The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“Every morning? That’s an exaggeration,” I say coldly, closing the bug’s hood. “I’d swing by to check on her when I knew Marty was pulling long shifts, yeah, especially in the winter. If she needs her driveway plowed so she’s not buried alive, it’s no skin off my nose. Good thing her granddaughter’s here now to help with the rest.”

Shelly twists around and leans on the side of the car, stretching out her long, shapely legs and crossing them at the ankles.

Awesome.

My magma blood practically scalds me from the inside out at the sight of all that golden skin.

She looks like a proper country girl today with her brown sandals, jean shorts, and a flowery pink-and-white t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination.

There’s a lot I’d rather be doing than banging these clumsy words together. I must be going certifiably insane.

“I bet you don’t like the idea of random strangers sleeping in her house, either, do you?” she asks.

We lock eyes.

“You kidding? The place keeps her going. She was already at it for years when I came home. Screw my opinion.”

“That’s not an answer, West.” She blinks at me with this playful, teasing look that only prolongs my agony.

I swear to God, I’m imagining it.

I have to be.

She has every right to hate my guts. Not make goo-goo eyes like she’s got cupid’s arrow stuck in her butt and she’s trying just as hard as I am not to collide in a clawing tangle of fingers and lips.

“It’s none of my business and I’m sure it’s not yours, lady. We both know Thelma’s a born ass-kicker. If anybody tried anything underhanded, you’d have every farmer in a hundred-mile radius reporting unexplained sightings of flying balls the next day.”

She laughs, doubling over.

“Whatever, dude. You kinda made it your business by stopping in every morning to check on her.”

Fuck, that laugh.

The melody lingers in the air, pulling a smile out of me.

Damn her.

That always happened in the past. She’s got the sort of infectious, sweetly obnoxious giggle that could make a cold-blooded hitman crack a grin. Even when she pissed me off, her laugh could make me forgive a war crime.

“What can I say?” I bite back my smile and shrug for what feels like the hundredth time today. “Thelma’s coffee was always the best and it beats making my own. That’s why I really come by to check on her. I think it’s how she brews it over the stove.”

No exaggeration. The first few months I was home, I needed that coffee every morning. Almost as bad as the nagging urge for the bottle.

Guilt over not visiting Thelma since her return punches me in the gut.

“How’s she doing, anyway?” I ask, folding my arms and sizing Shel up.

“Good. She’s taking it slow, which is pretty hard for her. A nurse is supposed to see her tomorrow for a check-in and they’ll tell us when she can start regular rehab. You can stop in anytime you want.”

I nod. “Maybe I will when I’m done here.”

She pushes off the car and walks to the back of the barn. I’m about to yell at her to quit messing around when I know what’s caught her eye.

We both know it before she even grabs the corner of the cover and lifts it up with a startled giggle.

“Oh my God. I had no clue Grandpa kept this old thing. Will the bike be on display, too?” She turns, her eyes all glistening emerald.

“Why? You want to take the motorcycle for another spin and bang it up again?”