The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

It’s got a power, a force, and a will of its own.

We’ll just have to be careful then. Take it slow, gentle, and make sure she doesn’t get hurt.

Make sure I don’t lose what’s left of my soul.

I’m hunched over, tightening the extra double bolt on the front door, when I hear her come up behind me.

There’s no helping the smile that slashes across my face.

Christ. Since when do I smile?

I feel like a homesick boy who’s just gotten back from summer camp.

Shel wraps her arms around me from behind, hugging and kissing my back.

“How’s it going?” Her chin rests softly on my shoulder, and one deep breath fills my lungs with the fresh, flowery scent that’s all Shel.

“Fine.”

“Need any help?”

Her hands slip down my torso, teasing nerves that were barely satisfied a short time ago. They flare back to life far too easily.

“I’m good.”

Real talk: I’m very not fucking good.

She giggles. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?”

“You mean fixing locks and exploring the inner sanctum of Aunt Faye’s closet? Yeah, me too, baby. Livin’ the lifelong dream,” I say, sarcasm the last shield between us.

She punches my bicep playfully.

“So you’re a lunk and a comedian now. Lovely.” She kisses the side of my neck. “I kinda like it, though. Also, I’m clearly talking about kissing you and...and everything else. I’ve wanted that forever, West. For as long as I can remember.”

My dick jolts.

There’s something extra wrong but horribly right about knowing how bad she’s had it for me across all these years.

I’ll admit her unquenchable crush strokes my ego something fierce, even if I can’t let it balloon my head to the size of the Titanic.

Whatever else this is—messy fling, bad idea, creeping derangement—it can’t last.

Shel deserves a life with dusty old books and rare artifacts and laughing kids eager to listen to her geeking out over Apollo capsules or Martha Washington’s dresses.

She deserves more than being marooned here in Dallas with a jackass who can pound her senseless but still can’t pound enough sense into his own head to offer her love.

She deserves the life she’s found beyond this place, the one she’s set up to keep living.

If there’s one glaring rule carved in stone for this thing, it’s that.

Love her hard.

Leave her happy.

Let her fucking go, man.

Until she leaves, we can live our darkest dreams.