The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

That not only enrages me, it hurts.

It makes me sick.

“Look,” he whispers, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighs. “I’m not your dad. It’s not my place to tell you how to live. I just don’t want you—”

“Fuck you, West!” I lunge forward, glaring as I hiss in his face, “Fuck you and fuck off.”

For a split second, he’s startled. Frozen.

Then he grasps my arm.

“Shel—”

Twisting violently, I wrench my arm away from his thick, strong fingers.

“Don’t you ever Shel me again!” I’m losing it, tears burning my eyes as I spin around, heading for the door. “Just. Just mind your own fricking business.”

“Shel. Rachel...” His voice follows me, softer and unsure.

Stopping, I turn and stab a finger at him.

“No. No, Weston. For once in your life, where I’m concerned, mind your own effing business and leave me alone!”

I suck in a deep breath and hold it until it stings.

The last thing I want to do is drag myself back to Carson and this lackluster date, but there’s nothing else I can do.

Yanking the door open, I re-enter the bar, grateful for the short-lived cover of the bustling people. I linger in the bathroom for a minute before making my way down the hall and past the chatty, laughing crowd that doesn’t give me a second glance.

Somehow, I muster enough courage to sit back down at the table, and say, “Sorry that took so long.”

“No worries. I almost came to check on you,” Carson says, spearing a fry with his fork. “Your not-so-friendly neighbor again, right? What’s his deal?”

“Yep. More pig problems again. Nothing too serious,” I lie, slathering mayo across the inside of my burger bun.

I mean, maybe it’s not a total lie after all.

Weston McKnight is a bigger pig than Hercules for sure.

He’s also awesome at murdering my appetite. The thought of eating makes me want to barf, but I won’t. I force down a few bites of bison burger and start enjoying it halfway through. Mainly just to prove to Weston that he has no power over me whatsoever.

Actually, eating helps.

With my mouth busy chewing, I’m not expected to comment as Carson picks up right where he left off before West barged into our conversation.

As he prattles on about his stunning, treasure-seeking adventures in Europe, and how his late uncle even brokered an impossible mummy deal in the 1960s that wound up at The British Museum, I wish I could just walk home.

But that’s impossible unless I want to hitchhike. This isn’t a rideshare town and taxis take an hour to get here.

The Purple Bobcat is on the outskirts of town off the highway, and that puts it literally in the middle of nowhere even by Dallas farm field standards.

If he wasn’t such a shrieking asshole, I’d consider asking West for a ride since we’re neighbors.

But I’d rather take a ride with Satan tonight—or maybe one of those evil mafia guys who gave our resident billionaire actor and his wife so much trouble a couple years back.

Gram freaked when she told me about that one. Fortunately, Ridge Barnet saved the day and found his own happy ending with a pumpkin farmer who still works magic decorating people’s homes.

This town has experienced one too many bad action movies the last few years, and wondering when another bout of trouble blows in means I’m stuck with Carson until we’re back at the B&B.