The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

I nod disinterestedly.

I’ve so freaking had it with men today.

“Listen, I don’t give a crap about bugs, but that isn’t the point!” I spit. “You can’t smoke back here, Carson, okay?”

He gives me a stunned look.

I know. I shouldn’t go off on him when it’s an innocent mistake. Guilt flares in my belly as I see his lips move, trying to figure out if he should apologize.

No need. He can’t apologize for the real jerkwad who left my heart in ruins.

The jerkwad’s accomplice, Marty, arrives at my side a second later.

“Shelly—there you are. I got your purse. And I’m real sorry if you thought I—”

“Marty. Just...just leave me alone, please,” I hiss, grabbing my purse from his hand and plodding to the house without looking back, digging out the keys on my way.

Inside, I go straight to my room and dive on the bed.

Just why? Why does my life have this special ability to go from a diamond to a lump of coal in a matter of hours?

Because there might be a hint of truth to that crap Weston said.

Evidently, I’m a fricking idiot.

Our magic night together was nothing but an illusion, a cheap parlor trick.

The bazaar. The dancing. The pretty cars. Driving his monster truck.

Coming so many times for him I’m still achingly sore every time I move.

It was all like a glorious dream, and just like every sweet dream—bam!—here comes the reality kick to the face.

At least I have my answers.

It makes sense now.

Why he wouldn’t even talk about the fundraisers he pours his heart into. Why he’s so guarded, so sure I can’t handle the truth.

That’s why he’s helping the veterans’ groups.

And he didn’t want me knowing about any of it. Didn’t want me to know anything except the hot seam of his lips and how hard he can work me over.

God.

I’m not a shallow woman. I’m not insensitive. I’m definitely not stupid.

But his opinions are set in stone, no matter what changes.

He’ll never see me as an adult, an equal, an ear worthy of hearing his heart.

Just like my moron brother will never accept my choices, whether I want to be in D.C. or Dallas or even the freaking moon.

To him, I’m the little sister. Not the woman who knows what she wants and will pay hell to get it.

I flop down on my back with a creeping headache and stare at the ceiling.

As much as I want to sucker punch West right now, there’s a reason I can’t.