The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  The same good-natured slip of a smile on his chiseled face—a half smirk, but not a cruel one. More like the kinda smile that says he knows a scandalous secret, and you’ll spend every second you’re with him just itching to find out what he knows.

  Holy Hannah.

  My hold on the gate slips. Squealing, I catch myself from falling at the last second, yanking myself forward and finding my footing on the metal.

  “Quinn? Quinn Faulkner?” It rushes out of me in total disbelief.

  “Don’t wear my name out, Peach. I knew it was you. I’ve only ever heard two people say son of a biscuit eater in my entire life,” he says, scratching at his chin. “You and your granny.”

  I shrug, because that’s true, and then ask the obvious.

  “I...I thought you were Ridge? What’re you doing here at his house, anyway?”

  “I was wondering the same about you,” he says smugly, lifting a brow. “I’d tell you now, but something tells me you’d be a lot happier getting off that thing. Here, let me—”

  Owl interrupts with a loud series of barks.

  “The goats! Wait, I have to make sure they don’t wander.”

  Quinn nods once. He must know dog-speak, too, because he shoots down the ditch and up the other side like it’s nothing, shooing the goats back into the fence, including the devil goat.

  I jerk harder on the gate. Definitely stuck. It won’t budge.

  So I start working my way along the metallic piping, toward the fence, wondering why on earth this gate is so long, just as Owl chases the last three horned beasts through the opening.

  My foot slips, scratching at the ground, and pain shoots up my leg.

  Wincing, raw fire surges to my knee.

  The injury warns me it’s had its fill of this, and I’m sensing it’s the only warning I’ll get.

  God. I pause, breathing through the pain, but I’ve barely sucked in a gulp of fresh air when the gate starts swinging closed.

  A strong pull is all it takes before I’m hovering over solid ground again with Quinn.

  No, actually, he’s facing my back when the gate finally clicks shut.

  I’m almost afraid to turn around.

  If Ridge Barnet is a Captain McHottie, Quinn Faulkner is two and a half superhero hunks.

  He was...

  Kinda my first boyfriend.

  Totally my first raging crush.

  Absolutely, positively my best friend on the long, hot summers of small-town teenage hijinks here in Dallas that always made the Windy City a distant memory.

  The first two things were completely unknown to him, of course—and I plan to keep it that way.

  Years ago, when he’d spend summers with his grandpa and I’d spend mine with Granny, he delivered the first hint of butterflies I’d ever had for any boy.

  This innocent, chaste crush we never dared turn into anything else because I think, deep down, we both appreciated an unlikely friendship too much to risk setting it on fire.

  That pesky age gap between us also didn’t help.

  Still, I’d been plenty crushed when I returned here for my last summer and found out Quinn wasn’t coming to Dallas. He’d grown up and joined the Army.

  Yet here he is, grasping my waist, snapping me back to reality, which sends a gazillion volts through me. Then he lifts me off the fence like I’m lighter than a feather.

  “I heard you were home, Tory. Figured we’d bump into each other sooner or later. Didn’t know you were helping Dean with his goat business,” he says, rendering me speechless with another panty-ripping Faulkner smile.

  My feet are on the ground.

  I think.

  He’s released my waist, but I keep an awkward hold on the gate as I slowly turn, needing the stability. Both because that sting in my knee won’t let up and the shock of seeing him again makes it hard to stand.

  He’s wearing a black t-shirt that leaves virtually nothing to the imagination when it comes to a rugged mess of biceps, pecs, and abs hot enough to grill on.

  A pair of snug-fitting blue jeans and brown cowboy boots rounds out a picture my mind files away to haunt me for another ten years.

  “Um, y-yeah, that’s my job...goat helper, extraordinaire.” Swallowing because grown-up Quinn is illegally, deliriously hotter than boy Quinn, I remember how to form words and nod. “I’m being a good niece. Pretending I like this and didn’t get roped in.”

  Those lush green eyes of his flash again in the light. Even with the last of the sun disappearing behind the rain clouds, his gaze glows.

  Seriously.

