The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

I keep telling myself I don’t want Shelly staying any longer than necessary.

I’ve got my life under control. Found a routine that’s good for me.

Hell, better than good.

I’m doing what I love with my hands, my friends and family are an arm’s throw away, I’ve got a paid off house, money invested, and more business coming every day. I pitch in for charity and never leave a man down, whether that’s helping my uncle save a stray tiger or just making sure a fellow vet between jobs has three square meals and a place to crash.

I even have a damn pig.

He’s not so bad on the days he stays in his pen and I’m not tempted to grind him into breakfast sausage.

What more could a man want?

Shel doesn’t belong here in Dallas. When she leaves, she’ll be back at the museum full-time, according to Marty.

That’s her place. Everything she dreamed about ever since she was a pint-sized geek with glasses thicker than beer mugs.

It’s where I always wanted her to wind up, too, living out her love for history. She needed the perfect opportunity to explore, without getting homesick, and see the world beyond this little town.

Dallas has its rustic charms—don’t get me wrong—but it’s not suitable for some lofty dreams.

“Hey,” a voice calls.

My neck snaps up so fast the back of my head bangs the hood of the old VW. The old rear pusher has the motor in the back and the trunk in the front, meaning I’m wedged between it and the wall of the barn behind me, leaving me little room to avoid a head injury.

Even less room for escape with her standing in the open barn door, the sun glistening off those auburn curls I could wrap around my fist and pull.

“Hey, yourself,” I say, leaning back over the engine to finish tightening the battery cables, trying my damnedest to avoid thinking about how gorgeous she looks.

“Sorry if I made you bonk your head,” she says shyly.

“It was nothing,” I grumble, hiding how my head throbs.

“Working on Herbie, huh?”

I instantly snort at that name.

Typical Shel. She’d named the VW bug that years ago after watching that old movie, and at one time she even wanted hearts and the words love bug painted on it.

Luckily, old Doug hadn’t agreed to that, and I helped him paint the car a solid cherry-red years ago.

“Just putting the battery in Herb and checking things over,” I say.

“Marty said you’d be stopping by this afternoon. Something about a car show coming up?”

“Yep.”

“Will you be showing off all of Grandpa’s old cars?”

“If Thelma wants them in public, sure,” I answer, not caring to explain that no, a few cars won’t be making surprise appearances.

There are a couple I wouldn’t dare risk getting so much as a hairpin scratch on their pristine paint jobs. Plus, more cars to transport means enlisting more guys to help me move them around.

“She says you take good care of them,” Shel says quietly.

True enough.

My jaw tightens as I nod.