The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

I was squealing with delight by the time I finished my seven-mile trip, swerving triumphantly onto our street. I revved it and made as much noise as I could going past the McKnight place, eager to catch Weston’s attention.

I wanted him to see how wrong he could be.

I wanted him to step outside, shirtless and tense like he often did on summer evenings, just in time for me to razz him with a flash of tongue before I sped up the winding drive and parked the bike in Grandpa’s shed with nobody the wiser.

Well, except for the older boy mechanic who said it’d cause me nothing but trouble.

It didn’t.

The ride was flawless until the home stretch, when I was one teensy second too late braking, turning, and—

Yep. Barreling right into a weathered section of the McKnight’s perimeter fence, scattering the boards apart.

Good thing I landed on the grass just a few feet from where the bike threw me.

Good thing I was wearing a helmet.

Good thing Weston didn’t act like an angry god as he stood over me—even if he looked the part with this sexy disapproving man-stare—shaking his head and offering me a hand.

Oh, I expected an ego lashing for the ages...

Instead, he just gave me that trademark Weston look. The tired, thorny, world-weary look he wielded like a sword before he left for the service, which always made him seem like twenty years my senior instead of just four.

“Told ya so, brat. You see why I didn’t want you riding now?”

But he didn’t torment me after that, didn’t rub it in, and never delighted in my tearful apologies and panic over damaging his place. He just grabbed a cold soda from the fridge, put me down on his porch, and set to work repairing the old fence in no time.

My grandparents never knew a thing—thank God—and neither did Marty.

He just drove me back on the motorcycle, which he also fixed, touching up a spot of scratched paint. He never told anyone.

The quiet, fierce look on his face last night was the same as that summer evening when he came blasting out the door to find me crash-landed on his property—the kind of look that says not again.

Not the hell again, you brat.

Then again, I also saw something else in his midnight-blue eyes. This strange remorse that also appeared somewhat haunting.

That stuck with me long after I’d gotten home and crashed under the blankets.

Let’s be real. Everything about Weston and his adorably mischievous pig invaded my head, memories charging back.

How hard and strong and perfect his body felt under mine.

How devastatingly handsome he still is—more than I even remembered because he’s also matured over the past decade.

Ding!

I jump with a start.

Glancing at the timer on the oven, I grab a potholder to pull out the cookie sheet. Gram always keeps several pounds of cookie dough around, heaped in perfect balls and frozen in labeled bags in the freezer.

Although the only full meal the B&B serves is breakfast, she insists on having batches of fresh-baked cookies available at all times.

That usually means prepping a new batch at least three times per day.

She also insisted on a one-night closure due to her surgery, and that’s already come and gone.

I helped check in two new sets of guests today. A single man and a couple. Although I’ve visited since Gram opened Amelia’s and helped out where I could, this is the first time I’m doing it on my own.