The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

That thought even makes me annoyed at Gram for ever opening the place.

As soon as I’m done eating, I drop my napkin on my plate.

“Hey, Carson, I don’t mean to rush you,” I say, interrupting him mid-brag. “But I need to get home and check in on Gram.”

“Her friend—”

“Can’t stay that long,” I finish for him. I open my purse and throw a twenty on the table.

His eyes flash distress.

“Thank you, but that’s hardly necessa—”

“I’d rather go Dutch, okay?” I say, making my point that he’d better not be expecting anything from this date. Including a second one. I stand up then. “Ready?”

“Certainly.” Carson puts money on the table and stands with a politely defeated look. At least he’s gracious.

Sigh.

Is he really a limp noodle or is it just me?

I can’t be sure of anything tonight—especially with that raging bull of a man side-eyeing us from behind the bar again.

I make a point of not looking at West once as we exit the bar.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Carson asks once we’re in the car. “With the temperamental neighbor and his pig, I mean?”

“No.” I suck in a deep breath and a portion of my damnable pride. “It’s none of your concern and will work itself out.”

I hear something crinkle in his hand. He pops another nasty almond in his mouth, and feeling overwhelmed by the scent, I roll down my window.

“Just need some fresh air,” I explain.

“I’ll turn up the AC,” he says.

Eep.

“No, no, that’s all right. I just need some air and it’s such a nice cool night, don’t you think so?”

He starts in on another story, telling me how fresh the air smelled when he visited Vienna or Venice, or some far-off V-place. I really don’t care and wish I’d never agreed to this silly outing.

When she’s feeling better, I’ll be having a word with Gram about encouraging dates with strangers mixed up in the family business.

That has to be against some rule anyway, or at least my own ethics.

Once we arrive at Amelia’s, I leave Carson in the lobby with barely a good night and dart into the private living area.

Nancy Dahl is still here, a cup of coffee in her bony hand, watching a rerun of Golden Girls on an oldie’s channel with Gram.

I sit down with them and join in until the show ends, and then as discreetly as possible, send Nancy on her way and help Gram prep for bedtime.

Weston’s vicious antics linger on my mind the entire time.

He’s still souring my thoughts long after I’ve climbed into my own bed in the room next to Gram’s.

Seriously. How do I get through another month or more of this when Weston and I can’t even be civil for five minutes?

I know Gram misses seeing him regularly. She asks about him every morning when I return from bringing scraps to that adorable oinker.