The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

I do it for free because I can’t stand the thought of these old beauties going to pieces. I start their engines and drive them every month, just so the brakes don’t lock up and everything keeps moving. Letting old cars idle is the worst thing you can do to them.

I’ve taken each vehicle to my shop in a regular rotation, too, and put them up for a complete inspection, oil and fluid changes, minor part replacements, the works.

I know how much the old cars mean to Thelma Simon. Probably more than they had to Doug, considering it’s the biggest piece of himself her husband left behind.

I’m sure that’s why she’s never said a word about selling them.

Some aren’t worth a ton, while others are damn near priceless. Especially the exotic Corvette in the far corner, a rare puppy sure to make anyone with a hard-on for cars flip their lid.

“So is this like a charity thing or do you just love old cars that much?” she asks, slowly approaching with this half smile I’d like to bite off her face.

“Just being neighborly.” I shrug. “It’d cost her a fortune to find somebody else to do it right, and since I’m available...”

“Mm-hmm.” Shelly stops beside the VW—within reach—which hammers me in ways it shouldn’t.

My blood runs faster, hotter, this instant greed coursing through me like some club-waving cave idiot trying to think with his dick first and his brain dragging a mile behind him.

I hate how being flat-out wrong does nothing to squelch this shit.

I hate how Shel stirs me up like a blender without even trying.

This woman has a gift for catapulting me back to the past, my mistakes, my buried dreams and impossible desires.

She fucking curdles my present, electrifying my system with flaring urges. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath till I look up at her.

She’s fidgeting, running a soft hand over the side of the car, and glancing around the barn at the other cars draped with their fitted covers. Is she as nervous as I am?

“Well, that’s why I’m here, too, Mr. Neighborly. You need anything? Are you hungry?”

You. Naked. Preferably wrapped around me inside this fifty-year-old shoebox I’d rather call “fuck bug.”

I’d probably cramp a couple of limbs for life if I tried to do anything inside the bug, but God willing, I’d try.

I blink away the filthy thoughts, shifting my weight to hide the bulge in my pants.

Shit. Her being neighborly is the last thing I need.

Stepping away from the car, I drop the wrench in my toolbox.

“I’ve got my thermos and coffee, but thanks. You can run along,” I tell her.

She doesn’t move an inch.

“Okay, I also came to apologize.” She sighs heavily. “Look, I’m going to be here for a little while, maybe through early December. We’ll be stuck being neighbors, West, and that’s a pretty long time to avoid each other, so...I’m sorry for being foolish the night of the rally when I went after Hercules. And again for making you so angry when Herc ran over to Amelia’s.”

I stare at her, trying to process that hurt look in her eyes around the tumble of auburn hair. What the fuck is she saying between the lines?

“You didn’t piss me off, and I’m not avoiding shit,” I say, hoping to head her off.

“Oh? Then why haven’t you said hello to Gram? She keeps asking about you.”

“Because. She just had surgery a week ago and needs her rest. I know you and Marty set her up like a queen. If she needs anything, just shout.”

Shel looks on quietly, twisting her heart-shaped lips in this pensive hell-look. “She says you used to stop by every morning if she didn’t drop by first for Herc’s scraps.”

Damn. So that’s why she came out here to eat humble pie.

She’s looking at me like I’m Thelma’s little hero.