The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“Weston?”

“Nope. I’ve got it all under control, baby,” I reply, driving that last nail in hard. “Lucky for me, I had extra boards left over from when I built the pen. Herc used to have the run of Faye’s backyard.”

“Oh, nice. Did he ever break out there?” she asks, hiding a smile.

“Never once, and her fence is nothing more than a few old purple-painted boards held up in some places with bungee cords. He only turned into an escape swine when he showed up here.” I sniff in disgust, standing to survey my handiwork.

“Looks as good as new!” she says, rubbing my shoulders. “Call me crazy, but I think he would’ve stayed put if he hadn’t been spooked by the uninvited guest. He was so panicked when I found him. I just wish I realized why sooner...”

The frown she wears tells me she feels worse about the break-in than I do.

I’m furious that it happened, yeah, but she’s inexplicably beating herself up. Like this is somehow her fault because she didn’t team up with Herc to track down and hog-tie our would-be thief—pun intended.

Bullshit, I say.

I point the hammer at Herc, who’s lying in the shade of the big tree facing his pen where it attaches to the barn.

“Little man, you bust out one more time and you’ll be in the freezer. I’m not playing,” I grumble.

He gives back a lazy, defiant snort.

I hate how the pig knows my bark is worse than my bite.

Draping an arm around Shelly’s shoulders, I urge her to walk beside me into the barn.

“You don’t need to be so freaked. I won’t really make him pork chops. Probably,” I add under my breath.

She snickers, her auburn locks fluttering in the wind.

“I know you won’t. You’re a total softie.” She wraps an arm around my waist. “But I do wish you’d reconsider putting some stuff in Gram’s safe if you’ve got any valuables. Even anything sentimental like the scrapbook. You know how massive that safe is. She only keeps a few trinkets in there since Grandpa used it for paperwork and a few old gold coins. She sometimes offers guests space if they ask for secure storage. I’m sure she won’t care if you do.”

“I’ve got nothing safe-worthy, Shel.” I set the hammer on the shelf, and keeping my arm around her, we walk to the door that leads inside the barn.

“Sure, you do! What about the family heirlooms all over your place?”

I open the door, let her in first, and then close it behind us with a shrug.

“Heirlooms are only valuable for the memory. Not nearly as important as living people.” Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her close, feeling this thin cord in my head snap. “Never go running off to an active crime site when I say don’t, okay?”

Her eyes narrow.

“Oh, please. This isn’t Washington or Baltimore, West. Nobody was lurking around in your house, waiting for me with a knife. I was worried about your stuff getting stolen.”

“You’d be surprised. This place isn’t as quiet as you remember. Just ask anybody on a lively night at the Purple Bobcat. They’ll tell you what this town’s been through lately and it’ll sound like a true crime show,” I tell her. “Also, my stuff can be replaced. You, not so easily.”

The fight in her shamrock-green eyes softens as she leans into me, accepting my hold.

“Yeah, yeah, people, not things. I get it.” She loops her arms around my neck with a kind smile. “But things with meaning still matter. They’re living records of people and places worth keeping alive.”

A rough sigh heaves out of me.

I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but staying away from her all week was a special hell.

“Maybe so. Or maybe I’m more interested in the folks right in front of me.”

If she doesn’t get who I mean the most, I’d better show her.

I capture her lips in a long, torrid kiss that’s not meant to entice.