The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“You said your grandfather was a collector, yes? Perhaps there are some things—”

“Sorry,” I interrupt, “but everything belongs to my grandmother.”

“Of course. My apologies. I can’t help getting a little crazy over old things sometimes.” Smiling, he pops another one of those wretched almonds in his mouth and holds out the bag.

“Um, I’m good,” I decline with a head shake, wondering how a man who looks this good can have such rancid taste.

“Let me guess, you’re here to lend your family a hand? You mentioned your grandmother.”

Oof. I can’t say I love how nosy he is.

Even so, I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything rude.

“I’m here because she had hip replacement surgery and my brother works full-time. She’ll have some downtime after she’s gotten home, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, damn. Sorry to hear it,” he says, sounding sincere. “I hope she’s doing well. If she’s around during my stay, I’d love to have a talk—no business, I promise. I’d enjoy hearing more about all the wonderful antiques she has here and the stories behind them.”

Apparently, he’s also a rock star at redeeming himself.

I grin.

Knowing Gram, she’d love the company. I think my emotions are all over the place because I’m just not over last night, and it still has me on edge.

“Do you need help with your luggage?” I ask.

“Nah, no, thank you,” he says. “It’s just two bags and I can manage. Again, please accept my apologies. I never meant any offense.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say, walking to the door. “Here, I’ll hold the door for you if you want to bring your bags in.”

As I push open the door and step onto the porch, I hear an odd clip-clopping noise.

Hudson steps onto the porch at the same time I realize Hercules is racing up the mobility ramp, onto the porch, grunting and snorting like crazy.

“What the—?” Carson asks, his eyebrows flying up.

“It’s the, um—neighbor pig,” I say, grabbing his arm to coax him back inside before Hercules arrives at the door.

Why is he here? Another great escape?

He’s already at the top of the ramp, barreling his way toward us faster than any fluffy black ball should ever run. I had no idea a pig could go turbo.

I’m not sure what happens next, or how.

It’s all a fast, mad scramble of feet, arms, legs, and bellowing swine.

It’s like a bad flashback from last night—only, it’s no flashback at all.

It’s happening. Again.

With the world hanging upside down, I’m lying on top of a man, this time on the front porch.

The smells aren’t familiar or pleasant, nor is there any of the strongman comfort I felt when it was Weston breaking my fall.

This time, it’s Carson, and his fingers dig into my arms like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling through the earth’s crust.

Panicked, in a rush to get off him, I’m horrified at how one of my knees ends up between his thighs.

Way too close for comfort—his or mine.