The worst best friend a.., p.1
The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance, page 1
The Worst Best Friend
A Small Town Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in November, 2021.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Travis DesLaurier.
Contents
About the Book
1. Keep Calm And Oink (Rachel)
2. Pigheaded (Weston)
3. Lipstick On A Pig (Rachel)
4. Wallowing In Mud (Weston)
5. Pearls Before Swine (Rachel)
6. Going Hog Wild (Weston)
7. Don’t Hog It All (Rachel)
8. The Name’s Mud (Weston)
9. Pig In A Poke (Rachel)
10. Roll Me In Mud (Weston)
11. Hog Tied (Rachel)
12. Don’t Pig Out (Weston)
13. Pig Dirty (Rachel)
14. Happier Than A Pig In... (Weston)
15. Pigs Get Fat (Rachel)
16. Hog Chaser (Weston)
17. Prize Pig? (Rachel)
18. Don’t Go Bacon My Heart (Weston)
19. When Pigs Fly (Rachel)
20. Like Pigs to the Slaughter (Weston)
21. Sweating Like A Pig (Rachel)
22. Broken Piggy Bank (Weston)
23. Two-Timing Pigs (Rachel)
24. Pigs and Whistles (Weston)
25. Pig In Clover (Rachel)
26. Feral Pig (Weston)
27. This Little Piggy Went Home (Rachel)
28. Getting Piggy With It (Weston)
29. High Off The Hog (Rachel)
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About Nicole Snow
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About the Book
It's all sunshine and butterflies until your brother's best friend dropkicks your heart.
I knew I had it coming with Weston McKnight.
The Adonis next door. The fever crush. The always protector.
The man who walked away after pulverizing my soul.
Seven years ago, he left our little town with a promise he couldn't keep.
I waited. I worried. I suffered.
I stopped chasing dreams built on that boy's mile-wide shoulders.
Then I found the pig—and sweet chaos found me.
I had to rescue that poor squealing baby before he was roadkill.
I didn't know he belonged to Captain McGrumpy.
I never guessed I'd collide with a scowling, moody, scary-hot West again.
Same man. New secrets. Oh, but that all too familiar tension...
We're stuck as frenemy neighbors for the next two months.
Facing a dilemma with bittersweet memories and flaming glances.
What's the harm in seeking a little closure?
Massive.
Can we even use words without risking an all out kissing war?
Well...
Am I in trouble with my worst best friend again?
Definitely.
1
Keep Calm And Oink (Rachel)
This is so not my thing.
My butt already hurts from sitting on this wooden bench and the muggy air pulls sweat down my back in sticky streams. It’s hotter than the devil’s kitchen, which seems like a sacrilege for late September.
Mostly, it’s the noise that makes me question my life decisions.
The clamor from the outrageously huge trucks filling the arena could rival an elephant stampede. I’m just waiting for their belching exhaust fumes to send half the town to the ER, sputtering for oxygen.
I don’t know how Marty talked me into this.
God, why did I let my dork of a brother drag me here?
Granted, it’s a nice break from managing the B&B and worrying about Gram, even if I know she’s getting the best care possible at the hospital in Dickinson.
Her surgery went well. She was nervous before it happened, but went under the knife smiling, and woke up wearing the same defiant grin with a shiny new hip.
I hope her recovery goes just as smoothly.
She’ll be home tomorrow with a bundle of everything she’ll need for the next few weeks. Namely, a walker and cane. She’d scoffed at the idea of needing either.
Convincing her to rein it in so she can heal is going to be rough. I’m not sure she’s taken a day off life ever since Marty and I were dropped in her lap after our parents died.
I smile as I recall her last words before we left the hospital this afternoon.
“Just you wait and see,” Gram said. “By this time next week, young lady, I’ll be doing the strawberry sprint, racing Granny Coffey down the aisles.”
That got a laugh. Apparently, even a hip replacement won’t keep her away from her longtime arch-rivalry over fresh fruit with the only other senior in town as feisty as she is.
Honestly, feisty or not, I doubt Gram will be racing anyone next week.
The surgeon insisted it’ll be a good six to eight weeks before she’s back to normal. Even with two years of nagging pain, she wouldn’t book the procedure until I promised I’d come home to lend a hand at Amelia’s B&B.
So I’d packed my bags, caught the earliest flight out of D.C. yesterday morning, and left behind an intern gig with the Smithsonian for an all-too-familiar slice of nowhere on the plains.
Hello, North Dakota, here I am.
Watching these four-wheeled monsters huffing and puffing like they’re ready to blow everybody’s house down.
