Chapter 1

LYNN

"It's not rocket science, sweetheart. It's a wiener!"

Don't lose your shit, Lynn. You need this job.

I've been working this summer gig for three weeks, and these words have become my mantra.

"Hello?! Are you even listening?" Ennis continues in that snively tone that makes it feel like bedbugs have taken up residence under my skin.

"Got it," I respond through clenched teeth as my tongs fish the fleshy wiener from the pit of steaming hot dog water. I shake it before depositing it into a bun. I've just added a new life goal to my list: become a vegetarian. It'll go right between earning my PhD in physical therapy and devising a foolproof plan for my new boss's death that won't land me in jail. A girl has got to have goals, right?

"Remy, I gotta run to mezzanine one. Keep an eye on the new girl," Ennis shouts over his shoulder before disappearing out the back door to the concession stand.

My coworker's only response is a subtle flip of the bird in the door's direction. "Ignore Anus," Remy mutters with a scowl.

My tongs freeze in midair as I fight a grin. "Did you just call him Anus?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Remy responds as he shoots me a naughty wink and blows a swath of blond hair from his eyes.

It may only be my third shift working concessions at Ardent Park with Remy, but I already know he'll be my lifeline this summer.

I fold the hot dog into its foil-insulated wrapper and move on to the next one. Ennis expects me to have at least a hundred ready to go when the gates open and all the Asheville Arrows fans descend for tonight's game.

It's still afternoon, and it's a regular weeknight game, so the concourse is dotted with other stadium employees hurrying to their assigned duties and stations. I'm amazed at how many people it takes to make a Major League stadium run. Almost as amazed as I am at the number of rowdy fans who start swarming like locusts a couple hours before game time. As far as I can tell, baseball fans love three things: hot dogs, home runs, and young players in tight uniforms. I don't get it, but I'm not into organized sports.

The physiology of the athletes? The way they use their bodies, joints, muscles, and connective tissues? Absolutely. The injuries that come from the performance of said sports? Bring it on. Give me a torn rotator cuff or a hamstring strain any day. But the sports themselves, I find boring as hell. I much prefer long runs with my favorite playlist in my ears in place of a team sport. I don't need balls to make me happy. I deal with those enough at home.

Okay, ew.

What I mean is there's enough testosterone flowing through my family tree that the last thing I want to voluntarily witness is a bunch of sweaty jocks chasing a ball and smacking each other's asses. No thanks. My four older brothers supply all the toxic masculinity I can take. Why else did I make sure to go away to college?

Speak of the devil…

"Your ass is ringing," Remy says just as my brother Cash's ringtone blares from my phone.

"Shit." I forgot to turn off the ringer. At least Ennis isn't here to mansplain phone etiquette in the workplace to me.

I snatch the device from my pocket and switch the Johnny Cash song to silent before sending Cash to voicemail. Each of my brothers has his own ringtone, paying homage to his namesake. "Ring of Fire" for Cash, "Keep on the Sunny Side" for Carter, "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" for Denny, and "King of the Road" for Miller. Though I'd murder any one of them in their sleep if they dared reference my namesake, Loretta Lynn. I mean, sure, she kicked ass more than a time or two, but what barely twenty-year-old woman wants to be named Loretta?

Remy parks his behind against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. He's cute, with a devil-may-care attitude and messy hair that remind me of my brother Miller. Of the five of us Brooks kids, Miller is the closest in age to me at twenty-two.

"Boyfriend?" Remy asks, not bothering to hide his nosiness.

"Worse. Brother."

This makes him laugh. "That bad, huh?"

"He's offended I'm not working for him this summer." He's also undoubtedly fretting about my state of well-being given some of the recent family upheaval we've had, but I'm not getting into that. Cash loves mothering me, but Mama is plenty capable of that on her own—not that I need it.

"Oh, yeah? It can't be worse than here, can it?"

I consider that for a second. Serving beers at Blue Bigfoot would definitely pay better than running concessions at the ballpark, but being under my brothers' constant surveillance makes it so not worth it. Besides, my Sports Science and Kinesiology program director at App State told me if I put my time in here, I can use the access and proximity to score some face time with the Arrows athletics and rehab team—and maybe even get some shadowing in. She's all about the hustle, which makes me a big fan. Even the chance of witnessing these professionals at work is worth bathing in all the hot dog water in the entire stadium. Well, almost.

Remy scoops chips into plastic nacho containers while I continue wrapping hot dogs. Just as I turn to ask him where I can find more wrappers, though, my attention is caught by a woman's voice shouting, "Help! Please! Somebody!"

