The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Gram’s a stickler for routine, and so am I, but I’ll happily check them in early.

I’m ready, standing behind the solid oak desk complete with teller window. Another fun thing Grandpa salvaged from the old bank in town before it was torn down.

A tall, younger man enters. Looks like he’s around my age.

He’s nicely dressed, fit, and his crisp blue button-down shirt paired with a glowing silver watch hugging his wrist suggests he’s come a long way from Dallas.

“Hello,” he greets me with a porcelain-white smile. “I’m aware I’m early, but I hope you can accommodate a man who’s just spent five hours on the road.”

“No problem! I can check you in now,” I say with a smile. “I’m Rachel Simon.”

His lifts a brow. “Not Amelia?”

“Nope,” I assure him with a soft laugh. “Sorry to disappoint. The name in Amelia’s belongs to the Amelia Earhart. We even called it that originally, The Amelia Earhart B&B.” I point behind the desk to the framed black-and-white picture of the famous aviator. “But my grandmother didn’t like how big the sign ended up being. She thought it looked too commercial, so she had a new one made that just says Amelia’s out front.”

“Clever,” he replies. “I’m Carson. Carson Hudson.”

I detect a hint of an accent in his voice, like from somewhere out east, or maybe I’m just missing it.

He’s refined, fit, with a whip of a body like the athletic men I’m used to who jog around D.C. and the Arlington suburbs religiously. His nice blue jacket slung over his luggage looks costly, tailored, and totally out of place for a casual visit in Dallas. Same for his platinum-blond hair that’s been styled to perfection.

His greyish-blue eyes are mellow and deep, the kind of reflecting pools you’d want to stare into over a campfire—or maybe a candlelit dinner.

Whatever else he is, Mr. Hudson rocks the sleek luxury travel with modelesque good looks vibe. Which makes me wonder what he’s doing in this speck of a town.

“Ah, your name’s right here,” I say, scanning the computer screen. “You’ve got the cockpit room. Best in the house.”

He pauses while handing me his shiny black credit card, giving me a skeptical look that’s also kinda charming.

“The cockpit, huh? I knew there were perks to joining the mile high club,” he says flatly.

I snicker and give him a quick rundown about the B&B’s history.

“Incredible. When I saw the great reviews for this place, I had no idea it came with such a pedigree,” he says, stroking his chin. “Hidden gems like this are rare in flyover country. Keep it that way, Miss Simon.”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t dream of anything less. There’s even an old rumor around here that says Amelia Earhart herself stayed in this very house back in the 1930s. They say she was related to some people who started the oil company, and this was a boarding house back then.”

His lips turn up and his pale-blue eyes gleam. “The perfect place for my stay then. I’m somewhat of a history buff myself.”

Uh-oh.

My heart kicks up a notch. It always does when it comes to history.

“I’m on a road trip of sorts. Boston to Seattle since late June with plenty of time carved out for the pretty, forgotten parts of the country along the way,” he explains as I swipe his card. “I’m taking the long way home now, and it’s been an adventure. Just wish I had company along the way—someone who appreciates the little things that keep small towns like this on the map—but, hey. I’ll have a hell of a story for the folks back home over drinks this winter.”

Smiling, I pass his card back to him. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll appreciate some of the antiques we have here. Have a look around on your way up to your room.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve already noticed—like this desk? Let me guess.” He pauses, pressing a palm to his forehead like he’s trying to read minds. “It’s from a bank. Turn of the century. Let’s say...roughly 1910?”

My jaw drops.

“Dang, you’re good. 1908 to be exact. It closed down in 2009 during the big financial crash. My grandfather was an eclectic collector.” That’s putting it mildly, but I’m legit impressed with Mr. Hudson’s guess.

He gives me a slow, bright smile that could be totally dangerous on a date.

I wonder what he’d make of everything else stored here that we couldn’t use in the remodel.

The basement is still jam-packed with old curiosities, including the old safe from the same bank. Not to mention the barn overflowing with old cars, trucks, and motorcycles—including the one I crashed one fine day that chucked me onto my young, dumb butt.