  No one, man or woman, should have eyes as gorgeous as his. They sparkle like lights on the Vegas strip where it’s always St. Patrick’s Day, rimmed with dark lashes and thick brows which make them stand out even more.

  “Damn good to see you again, Tory.” He shakes his head. “How long have you been in town?”

  I nod because it’s damn good to see him, too. I’d thought it’d never happen, even if I secretly hoped it might.

  Of course, I can’t admit that.

  “Just a couple weeks,” I answer. “We all know summer’s the best time to visit these parts. North Dakota winters? Count me out.”

  I scrunch up my nose, and he chuckles.

  “Aw,” he says, with that twang that’s as appealing as the rest of him. “So this is your first big job.”

  I shrug again, and then, because it’s Quinn, I also laugh.

  “How’d you guess? Was it watching me get butt-rammed by a goat? Or maybe it was just running around like a hen on fire that gave it all away?”

  He throws his head back and laughs, just like he used to so many years ago.

  My smile feels magnetic.

  “I missed the ass-ramming part. Nice knowing the peach nickname still fits since I guess everybody wants a piece.” His eyes flick to my hips and then away again just as fast.

  Oh my God.

  If he wanted to make this comfy reunion turn hella awkward, and honestly weirdly sexy all at once...mission accomplished.

  I scratch at my face a little too furiously, desperately trying to hide the blush braising my cheeks. Turning my head into a Fotomat has always been his superpower.

  “So, what?” I ask softly. “You’ve never seen a goat wrangler girl hanging off a gate before? It’s Dallas, North Dakota, Quinn. We’re like a colder, weirder, tinier version of the other Dallas.”

  “Nah, that was a first for this town. Congratulations,” he says with a smile. Then he grabs my hand, pulls me aside, and then checks to make sure the gate is shut before latching it. “C’mon. Let’s make sure those goats are all accounted for before the rain starts up.”

  I hear him, but right now, I’m all eyes.

  I still can’t peel my gaze off him.

  Quinn flipping Faulkner.

  If I had a dime for every time I’ve thought about him, I’d be a rich lady.

  He points at the edge of a brush cluster, counting the animals. “See there? They’re already taking shelter under those big trees. I’m seeing ten, how about you?”

  “There should be a dozen,” I say.

  I do a quick headcount—or horn-count, technically, since I’m a sucker for lame puns—and find the other two moving just behind a big tree, already sticking their faces into the brush that isn’t being doused with rain.

  “Who’re we missing?” he asks.

  “There’s two more behind that big tree. We’re good.”

  Quinn nods, satisfied. We start walking and I try to ignore the pain shooting up my leg.

  I stumble through it, fairly sure I haven’t reinjured anything. It’s just sore from use and a little more excitement than I needed today. There’s a difference, and I’ve learned to recognize it.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asks. “Can’t help noticing a little bit of a limp.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just an old injury.” I don’t care to let him know old means just a few months in this case.

  “
Dance, right?” he asks, his tone oddly neutral.

  I look up at him. “You remember...?”

  “Well, I’ve seen Granny Coffey more than a few times since moving back here. The old gal’s proud of you, Tory. You’re damn near all she talks about some nights at the Purple Bobcat.”

  I give him a friendly smile, while making a mental note to ask my grandmother why she hadn’t mentioned running into him. Weird.

  She’s talked up nearly everyone else I ever knew in Dallas and filled me in on their whole biography, where they are, what they’re doing.

  Most cases are too predictable. They’re settled, working, and raising kids. The older folks are retired. But pretty much everybody’s following the small-town circle of life: grow up, get a job, get hitched, have kids, and go gossip. That last one is super important.

  “When did you move back here yourself?” I ask, hoping he has a happier reason for being in Dallas as a grown man.

