The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

But something growls behind me like a bear on a warpath.

I push at the pig’s snout and twist my neck, only to see the huge tires on the loader are a few feet away, rolling closer.

Oh, shit.

I throw myself forward, but the mud is so slick.

Jesus, I can’t.

I can’t catch my footing to save my life—to my horror, literally.

My heart pounds in my throat.

My life strobes before my eyes in spinning flashes.

This is so not how I wanted to die—sacrificing myself for porkball who’s still blissfully clueless about the imminent doom.

He nuzzles my hair like an overgrown dog, unfazed by the noise, which sounds like a tornado moving over us.

But there’s another noise then.

Loud shouting, and something hits me—hard.

A second later, I’m rolling, over and over. I think the pig is actually running after me as the whole world spins.

Sky. Dirt. Pig. More sky?

Tires.

More dirt. Mud. Sooo much mud.

Something grabs me—something steel-solid—and despite the dirt, the mud, and choking diesel fuel stink in the air, I swear to God I can smell something weirdly familiar.

A woodsy scent I’ve always liked.

I’m trying to place it when the mad roll finally stops. I may be boneless but at least nothing hurts.

I’m just...spent? Worn out? Or am I dead after all?

For a second, I wonder if the full-body tingling coursing through me is some kind of bizarre out-of-body experience.

Maybe I got squished by the loader after all.

But would I still hear men shouting if I’d thrown off my mortal coil like dirty socks world? The wild yelling definitely feels real.

And I feel something moving.

A person?

Hard, strangled breaths steam under me, kissing my neck. A pair of bulging arms hugs me tight, pinning me against a shield of a chest.

The pig?

Nah, pigs can’t hug.

And no pig feels like this, burly and strong and spectacularly man-shaped.

When I crack an eye open and my vision stops whirling, I see Porky again. He’s next to me, pushing a concerned grunt in my ear.