The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Dang. I’ve definitely fallen on top of somebody.

My cheek is on their chest. I can hear a heartbeat, thrumming madly, as fast as mine.

Then there’s that familiar smell, this brash mix of haughty pine and sandalwood and something more primal. It fills my nostrils and reminds me why my body likes it and my brain yells panic.

Like I’ve ever forgotten anything about this disappearing bastard of a man.

Oh, God. Why does he have to be my hero? Again?

Maybe I’m wrong. There’s the teensiest chance it could be someone else.

Not wanting to face him to confirm my fears, I pinch my eyes shut and lift my head, just enough to gaze in the other direction.

There’s the front-end loader, all right. Halted barely a few feet away, nightmarishly close to mashing me into Shelly jam.

Next to those mammoth wheels is that big, blue elephant truck with tires almost as menacingly large as the loader’s.

Sigh. What more do I need to confirm my worst fear?

I don’t want to face him.

I don’t want to say a word.

I don’t want to have to thank him, even though I damned well should for saving my bacon and making such a silly pun real.

But I’m shaking as the brush with death sinks in. Also, there’s a crowd of people still ambling over the fence, surrounding us, led by Marty who’s screaming his drunken head off.

There’s nothing I can do. Nothing except plant my hands on my awful savior’s chest and push up, so I can gawk at Weston’s awestruck face.

Yikes!

Same old Weston, just a hundred times more handsome and intense than I remember, and a lot more unforgivable.

His hair is still sandy brown-blond, tucked up in a bandana tied around his head, sculpted like a lion’s proud mane.

His eyes are still an unforgettable shade of dusky blue, the beautiful sort of shade that rolls out like a welcome mat for the tinsel stars and silver moon.

His aquiline nose is the same, and so is his jaw, a forged block of clenched, bony steel peppered with a shroud of dark five-o’clock shadow, and—holy God.

I watch a face that leaves mere mortals in the dust ignite with recognition as it dawns on him just who he’s rescued.

Exactly who would be so dumb they’d fly out on a field of prowling monster trucks to save a clumsy pig.

“Shelly? Shel?” he whispers, repeating my name like a sailor’s curse and an apostle’s blessing in one.

The air seeps out of my lungs in a sharp, deflating hiss.

I hate how his lips are close enough to kiss.

I only dreamed of surrendering to that mouth a thousand times.

It hurts to rip my gaze off him, to meet him eyeball to eyeball. My gut sinks clear to my toes at the hot glare filling his eyes. A very harsh, disapproving glare.

Those kissable lips peel back in a cruel grimace as he says, “You’ve got to be shitting me, Shel. All these years and you’re still more trouble than you’re worth.”

2

Pigheaded (Weston)