The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Tears scorch my eyes, burning worse than ever as I fight to hold them in.

They’re not coming out. Not in front of these two backstabby, two-faced dunderheads.

Stomping a winding path around them, far enough away so they can’t stop me, I say, “Don’t worry, boys. Neither of you. I’ll be gone soon. Gram’s doing great, so I can probably cut my stay here short. I won’t really need eight whole weeks of misery. There’s no good reason to risk hanging around for an early winter, neither.”

Weston takes a halting step forward, his brows pulled low like a descending thunderhead.

“Shel, enough. Just shut it and listen—”

“Shut it?” I stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “Fuck you, West.”

The pain inside me ruptures like an abscess.

I do the only thing I can to keep my nails from dragging across his face.

Run.

I run like a jolted fawn all the way to the B&B, digging my fingers into my eyes. It’s a wonder I don’t stumble over an uneven hole or a rock and break my neck.

Maybe that would be a mercy.

Maybe anything would be compared to thinking Weston McJackass ever trusted me enough to be honest.

* * *

When I get home, I find the back door locked.

Of course.

Of course it is.

My purse. My keys. My phone. They’re all in Weston’s truck.

I throw my head back, wanting to scream bloody murder at the cloudy morning sky.

I want to cry.

I want to curl up into a kitten-like ball and let the pain bleed out of me.

Mostly, I want to crawl under the covers and be numb. Until I don’t feel anything for anyone—especially Weston.

Gah, I didn’t even get to serve Hercules his breakfast.

A sudden disruption—a noise or movement—has me pivoting my gaze on the old barn. I see a man in the shadows, and also see Marty jogging toward me from Weston’s place.

Still pissed at the world, I head for the barn.

“Hey! What are you doing over there?” I shout at the man.

The tall, lean shape tells me a second later it’s Carson. I can tell by how his platinum-blond hair shimmers, even under a grey morning in the shadows.

“Having a smoke,” he says, patting his pants pocket. “There’s no smoking inside, and naturally I adhere to my host’s rules.”

I stop and stare. I don’t see a cigarette, but I point to the front parking lot.

“Well, there’s a smoking area with an ashtray out front.”

“I was just trying to get away from the bugs,” Carson says. “Your mosquitos are a little hardier than what I’m used to. It’s cold enough to frost and there are still too many of them around.”