouldn’t want us? We’re going first round. I’ve been practicing the face I’ll make when my name is called.”

  “I just want my name to be called,” I muttered and took a long swallow of beer.

  “It will be.” Declan pushed my shoulder. “Check it out. Which do you think is best?”

  I turned toward him and tucked a hand into my pocket while raising an eyebrow. He rubbed his hands in front of him and tilted his face toward the ground, sucking in a deep breath, preparing himself. Just before he spoke he whipped his head around, staring across the field past the bonfire. I followed his gaze, spotting Makenna, Declan’s longtime girlfriend. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, shooting him a smile. He winked and placed a hand over his heart. I snorted. “I don’t know how she puts up with you.”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely playing out of my league with her,” he said and turned his attention back toward me. The corner of his lip twitched before he whispered, “Call out my name.”

  “Kinky.” I laughed.

  “Shut the fuck up. You wish you could get someone as sexy as me. Just say my name.”

  “Declan Young,” I said dryly.

  Declan looked up. “With a little more enthusiasm.”

  “Declan Young.”

  Declan’s head popped up, and he put his hand over his heart and looked around, turning his head from left to right. His mouth dropped open and his eyes were wide.

  “How was that?” he asked. “It’s a little over the top, but if the cameras are on me, I really want to sell it.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said, chuckling and shoving his shoulder as I shook my head. “You look like an ass.”

  “It’ll be better than you.” His eyebrows drew in and he mocked a serious scowl. I punched his arm and laughed. The weight that’d been hanging around my neck all day disappeared. He’d always been able to do this, bring me out of whatever funk I was in.

  After my dad died, I thought I would never laugh again, but Declan, my best friend since before we could talk, kept making an ass out of himself until I did.

  “Thanks, brother.”

  “Cradle to grave,” he said, holding out his fist for a bump.

  “Sandbox to the pine box.”

  “Home plate to center field,” he finished. I clinked my beer against his and turned back to the fire, taking in the scene around me. It was surreal to have two paths in front of me. The MLB draft or college. If my name was called tomorrow, I’d sign the contract, no matter what team had chosen me, but if it wasn’t, I’d keep my commitment to Louisiana State University.

  Declan was the same. We were both committed to LSU if neither of us was drafted.

  Logs shifted on the bonfire pile, causing the fire to roar even higher in the sky. Shitty graduation caps were still holding it together in the flames, charring along the edges and slowly burning toward the center.

  A loud crack snapped through the air, and a girl screamed. I looked at the bonfire. A branch had snapped under the weight of the others. The crowd hushed. And for a moment the only noises in the field were the country song playing through the speakers and the fire snapping harshly in a slight breeze.

  For just a moment time stood still as every pair of eyes focused on the same thing. I broke eye contact with the bonfire and looked at Declan. His face turned toward mine, and confusion was replaced by shock.

  And then my world became searing pain at the top of my head and intense and suffocating heat burning my skin and lungs. Weight crashed down on top of me, but my vision was too blurry to see—before my entire world went black.

  “He’s barely breathing,” a harsh voice said, breaking me from my sleep. Fingertips were pressed against my neck, and solid weight was on top of me. Heat was still scalding me on all sides. “We have to remove the body from on top of him.”

  My eyes slowly opened and settled on the burned face of my best friend. My brother. The single person I trusted most in this world. His face was almost beyond recognition, but I’d spent enough of my life next to him that I would have recognized him anywhere. My mind couldn’t focus on the pain or the tiny piece of my brain that was alerting me that our skin was burned and stuck together. The only thing I could focus on was his eyes. His blank blue gaze was on me, but his eyes were unmoving.

  Chapter 1

  Gunner

  I ran my hand over the top of the cool concrete headstone, a little roughened from age, and brushed away a few fallen leaves. Declan’s lifeless blue eyes swarmed my mind. I shook my head to clear it and crouched in front of the grave. The grass was thick with brown, dry patches.

  DECLAN YOUNG was inscribed in thick letters across the top of the slab. A baseball was engraved underneath his name, and below was the epitaph beloved son and friend.

  He had been so much more than that.

  And yet this was my first time visiting his grave since his funeral. It had taken ten years for me to sit here and stare at his name etched into concrete and know that my best friend was six feet beneath me. If only my back hadn’t been turned. If only I had moved out of the way of the branch, we both could’ve been here. And if one of us had to go, it should’ve been me. He was better.

  He was still with me though. Every time I took the field and stuck my hand in my smooth leather glove, he was with me. I hit my first Major League homer, in my first at-bat, on Declan’s death anniversary. That was all him, creating some magic with the baseball gods, and I fucking knew it. It took everything in me not to round those bases crying like a damn baby. After I touched home plate, I jogged down the steps to the dugout and walked into the tunnel to slow my breathing before I had a panic attack on national television.

  Dec
lan was never far away, even ten years later.

  And yet I could barely force myself to set foot in our hometown, and I hadn’t been able to face his grave. I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for my mother asking me to come home. I hated this place.

  I took a deep shuddering breath, hitting the glove in my hand against my thigh as I let my eyes wander to the horizon. An acorn fell from the tree branches above me and plinked against my head. I laughed.

  “Alright, man. I get it. It took me too long to get here.”

  I took the ball out of the glove and tossed it up before snatching it out of the air and holding it between my fingers. I smirked.

  “Know what this is?”

  I knew the headstone wouldn’t reply, but I still waited a second before answering my own question.

  “A signed ball from Pudge Rodriguez. I met him this summer at the All-Star game. It was like I was a kid again, stumbling over my words and asking for an autograph. I got this for you. You should’ve been there though.”

  I turned the ball toward the marker to show the inscription.

  Declan,

  Play Ball!

  Pudge Rodriguez.

  “And this is the glove I used this season.” I ran my finger over Declan’s name and number, which I’d had stamped into every single one of my gloves. “I can’t believe I’m a man without a team. I also can’t believe I’m home. I don’t know how Mom convinced me, but she did.”

  I placed the ball back in the glove and set it down on the edge of the headstone. “I’ll be by more often, brother. I’ll check in on your mom. She stopped taking my calls years ago, but I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll watch out for her while I’m here and make sure she’s doing okay.”