The town’s always liked its races and car shows, but I guess they’ve turned into a big deal ever since I’ve been away. I don’t remember monster trucks being a thing—or my grown brother reverting to a bouncy twelve-year-old over it.
It’s already been a long, strange homecoming to Dallas, North Dakota, where life couldn’t be more different from the nation’s bustling capital.
A loud whoop ringing out makes me jump, a reminder of just how different this place can be.
I glance at the crowd behind me. There must be twenty-five solid rows of benches overflowing with people wearing cowboy hats and mud-spattered boots.
They’re trying to outdo the trucks in the noise department, cheering and roaring like they’ve just struck gold. Though I guess black gold wouldn’t be out of place in this dusty little oil town.
Sighing, I turn back around.
I’ve been back here a few times over the years for holidays and such. But if it wasn’t for Gram’s health, I know I wouldn’t be basking in the evening sun, watching these obnoxious, hulking trucks climbing over the tops of old cars, squashing them flatter than cardboard boxes.
“Pop goes the weasel!” Marty gushes, elbowing me playfully in the side as a monster truck blows out the windows of a rusted van. “How are you not screaming, Shelly?”
I roll my eyes.
“I’ll leave the sore larynx to you,” I mouth back.
Yeah, I’m not blowing my voice out for this craziness.
At least the animals before the show were cute.
The petting zoo outside the arena at the edge of the parking lot was a welcome break from the carnage. I wish I’d been able to hang out there longer with the horses and goats, but my idiot brother practically frog-marched me to our front row seats.
Why? Old Edison dolled up in an oversized cowboy hat and doing laps was way more fun than this. I even got to feed the town’s horse genius a carrot to distract him while his owners checked the locks on his pen a dozen times.
No matter how long I’ve been away, Edison remains a master escape artist, even in his twilight years.
The actual demo event just seems so wasteful, the insane crunch of metal and blown glass and ginormous spinning wheels, all to the delight of the happy heathens shouting their heads off behind us.
Pop! goes another car’s hood under a tire that looks like it could crush a bus.
The crowd freaks out, leaping to their feet, making a sound that could rival every circus monkey ever born.
My poor ears.
If only to distract myself, I follow their lead, standing to look around the arena for familiar faces. A huge blue truck is up next, coming up behind the black beast that’s murdered a few old station wagons. The monster truck lurches to a stop like it’s getting ready to tear over a row of at least a dozen junk cars.
Even in the madness, I smile.
I can’t help but think of Grandpa and his love of cars. He’d be beside himself to see so many destroyed just for entertainment.
Sure, they’re basically scrap metal. I get it. But this still would’ve seemed like an abomination to a man who could fix anything.
I think I’m the only one who cares.
Marty lets loose one of his loud wolf-whistles next to my ear, and I shove him back a step.
It’s all I can do not to punch him in the gut like I used to do when we were kids.
Men and their testosterone. That’s what this is really about.
“Holy shit, they’re on fire today! Did ya see that?”
I’m rewarded with a crooked grin.
He’s the proverbial big brother, four years older than me. Though he can drive me crazy anytime, I love him to death. He stayed here in Dallas for the oil fields...and so Gram wouldn’t go crazy all by her lonesome while I left town to chase my dreams.
This big dumb monster truck rally is a new thing for Dallas. This is the second one, apparently, and from what Marty says, there might be one or two more before winter blows in.
This will definitely be the only monster truck rally I’ll be subjected to before heading back to D.C.
I let out a loud sneeze as Marty laughs over the noise.
Dust puffs across the arena, coiling into the air. When one of those trucks drives closer to the stands, it romps over a muddy patch, dangerously close to spraying muck on the bystanders through the meager chainlink fence separating us from the action.
I wrinkle my nose.
A wave of shame washes over me for being so bitchy, even if I’m trying to hold it in.
It’s not like I’m covered in mud. A little sunshine won’t send me to an early grave.
And if I’m abso-brutally honest, there’s another reason why I let Marty sweet-talk me here.
Weston McKnight.
Marty’s lifelong best friend and once the bane of my heart. When I heard he’d be here, supposedly driving in the event...I let my curiosity take the wheel.
And from the way Marty starts shouting and whistling and waving, I’m ninety-nine percent sure Weston must be driving that big blue truck that’s about to start pulverizing cars like stuck beetles.
Fitting.
Because I know a thing or two about Weston stomping things flat. Once upon a rotten time, I was the one under him. I was only sixteen then.
Too young, too innocent, too trusting, and yes, too stupid.
I thought I had a life mapped out that included him. Then he ran off to join the Army with a promise to write, to check in on me, to care.
Not a single word came back.
That’s not the kinda letdown you expect from your best friend, your guardian, your teenage everything.
