The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Staring into his beady little eyes, I lower the carrot, shaking my head as he inhales it.

Satisfied—for now—he grunts and plops down on the hay in the corner while I spruce up his pen and get him watered for the night. He’s snoring before I put away the shovel.

Yeah, so this is my ridiculous, pig-haunted life.

And I’m almost afraid to ask what that life means now after meeting Shelly again the way I did.

Stopping to give Herc a parting pat on the head before I leave his enclosure and triple-check the gate behind me, I sigh.

“Night, Herc.”

He’s a stubborn pain in the ass, but I like him. Sometimes.

As I head into the house, I stop and stare past it, the yard, and at the backside of Amelia’s B&B. Our properties share borders on the edge of town.

The houses are old renovated farms, mostly. Roomy enough with plenty of land around them, and they’ve always butted up against each other.

Though I think if I had a hundred acres, it still wouldn’t be enough to keep my mind off that infuriating woman.

My parents sold off the rest of our land for proper farming before I was born, and so did Doug Simon, Thelma’s deceased husband and the Simon kids’ grandfather. Old Thelma opened Amelia’s Bed & Breakfast after he’d died, while I was still in the Army, not long after Shel left for college and Marty bought his own fixer-upper a few miles away.

Marty’s done well for himself working for North Earhart Oil. He’s a field supervisor now, and still helping Thelma with odds and ends around the bed and breakfast.

I knew this was coming, ever since I heard Thelma had her surgery booked. Marty was excited to have Shel coming home, yammering about it for weeks.

They could’ve easily hired somebody to help shore up the business and assist Thelma during her recovery, but Marty and Thelma were both worried sick about Shel living in D.C. all by herself.

Honestly, there were times when I’ve worried about that, too.

Only, I also know she’s smart and intimately familiar with city living after years away.

It’s the shit here in Dallas she doesn’t know, the shit she’s forgotten, that’s a bigger problem now.

She’s always let her head get so up in the clouds...it wouldn’t be the first time it led her into trouble.

Shel always had a habit of not seeing anything else going on around her. Not when she’s waist-deep in her one true love—every old relic and obscure footnote of history under the sun.

Herc’s a perfect example.

All she thought about was him getting hurt. In reality, she could’ve been crushed into a bratty pancake by waltzing into the arena.

I still can’t get her heroics out of my head.

The image of Shel on her knees, shaking, while the loader’s giant wheels crept closer hardens in my brain like cement.

Fuck, even now, my blood runs hot.

Doesn’t she know I was only riled up because I still care?

Doesn’t she get that I care—regardless of the shit that happened almost a decade ago?

I’d like to cross property lines, storm into the B&B, and tell her to go back to D.C. tomorrow rather than risk her neck here in Dallas.

Of course, I can’t. It’s none of my business. That’s what I try to pound into my head all night.

Rachel Simon stopped being my business years ago, the minute I made a promise I couldn’t keep.

That’s how I wanted it, and my disappearing act made it crystal clear.