The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

I can’t have her.

I can’t want her.

I can’t even dream her.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not happening.

3

Lipstick On A Pig (Rachel)

So. This is what it’s like when you’ve been slammed by a Mack truck—which is literally what almost happened.

A front-end loader, technically, which puts every truck to shame.

Amazingly, nothing hurt much last night when I crawled in bed after soaking myself pink in the tub. This morning, I’m stiff as a board and sore from head to toe. Probably thanks to rolling across the ground like a human soccer ball.

Too bad I can’t blame my lack of sleep on the aches and pains.

They’re all courtesy of a certain anti-gentleman.

Weston freaking McKnight is the whole reason why I barely slept three hours. All because I had the gumption to leap in and save his fearless pig—and have it out with him in front of half the entire town after he narrowly saved me.

Ugh.

Huffing out a breath, I still can’t believe I’ve only been back in Dallas for a couple days.

In that short time, I’ve not only embarrassed myself, but I just had to bait Weston into saving my skin, didn’t I?

It’s infuriating because it’s hardly the first time.

And it’s like no amount of leaving, growing up, living changes anything.

This place is freaking time-proof.

Back when I was younger and far more foolish, I’d gotten myself in a tight spot more than once. Weston was always the one to pull me out.

Everything from being stuck in a tree to crashing Grandpa’s motorcycle.

That incident was uniquely miserable.

Of course, I was told a hundred times not to ride it. First by Grandpa Doug and then by the nineteen-year-old kid with eyes like spinning blue crystal who patched it up.

Weston was too right when he said don’t do it.

These older models weren’t safe for a fifteen-year-old with a permit on dusty country roads, he said, no matter how “careful” I swore I’d be with my hand on Gram’s old Bible.

Maybe even then, I was itching to prove I knew better.

I wanted West to see me as an adult, an equal, not just Marty’s annoying kid sister.

So that’s why I took off one evening on the joyride of my life.

Swiping the motorcycle from storage and trawling down deserted backroads was no more hazardous than a coughing fit or two caused by the swirling dust the bike kicked up.