  “Over a year ago. Ridge and I were Army buddies. I came by today to drop off a few old things I found in my barn for his lady. Grace Barnet’s been a one-woman decorating machine since before she married him. Hell, I’m the reason he moved out here and met her,” he says proudly, thumbing his chest. “He was looking to leave Hollywood, and I kept pulling his tail about Dallas being the best escape. Couldn’t believe it when he actually bought a place here not long after I returned. I wound up helping him with a little personal mess and decided to stay longer. My grandpa willed me his place when he died, and since I was the only one in the family interested...here I am.”

  “So, you’re living there full time then?”

  “Yep, just fixing the old farm up, piece by piece. The farm sat empty for several years between Gramps’ health failing and me settling in after his funeral.” He turns his head, holding my gaze, pinning me down with those otherworldly eyes. “This town gets a hold on you, don’t it? I always had a funny feeling I wasn’t quite done here.”

  “Maybe so,” I whisper, giving up a smile.

  The more he talks, the faster questions bolt through my head, chasing after memories of better times.

  Memories with a charming boy who’s turned into a rugged man, and he’s still coming to my rescue after all these years, apparently.

  Imagine that.

  Being a temporary goat wrangler in Dallas, North Dakota, just got interesting.

  2

  Just Goat Serious (Faulkner)

  The longer I gawk at her like I’ve mentally reverted back to seventeen, the harder it is to believe I just found Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey swinging off Ridge’s gate.

  She, with three names announcing to the world that she was born big-city royalty.

  She, with a smile that still cuts like sunlight on days when the sky goes grey.

  She, who tormented me with wet dreams every time I’d go home to Tulsa, and years later on hot nights in Kandahar and Bagram base. Every time my mind wandered thousands of miles home to cold beer, cooler breezes, and pretty girls I wish I’d bedded.

  None more than the slice of Chicago deep dish sweetness standing in front of me, legs longer than I remember, and a face that says it’s seen some shit even if she’s all bashful smiles and cute lies.

  She’s also a girl, a friend, a confidant I grew up respecting like hell.

  Therefore, totally off-limits to the kid who was a few years older.

  Hey, I had just enough restraint to think with my head instead of my dick sometimes, thank you very much.

  Hearing her say son of a biscuit eater left me stunned. I thought I was hallucinating the woman hanging off of Ridge’s gate. Sure, I’d recognized Dean Coffey’s rig with its brand-new Rent-A-Goat logo splashed on the side, but never, not in a million years, thought Tory would be the one driving it.

  Delivering goats to this cleanup job around the pond where Ridge wants more acreage cleared. Nothing says married life like the sprawling pumpkin business he’s running with Grace and Nelson, his father-in-law.

  Ridge is on an all-organic kick between the pumpkins and his cattle. He’d mentioned hiring Dean’s Rent-A-Goats a couple weeks ago before leaving for another shoot in Hollywood, and Grace said today was the big day while I’d brought in her stuff.

  “How long are you in town for?” I ask Tory, keeping our walking pace slow due to the way she’s favoring one leg.

  “Just until my knee heals. Gran threatened to drag me here if I didn’t visit while I have the downtime.” She smiles, flicking her hair over one shoulder.

  “What’d you do to it?” I ask.

  “Little dancing mishap. Overextended it, tore some ligaments, kinda ruptured a tendon. No big.”

  “Fucking ouch.” I shake my head at her. “You shouldn’t have been climbing the gate over the ditch in that state.”

  “It wasn’t my choice!” she says, slipping a hand over her face. “I just...it turns out goats are a bigger handful than I bargained for, okay?”

  I chuckle again.

  That’s Tory, all right.

  Accidentally tumbling into mischief might as well be her specialty.

  The lady always could make me laugh with her antics, though. Even the first time I saw her, when she and a group of other kids thought it’d be cool to steal a honeycomb out of my grandpa’s bee boxes.

  They’d dared her, supposedly, giving her all kinds of shit because she was terrified of bee stings.

  The other kids scattered as soon as they heard me coming, but she’d stayed behind to apologize.

  That impressed Gramps when he found out. Honestly, it impressed me, too, owning up to her mess.

  She’d been a scrawny kid with long brown cinnamon hair and big blue eyes, several years younger than me. In no time, she became the one I always looked forward to seeing every summer.

