The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Weird.

Regardless, I nod and let a companionable silence settle over us as we walk together. I don’t attempt to break it by asking what’s going on. I need her to feel more at ease before I bring that up.

Meanwhile, the world’s loneliest pig sees us coming and races to the side of the pen before we arrive. He sticks his pudgy snout through the boards and snorts like he means business.

“Such a good bebe!” Shel gushes.

While she gives the pig Faye’s message and tells him he really needs to stay inside if he wants her to keep bringing him breakfast, I climb over the pen and head for the barn.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a shovel to cover the hole he left,” I answer.

She climbs over the pen. “Wait up, I’ll help.”

“Get right back over that fence,” I tell her, throwing her a look over my shoulder. “You’re wearing white pants and they won’t stay that way if you don’t.”

“Oh, I can bleach them.”

My eyes flick to the sandals on her feet.

For a hot second, I imagine those toes with their candy-red nails curling against my shoulders while I drive into her like I mean to break her. I see her face contorted, whimpering, coming apart real sweet for me with every hammering stroke of my—

“Jesus, West. Don’t worry. I can wash my feet, too.” She marches right past me into the barn and grabs a shovel before I can stop her.

“Brat,” I spit, rubbing my eyes so they don’t glue themselves to her ass permanently.

It does nothing to bleach away the filthy thoughts cluttering my head.

Neither does her signature grin when she looks at me.

“Come on then, let’s get this done,” I say, shaking my head because I know she’s too stubborn and there’s no sense in arguing.

We fill in the hole together, talking mainly about Hercules and some pointers she read online about pig taming. Twenty minutes later, with the oinker satisfied by a few big carrots I had lying around, we head into the house.

I’m amazed she escapes without smudging her ivory-white jeans or muddying her feet.

A crinkling noise tells me she drops the shredded bag from her pocket in the trash before heading to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. While she’s occupied, I pluck the bag out of the garbage and tuck it away in my mail holder for a better look later.

“Nice setup you’ve got, West. I don’t remember being inside your house much before,” she says while drying her hands.

That’s because I rarely invited anyone over when we were kids.

I never knew if my parents would be sleeping off their latest overtime shifts or bickering from the stress or just not talking to each other. They even went through a couple spats where they thought about divorce.

Fortunately, it never came to that. Dad finding a career change as a real estate agent later in life did a lot to defuse their stress.

It wasn’t the friendliest environment growing up, especially compared to the easy laughs and endless trays of homemade food with the Simons. Having her over wasn’t something I wanted to subject her to when she and Marty had already lost so much and found a certain sunlight they deserved in their grandparents.

I move to the sink to wash my hands as she steps aside.

“It’s not much, but it’s home. I’ve done some remodeling and made the place mine since I bought it off my folks,” I tell her.

“Not much? I like it. It’s you, but it still has that old country charm like most places around here. Our house had that before Gram spruced it up to become Amelia’s.” She walks through the kitchen and into the living room. “She did a great job. It’s beautiful, sure, but the more I’m there...I dunno. It doesn’t feel quite like home anymore. Not the home I remember, anyway.”

“That’s because you’re a hardass for old junk. You don’t like change when it comes to history, including your own.” I dry my hands and lean against the counter, staring into her soft green eyes.

“Well...maybe you’re right.” She walks further into my living room, taking a closer look at my décor. “Like these old wood-burning fireplaces. I love how so many old homes have them.”