The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“Eh, I don’t know...probably my imagination,” I lie, hating that I let one bad look get to me.

Whether it’s our suspect or not, I’m not letting him ruin this night.

Weston glances around and stiffens as another figure speed walks by the cars. I only get a glance at him.

But there’s no mistaking Carson, still wearing that stupid formal blue jacket as he stuffs popcorn into his mouth from a paper bag.

Thankfully, he disappears into the night a second later.

“Ignore him,” I plead, meeting Weston’s angry eyes. “He’s just a big nerd like I am for old things. He’s probably just admiring the cars.”

I can’t say he’s wrong to distrust him, though I do believe he’s only here looking for antiques to flip for money. It’s Occam’s Razor, the simplest explanation.

Still, I wish he’d wrap up his hunting and go home to Boston or wherever he’s off to next.

I pull on Weston’s hand, urging him along to Kenny’s Taco Truck and away from the antique car show. “So do they have the basic bitch kind? Because, um, I’m shamelessly a basic bitch when it comes to anything too spicy.”

“Yep. They’ve got one smothered with chili cheese sauce and mild jalapenos,” he says.

“Mmm, yummy.”

“Even the jalapenos? I thought you’d need the burn ward for laying eyes on a pepper,” he says with a teasing glance.

“I’ve grown up a little,” I say. “D.C. has some decent Indian food. Plus, I made myself learn to like the heat on this trip to Tucson a couple years ago.”

His eyes linger on me.

It’s definitely not the spicy talk that’s raising the air temperature.

I also know what he’s remembering, and I have to fight like mad not to grin.

He’s so intense, so ridiculously gorgeous, the need inside me vibrates.

“Always wanted to eat my weight in Southwestern food,” he says. “Glad you’ve trained your tongue to handle some heat, lady.”

Oh, God.

The way his eyes flick to mine like a whip tells me it’s not hot peppers and curry powder on his mind.

His eyes stall my breath, twinkling like blue gems in the evening light.

“Let me guess...you’ve only learned to like it hotter?” I whisper.

“Hell yes,” he rumbles, leaning closer. “If we were somewhere private, I’d show you how fucking hot I need it, baby.”

I. Am. Dead.

No joking. I’m sure they’ll find me unconscious in a Weston-induced coma.

I hate how much I love the way he looks at me. Every glance makes me feel beautiful, wanted, needed, yet I pretend I’m unaffected to save face.

No matter how much he lights me up, this is a man who still won’t lower his shield.

“Plenty of cold nights are coming. I like hot,” I whisper, looking away.

“You may be grown up, but you’re still a brat,” he growls. “You’ve always been a gold-medalist tease with me.”

I poke him in the ribs. “What? Because I get under your skin at a little old car show?”