  There was a small group of us back then. Summer munchkins, they called us.

  Kids whose parents hightailed it out of Dallas as soon as they’d been old enough, and then years later, sent their own children back to North Dakota every summer. That was my dad and hers.

  “So what’s got Dean so busy he’s sending you out here to drop off his goats instead of doing it himself?” I ask her, flicking a mosquito off the back of my neck. “Don’t tell me he’s busy with that hot rod racing thing again? Sheriff Wallace almost threw him in jail last summer over the noise.”

  Tory snickers, covering her mouth. “Oh, no. He threw his back out. Just as he was supposed to get busy with his first few clients, including the Barnets.”

  I nod, not over her words as much as the sassy look she shoots my way.

  A likely story. Everyone in town knows her uncle and his abhorrence for real work that requires any stamina.

  If Dean Coffey could stick to one thing for more than a week, he’d be a jack of all trades. His ideas always seem great in theory, but when he discovers there’s actual work involved in these get-rich-quick schemes, his enthusiasm fizzles fast.

  “His back,” I say slowly, pressing my tongue against my cheek. “Right-o.”

  “Yeah, he can barely crawl out of his recliner.” She grins, giving me a splash of those morning-blue eyes. “Except to get a beer and warm up a chuckwagon sandwich in the microwave, of course. Poor guy.”

  I cringe. “Hell. Chuckwagon sandwiches. Everybody deserves to eat like a king a few times in their lives.”

  “But don’t they do it by choice?” She half grimaces, half giggles. “Those things are like Uncle Dean’s entire diet.”

  Laughing, we arrive at the tree and take a moment to recount the goats for good measure.

  “A full dirty dozen,” I tell her, studying the animals as they bob around, chewing at whatever they can find that won’t have them risking their necks in the rain.

  “That’s what I count, too.”

  “Yeah, so now what?”

  She shrugs. “Dean says I just leave them here. The guy I talked to, Tobin, he said they’d be just fine back here, as long as the gate’s shut. I’ll check back tomo
rrow and pick them up in a day or two, after they’ve had a chance to eat up the brush.”

  The storm picks up, big drops of rain falling. I put my hand on her back, guiding her under the tree branches to keep us from getting wet. “We might as well wait it out with the little guys. Doesn’t look like it’ll last long. Don’t think the forecast is calling for bigger rains the next few days, so they should be good.”

  With my hand still on her back, I push our way through the goats huddled together until we’re near the tree trunk. I keep an extra eye on that dark, wicked-looking goat with the shifty eyes and longer beard.

  “Uncle Dean didn’t mention goats not liking rain,” she says, leaning against the tree.

  “It’s true. Even before the first hint of rain, they’ve got a sixth sense about it and head for coverage.”

  “How do you know?” Frowning, she eyes me skeptically.

  “Gramps had a couple goats one time. Twenty minutes before a rain storm, this big billy would always be standing on the porch, wanting to come inside. Couldn’t get him off it, either, not until it quit raining, then he’d leave all on his own.”

  “A billy like that one?” She points to the large onyx goat with the hanging goatee.

  “Yep. Quite a resemblance.”

  “Hope yours was nicer. He’s half devil!” she hisses.

  Grinning at the way she glares at the goat, I ask, “So he’s the boy who started this mess, huh?”

  “Unfortunately.” Then she frowns. “Hmm. I don’t remember your grandfather having goats.”

  I gently nudge a couple more goats away from us and kneel, brushing aside some sticks and dead grass, clearing a spot for us to sit.

  “It was way back before he had bees. I was really young, so it would’ve been before you came sneaking around that first time.” I pat the ground beside me. “Have a seat, Peach.”

  She plants herself down, cautiously, keeping one leg stiffer.

  “Trying to steal honeycomb.” She chuckles. “How stupid was that?”

  “Pretty damn dumb,” I agree.

  “Harsh!” She playfully whacks me in the bicep. “I apologized, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, mock-rubbing my arm and wincing. I didn’t actually feel a thing, but I do it so she laughs.