I spot her immediately, crouched on her knees beside the prone body of a slight man with graying hair. My brain shifts into emergency mode, and I vault myself over the counter as I bark at Remy, "Call 9-1-1!"

I reach the woman at the same time a tall, dark-haired passerby does. He hits his knees and slides his fingers along the man's neck, checking for a pulse, while the woman dissolves into tears and pulls at the man's shirt, crying, "Tom! Tom! Don't die!"

I force a calm, controlled tone. "9-1-1 is being called. What happened, ma'am?"

She doesn't take her eyes or hands from the man, but she's getting in the way of the guy trying to help, so I gently take her arm to physically direct her my way. He shoots me a grateful nod, his sharp jaw clenched in concentration. "Ma'am, is this your husband?" I ask.

"Y-yes!" she stammers before finally focusing on me with teary eyes. "Tom!"

"Okay." I grab both her hands as Dark-Haired Hottie—yes, we're in the middle of a crisis, but emergencies don't render a girl blind, now do they?—bends forward to feel for signs of breathing. "Tom is going to be okay. What's your name?" I ask.

"L-Lydia." She looks around my mama's age with streaks of gray in her brown locks and deep laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Shit. I'll bet Tom put those there.

"First aid and an ambulance are on their way." Remy appears at my side with a cell phone pressed to his ear, and I nod before turning to Lydia again.

"You hear that, Lydia. The ambulance is on its way. Tom is going to be fine. Does he have a heart condition?" I ask, firming my hold on her hands when she tries groping for her husband again. I forgot the stadium would have first aid staff available. Where the hell are they?

"He's been doing so great with his diet. I don't understand," she wails.

Dark-Haired Hottie, kneeling at Tom's side, raises his head and gives it a subtle shake, making my heart plummet into my Chucks. I yank Remy down to his knees with one hand and transfer Lydia to his hold, giving him a wordless command to keep her out of the way. Then I slide over in front of Tom until my thigh comes flush with Hottie's.

My voice drops low. "Do you know CPR?"

His tense jaw remains locked as he replies with a curt, "It's been years. I can't remember the ratio of breaths to compressions."

I give my head a sharp shake as I realize I'm on my own. "No breaths. That's old-school. Go find the medical staff," I command as I position myself above Tom and locate his sternum through his Arrows T-shirt.

Here goes nothing.

* * *

Twenty minutes later,EMTs wheel Tom to the waiting ambulance while Lydia sobs grateful tears into my hair and hugs me harder than even my hug-smothering mama could.

"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here," she gushes. Remy helps disentangle her limbs from my body, and I send him a grateful half smile.

"Anybody would have done the same. I just held him over until the pros got here."

"Come on, Lydia. Tom's waiting. You don't want to miss the ambulance ride, do you?" Remy guides her away, and I exhale a breath of relief that feels like it's been pent up inside my chest since Roman times.

"Damn, you're one cool customer," a deep voice says from behind me, and I turn to see my dark-haired rescue partner.

My responding laugh comes out shaky. "Not really." I suspend my hand between us so he can see how badly it's trembling. "Adrenaline."

"Nature's perfect drug. I'm a big fan." His smile is a little lopsided and a lot handsome—something I'm able to appreciate more fully as my brain descends from panic mode and settles back into my body. In fact… damn. All of him is even more handsome than I realized, from his pretty espresso eyes to that sharp jaw, broad shoulders, and a set of firm thighs protruding from beneath his athletic shorts and making my throat dry. I try to swallow, but it gets stuck. And now I feel a cough coming.

Ennis, of all people, saves me. "Hey, new girl! These pretzels aren't going to heat themselves!" he shouts from the concession stand. New girl? Seriously? Everyone here is a summer employee.

The stranger's eyes leave my face to narrow in my boss's direction, giving me a chance to thump myself in the chest and croak, "I gotta get back to work." Even if I'd rather hang out and stare adoringly into his brown eyes a bit longer.

Ugh. Priorities, Lynn! If you get your ass fired, you won't get to schmooze with the athletics team and get a leg up on everyone else in the program!

Sure, this guy is hot, but hot is only a distraction. One I don't need. Nope.

He nods, finally bringing his gaze back to me. "Yeah. Me too. I'll see you around, though."

And then he's gone, and I'm back to tonging gross wieners and preparing my pro-vegetarianism speech to deliver to my decidedly carnivorous family later tonight. It isn't until after the game and we're doing cleanup that I realize Dark-Haired Hottie's parting words can only mean one thing.

He works at the stadium too. Which means our paths might cross again.

Would that be so bad?