The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  11

  Goat A Bad Feeling (Tory)

  I watch as Owl races around, his huge furry bulk whipping past in a blur, herding the last of the goats into the large overgrown pasture.

  The Neuman place is a good-sized dairy farm specializing in everything from butter, to cheese, to milk that gets shipped out across the state. The new owners are looking to expand their herd, which means more pasture space, but first they have to clear up the brush.

  I like the thought of the goats clearing land naturally for their organic farm products instead of harsh chemicals.

  That’s one of the nice things about this job, knowing it’s environmentally friendly.

  It’s also a hundred times less stressful than dancing. The endless practice, keeping up with en pointe routines, artistic huddles with Jean-Paul, sleepless nights, and travel that never seemed to end is still branded in my head.

  You couldn’t pay me to forget how grueling it can be, and the director job promises a meaner gauntlet.

  The last goat goes through the open gate and Owl barks at me before I get too deep in my own head, brushing up against my waist.

  Good boy, keeping me on task again.

  Walking up, I push the tall gate closed, latch it, and rest my chin on the top rung, watching the goats sniffing around, getting to know their new space.

  They’re sweet animals. Besides the first day, not even Hellboy has given me an issue. Not a single complaint from customers, either.

  They eat up everything they’re supposed to, never make a mess, and depart leaving shiny new land ready for whatever the owners want.

  Call it silly, but there’s a lot to be said for goat wrangling.

  Only, it’s still not something I want to do with the rest of my life.

  It isn’t even practical if I did want to make it a career. Not in a town this small.

  Since talking with Jean-Paul this morning, I’ve realized just how much I’ve missed dancing.

  Not the action itself, and definitely not the backbreaking work, but the rest of it?

  Yes.

  There’s a beauty, a grace, a challenge I haven’t found anywhere else outside the stage.

  And as much as I don’t want to admit it, teaching—helping others learn their moves and watching them improve—is what I truly miss.

  It’s insanely fulfilling to watch someone improve, gaining new skills, growing their confidence. You make new friends and launch careers. You win respect for life.

  And with the director position, it’s not as physically demanding. I could do it for the rest of my life whether or not my body fails me.

  If only people were more like animals: honest, upright, and completely without ulterior motives.

  There’s my solution—a dance program for animals.

  I smile at my own ludicrous thought.

  Then frown because the goats aren’t my main problem anymore.

  Neither is the job offer from Jean-Paul hanging over my head like an axe.

  It’s the fact that I might have to leave without resolving anything with Quinn.

  Inwardly, I cringe, thinking back to this morning.

  Neither of us mentioned what happened last night.

  If he’s embarrassed, if he’s wishing it never happened, I just might crawl into a hole and die.

  I might do that anyway, overstaying my welcome in Dallas.

  Granny won’t go on her cruise if I hang around any longer. It tears me up.

  She’s done so much for me over the years, always the voice of wisdom with the self-restraint of a twelve-year-old.

  I can’t let her cancel her plans on my account.

  It’s just...if I return to Chicago, Jean-Paul will think it’s because I’m snapping up his offer.

  The job and him.

  Blech.

  The director job is tempting, sure, but I don’t know if I can handle the inevitable baggage that comes with it. I want to return to Chicago on my own terms.

  Great time for me to decide that, right?

  Actually, it is perfect timing.

  An idea darts across my brain so fast I tap my fingers gently against Owl’s head, giving him a friendly scratch that sends his brush of a tail wagging.

  Granny doesn’t need to be here in order for me to stay. I’m a grown woman.

  Why can’t I just house sit for her?

  I’d hinted at it once over breakfast, and she’d already said no, she won’t go, but never gave me a good reason.

  Because there isn’t one.

  There’s no earthly reason why I can’t stay there alone while she stomps around trying to throw wild salmon into grizzly bears’ mouths or whatever else Granny would totally do in Alaska.

  That also makes me think back to the look on her face when she saw the eggplants.

  Freaking. Eggplants.

