The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

It’s him and this wild epiphany.

It’s knowing that Weston freaking McKnight and his mischief are mine forever.

* * *

It turns out the boat is more of a full-sized yacht, fancier than the ferry that brought us to the main island.

When I realize where we are, and that we’re heading for the Phoenix Islands, I freak.

Aghast with awe, I stare at Weston, who gives me a smile that’s way too calm.

“Now it makes sense,” I splutter. “That’s why you chose this place for the honeymoon, isn’t it?”

He shrugs. “I figured someone who’s a sweet-ass history dork and lives in a town where the Earhart name’s plastered all over might like seeing Amelia Earhart’s last known resting place.”

“Nikumaroro?” I ask, gushing with excitement. “We’re going to Nikumaroro?”

“Damn right,” he says with a solemn nod, pulling his olive-green US Army hat lower by the brim.

He truly knows me inside and out.

I hug him like I’m about to break because I am.

But as always, his kiss puts me back together.

“Unbelievable!” I whisper, knowing I’ll repeat it ten more times before today ends.

Worth it. Because the entire day is unreal.

The islands are gorgeous, and our guide is an open vault of information. She shows us the exact spot where they found thirteen bones, just recently matched with DNA confirming they once belonged to the famous aviator, Dallas legend, and namesake of Gram’s livelihood.

I’m in total awe and can’t shut up about how badly I can’t wait to get home and tell everyone about being here.

As we head back to the beach after a whirlwind tour, our guide leaves, telling us our ship will depart in the next hour and we’re free to look around until then.

The smile she gives Weston before she darts away makes me wonder if, like me, she thinks he’s the most hottest man alive.

I’m not even jealous.

He’s shown me a hundred times over that he belongs to me and always will.

With my hand clasped in his, we walk a short distance. Soon I spot an odd circle of whitish stones stacked neatly on the sand.

“Huh. Almost looks like a sign of sorts,” I say, staring at the rocks.

“Maybe it’s pirate treasure,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Better get digging, Shelly.”

“Um, what? It might be a grave or memorial. This place is pretty private. Also, there were never any records of pirates in these parts,” I say matter-of-factly.

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” he says, thumping his chest and tugging his hat brim over one eye. “Yarr, they call me Pigbeard of the Phoenix Islands.” He shifts into this snarling pirate accent that makes me laugh. “And if ye wanna make it back to your favorite oinker alive, ye’d best get digging, Seashell.”

“Idiot,” I whisper affectionally, pushing away from him as he pulls his hat back up with a grin.

“Don’t make me do that again.” He chuckles. “Seriously. Check it out. Maybe it’s a new treasure laid down for someone to discover today.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

I know who he’s getting it, but I’m having so much fun I don’t want it to end.