For years, everyone teased me, saying I had two big brothers in Marty and Weston. They were only half right.
To the outside world, it looked like I had two big brothers.
To me, the difference was stark raving clear.
One young man was my brother. The other was just the love of my life.
Every future I’d etched out, imagined, or dreamed included Weston damn McKnight. He was a pillar and a gateway, an anchor and the sea itself, a miracle I was foolish enough to believe I deserved—and a miracle I could keep.
The day I stopped expecting a single letter wasn’t just soul-crushing.
It was a lesson.
Weston McHeartbreaking Asshole taught me not to hang a life on dreams about anyone else.
Oh, don’t get me wrong; this isn’t some bitter rant. No woe-is-me grudge. No awful regret.
My curiosity here today doesn’t mean I’m not safely over him.
I came up with a new blueprint years ago—a very good one—that doesn’t need his stupid handsome face in my life. Frankly, it’s all turning out better than I’d planned.
I’ve got the degree and the experience to match my passion. And I’ll pick up right where I left off at a world-class museum after this odd little detour through old stomping grounds.
As soon as Gram is back on her feet—hopefully dancing on them with her new hip—I’ll be back at the Smithsonian for my first paid position.
I’ve got up to eight weeks until then. Just a couple months to help, to revisit, to stroll down memory lane. A rare chance to make peace with the harsher parts of my past like Weston the heart thief.
But can I when my heart dives?
When just being in the same vicinity as him still twists my pulse into an anxious pitter-patter?
For a second, I almost duck back down on the bench.
I don’t want to see Weston’s truck drive by, much less cheer for him.
Like I said, I’ve moved on.
Yes, I’m living out my dreams.
Hell yes, I’m still mad as hell at him for ghosting younger me like a bad match on a screen when I knew him most of my life.
But I don’t sit down.
I make myself look at the arena, fixing my eyes on it like I’m staring down the gates of hell.
“Here he comes!” Marty bellows, elbowing me in the side again. Yeah, he’s got to stop doing that. “C’mon, Shel. Put those lungs to work. I’ve heard how you sing in the shower, belting out tunes.”
“Idiot,” I mouth back, shaking my head and pushing at him.
It’s doubly awkward when my big brother is so oblivious to my awkward history with his bestie.
Sure enough, Weston’s snorting blue truck plows ahead, lunging at the first car like a lion tackling a helpless gazelle. The big wheels bounce high in the air, tilting the monster truck for an uncertain second.
But the car gives way beneath his massive weight in two seconds flat.
Pop goes the weasel, as my dumb brother likes to say.
The glass.
The metal.
Me.
My heart soars into my throat as my nerves come alive, forcing me to look away.
That truck could roll over at any moment, hurting him, or worse. It seems so dangerous, so reckless, but what do I know?
I don’t need to dredge up bad thoughts again—the infinite nightmares I had about him being killed overseas. For the first year, I thought it was the reason he didn’t write.
There had to be something outside his control, right?
He wouldn’t just abandon me...
...until he did.
Don’t look at his truck again, I tell myself, pinching my eyes shut as the crowd releases another explosive, delighted roar.
When the noise dies down an agonizing minute later, my eyes flick back to the action. The monster truck is gone, making its way around the long lap, trailing behind the first vehicle.
There’s a new dragon on wheels, this tall front-end loader thing piling up crushed cars on top of each other for the next round of “entertainment” on the opposite end of the arena.
I follow it with my gaze, listening to a group of young boys behind me screech about how they’ll be driving next year after they get their licenses.
Anything to get my thoughts off Weston.
Whatever. If I was in a better mood, I might admit the atmosphere has a certain charm.
All the cheering, whooping, and banshee hollering is the soul of Dallas.
This town doesn’t need fancy concerts or endless rows of glassy shopping centers branded with famous logos to have fun. The people here make their own.
And when they’re not busy cooking up creative ways to obliterate tons of steel and glass, they’re pretty down-to-earth and kind to each other. Everyone still loves his neighbor—or affectionately tolerates him—and even in the recent situations I heard about that involved bad actors creeping into town, a helping hand was never far.
I’ve missed that.
Missed the wide-open spaces when I’m used to crowded city streets.
Missed the quiet nights where crickets and night birds sing softly through open windows. A soothing contrast with shrill sirens and bleating horns punching through closed windows, distorting my sweetest dreams.
All whining aside, I’d be having a little fun right now if it wasn’t for Weston living rent-free in my head.
The worst part is, I can’t even blame him. Not when it’s my unwelcome feels ruining this.
I’m over him, dammit.
The schoolgirl crush I nurtured died eons ago...didn’t it?