  Despite trying not to, I grinned until it hurt at the gifts he showed up with. Most guys just bring a girl flowers when he wants to say he’s sorry.

  God, I don’t even know if eggplants were Quinn’s apology.

  Either way, both he and Granny will be eating a whole pan of eggplant parm tonight. And I’ll be staying here in Dallas while Granny goes on her trip, stalling Jean-Paul out as long as I care to. I’ll buy the thinking time I need to make a good decision for once.

  It’s too perfect.

  A vehicle’s rumble has me turning around, breaking my thoughts.

  I glance up the road at the wispy plume of dust being whipped up by a bright-red pickup.

  “Let’s go see who that is,” I say, patting my thigh for the dog to follow me to the trailer that’s parked a few yards away, next to the fence.

  By the time I have the door shut and the ramp secured, the red truck stops directly in front of mine.

  That’s...weird.

  Just a bad parking job, hopefully?

  Am I parked somewhere I shouldn’t be?

  My answer comes a second later as a tall, built, lean-looking guy steps out. And when I say tall, I mean really freaking tall.

  The stranger could slam dunk me through a hoop and still have plenty of room to stretch.

  He’s coming toward us with a lanky swagger, dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt, rounding the front of his truck. Looking down, his boots are shiny, new, and laced up tight, which look as out of place as his thick flannel shirt.

  It’s hot out today, a proper sticky North Dakota day.

  The baseball cap on his head doesn’t quite fit him, either.

  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something just doesn’t look right, like he’s pulled it on awkwardly because he’s not used to wearing it.

  Yeah, Twilight Zone stuff.

  Especially as he draws nearer, and his ridiculous size just stands out more.

  Before I know it, I’m gazing up at a literal giant. He’s easily over seven feet tall.

  I think his freaky height spooks Owl, too. The fur on the mastiff’s back stands up.

  Yikes.

  I’ve only ever seen that once...

  When he’d gotten between me and that Marvin Heckles creep.

  Just like he’s doing now with this guy, transforming himself into a big furry shield. I have to wonder why.

  “Sir? Can I help you?” I push out, trying to keep this professional.

  He smiles then. A long dark line under the shadow cast by his baseball cap.

  More like a smudge of ink than a human smile.

  “Letting off the goats, are ya?” His voice is deep, as if it reverberates through those long bones before pouring out of him.

  Oh. He’s not from around here, is he?

  His accent sounds kinda southern.

  “Yes. Just like we agreed.” I frown.

  Technically, I haven’t met any of the Neumans, the dairy owners, so he could be one of them, or an employee.

  “Do you have questions?” I ask softly.

  He pauses for a long second, scoping us out, and then shakes his head.

 
; “Nah, just curious. Looks like you’ve brought a whole mess of goats for the job. Should make quick work of it.”

  A whole mess? How about a herd, a tribe? That’s how a dairy farmer would say it, I imagine.

  My frown only deepens. My neck already feels sore just staring up at him, trying to make eye contact.

  Why doesn’t he seem to know a single detail about the clearing job?

  “How many we got?” he asks.

  “Eighteen. We brought our whole crew and my uncle borrowed a few more from locals. They’re all well behaved and hungry—just don’t get between them and dinner,” I say, hopelessly trying to inject some humor. Uncle Dean had extras he’d enlisted when I stopped by this morning.

  Polyphemus stares down at me with total disinterest.

  I don’t care if he has more than one eye, unlike the giant in The Odyssey. The name still fits.

  Trust me.

  I certainly feel like I’m being assessed by a cyclops.

  “How long?” he asks coldly.

  “Huh?”

  “How long does it take them for a job like this? Do they just eat up everything in a couple hours, or what?”

  Holy crap.

  Now his ignorance scares me. Each goat would need five stomachs to clear a job this size in a matter of hours.

  This guy doesn’t know a flipping thing about the job, the tribe, or me. And somehow, I doubt he even works here.

  Worse, I’m not the only one getting freaked out.

  Owl is, too.

  His lips peel back a little more every time the man speaks.

  I lay a hand on the dog’s back. It’s okay, Bud. Let’s not escalate this.

  Since he’s been so amazing at reading minds, I hope it continues now.

  “That’s all spelled out in the contract, including our rough estimated time,” I say politely, putting on my best disarming smile. “If you’d like, I think I have a spare copy rattling around in the glovebox. I’ll just go grab it for you and—”

  “No. No copy.” He nods sternly and glances around, twisting his lips to the side. “So it’s just you and the dog out here then? Got any other help? Friends, family...boyfriend?”

  “It’s a family business. My, uh...my boyfriend isn’t involved. He’s in another line of work,” I lie, suddenly feeling the need to hide behind a fake boyfriend.

  What if I’m what he’s after?

  He nods again like he’s working on a long delay, slowly processing my words.

  Jesus.

  Okay.

  I’m officially done letting this weirdo drag this out.

  With the fakest smile ever, I motion briskly at his truck. “Unfortunately, I need to ask you to move. I have other deliveries to make today.”

  Another lie, but I really don’t like this guy.

  He’s reminding me more of that Marvin scumbag by the minute. Except, I think I’d rather have Heckles with his ugly wifebeater look than Polyphemus here, staring down at me like prey with his cold, dead eyes.

  I get a good look at the truck, at least.

  A Chevy, rather than a Dodge. I can’t quite see the license plate, but I know one thing.

  I’m calling Quinn the instant I’m out of here. Without hesitation.

  This situation definitely falls under things more important than awkward make-out drama.

  “Sir, if you could just...”

  “Just being friendly,” he says in a tone that’s anything but. “No reason to get all snotty, ma’am. I’ll move.”

  “Not being snotty. It’s just a busy day, y’know?” I give Owl a pat on the head as I take a step back, and then another, steadily moving toward the truck.

  The dog steps back, too, his eyes locked fiercely on the giant the entire time.

  C’mon, Tory, he’s not a bear. You can turn your back.

  I hope. Knowing Owl will protect me, I decide to end this ridiculous staring contest and turn, quickly walking to the truck and flinging open the driver’s door.

  His eyes are on me the whole time, staring as if he’s reconsidering my request to move the truck that’s boxing me in.

  Then Owl hits his limit, snarling and baring his huge canine teeth.

  “Oh, crap. Let’s go. Don’t worry about him,” I whisper to the mastiff, trying to push his huge furry bulk into the truck and having no success.

  The mastiff intends to stand his ground, and I can’t blame him.

  Without a word, the guy walks to his truck.

  Good enough. Barely.

  Owl turns and jumps up in the driver’s seat, finally, stumbling over to the passenger side, keeping one eye glued to the stranger the entire time.

  I keep my eyes on him too while scuttling in and starting the truck.

  Polyphemus cuts a sharp turn out of the Neuman farm as I pull onto the road behind him, going the opposite direction. But I notice when he turns around instantly, coming up behind me, that cherry-bomb of a truck filling my mirrors.

  “Crud,” I whisper.

  For a split second, I question if I should call Quinn, but only for the amount of time it takes to grab my phone, punch his contact, and press it to my hot little ear.

  The call goes straight to voicemail. I glance in the side mirror and the bright-red Chevy is still trailing me.

  No mistaking it, even if he’s keeping his distance.

  “H-hey, Quinn!” I stammer. “It’s Tory. You know that. Just...give me a call ASAP. Thanks.”

  The next ten seconds feel like an eternity as I push the gas, watching the maniac behind us speeding up, hovering several car lengths back, but matching our pace.

  Then my phone rings. I fumble to hit the answer icon.

  “Quinn!”

  “Sorry, I was on the other line. What’s up?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but...”

  “But what?” His voice is alert, as if he just instinctively senses my nerves.

  “There’s some dude in a red Chevy following me.”

  “Where are you?”

  The concern in his tone makes me feel like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But every time I glance back, the truck is still there, eerily steady, its driver’s eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.

  “Just left Neuman’s Dairy, where I dropped the goats off for a big job. It’s off Highway—”

  “I know where it’s at, woman. You’re only a few miles from the Purple Bobcat. Head there. Go inside and tell Grady I’m on my way.”

  “The Purple—Quinn, I can’t. I have Owl with me. He’ll get overheated if I leave him in the truc—”

  “Bar, Tory. Grady’s not stupid, he’ll let you bring Owl inside.”

  “But—”

  “Grady won’t care. Get your sweet ass over there now and quit arguin’,” he snaps, this growly command in his voice that’d be fun and sexy if I weren’t being tailed by a bad horror movie monster. “You’re gonna take a left on the next crossroad. It runs off almost parallel to the highway, but it’s a service road that runs right by the bar and comes out on the highway again, you copy?”

  “Uh, copy.” I glance in the mirror. The red torpedo on wheels chugs along. “I think I know the road.”

  “Good. It comes out just half a mile from Grady’s place.” He draws in a harsh breath. “Don’t hang up. Tell me if he gets any closer. Have you called the cops?”

  “No. I thought I’d better try you first. He’s still behind me. Not close enough that I can see his plate. He’s about...three or maybe four car lengths back.”

  “Did you see this guy? What’s he look like?”

  “Yeah, he pulled up while I was leaving, and got out for a few minutes, asking about the goats.”

  “What does he look like, Peach? Describe him.”

  Like Goliath took a brickbat to the face!

  But I can’t just say that.

  He’ll probably wonder if I’m losing my mind if I try to describe what a stack of freak this guy is without Quinn seeing it for himself.

&n
bsp; Some kind of beeping comes through my phone.

  “Quinn? What’s that noise? Is that you?”

  “I put you on speaker so I can text Grady. Telling him to meet you in the parking lot now. I’ll be there in a few. Now tell me what he looks like, darlin’. Hair color. Height. Tattoos. How old is he?”

  If he’s texting Grady, I won’t need to say he’s on his way. A thought that makes me worry.

  “Don’t text and drive!” I hiss, knowing my warning won’t stop him from doing it. I glance at the mirror again. “Um, well, I’m not real good at guessing ages. Thirties, maybe. Around your age. Short hair, or maybe bald. I couldn’t see any hair. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a long-sleeved flannel shirt in this heat. Pretty odd.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “His boots were laced up and higher than usual. Not really work boots, but more like motorcycle riding boots or something. Black. They looked new. He’s slender, muscular, and—oh, yeah—tall. So tall, it’s scary.”

  “Tall?” he echoes numbly. “You’re sure? What else?”

  “Oh, yeah. And he’s not exactly skinny, but not a bodybuilder either.” Not buff like you, but of course I can’t say that. “He had narrow eyes—couldn’t get a read on their color—and scruffy whiskers like he hasn’t shaved in a couple days.”

  “Any tattoos? Very important,” he growls.

  “I didn’t see any, but I wasn’t looking. And he was pretty buttoned up under that flannel outfit.” I click on my blinker to turn sharply, passing the sign for the upcoming road.

  “Is that your blinker? Are you turning onto the county road?”

  “It’s coming up.”

  “Is he turning, too?” Quinn asks, each question one more machine gun bullet after another.

  “His blinker isn’t on,” I answer, glancing in the mirror.

  “Is he by himself, Peach?”

  “I...I think so. Never saw another vehicle, anyway, and I can’t see anyone else in the pickup.” I slow, just enough to make the corner.

  The Chevy slows to a crawl, too.

  My stomach sinks as I tell Quinn, “Looks like he’s taking the corner, too. Coming up right behind me.”

  “Shit. It’s all right, darlin’. The road’s only a mile long, then just half a mile more to Grady’s place. You can do it. Push that truck as hard as it can go, speeding laws be damned. No harm in getting the cops’ attention right now if they’re around.”