by Nicole Snow
Granny laughs.
“My, my, a busy man out to steal the hearts of the entire household.” Granny gives me a wink. “I like it.” Stepping aside, she waves me inside. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
As she shuts the door, she whispers, “Just so you know, I have ham sandwiches hidden in the garage fridge in case you need a real dinner.”
I laugh, but also admit, “It smells good, at least.”
“Smells can be terribly deceiving,” she snaps.
“I think you’ve got eggplant phobia, Granny.”
“And?” She shrugs, hoisting her nose in the air. “There are far worse afflictions.”
“Maybe so,” I say, swallowing another chuckle.
“Beer or wine?” she asks, leading me into the kitchen.
I go for the beer and take a seat at the table as directed after giving Tory her flowers and Owl his bone. They both appear to like their gifts.
Within a few minutes, the food materializes on the table, and it all looks delicious.
I don’t care what the old lady thinks.
Besides the heaping pan of steaming eggplant parm, there’s a garden salad prepped from a real garden, a diced fruit mix, cottage cheese, and garlic bread slathered with melted cheese.
What can I say? I’ve never been an overly picky eater—never had much choice—especially while spending summers here with Gramps. The Army didn’t offer much variety, and neither did the years I spent working for the FBI.
My meals were usually grab-and-go or straight out of a can.
I start with a forkful of the eggplant. Granny and Tory’s eyes are both glued to me in breathless expectation.
Shoveling it in, I give it a good chew, letting the flavor wash over me.
“Good stuff,” I say. “Seriously good.”
No lie.
With harsh skepticism in her eyes, Granny sneers at her fork. Then, after a heavy second, she decides to bite the bullet—or eat it in this case.
I share a subtle grin with Tory across the table as we both watch the old woman gingerly trying to make sense of the dreaded plant in her mouth.
A moment later, Granny’s eyes light up.
“Well...well, well, well. This isn’t the slop I expected.” She takes another bite, this time a bigger one. “Not bad at all.”
Tory grins, but doesn’t say I told you so, like most people would.
She’s too good an all-around person, and once again, I’m torn up about what I have to do.
Convince her to go home.
My sources are still looking into Bat and his likely parole date. The fact that his records are all sealed is too strange. I’m counting down the hours till James gets back to me.
Sealed records don’t happen with thugs like him.
Not unless he’s made some kind of deal.
A sick, tortured part of me wonders if he’s already out. Already here.
I think back to the car chase earlier. So tall, it’s scary.
That’s how Tory described the man she encountered. An unmistakable Pickett family trait, even if I have a hard time believing he’d be out and about, doing the dirty work himself.
But my gut tells me if it wasn’t Bat, it could’ve been somebody else from the Pickett clan. A cousin or something.
All rolling into Dallas, searching and plotting a grisly end for yours truly.
Shit, it ain’t fair.
Then again, nothing in this world ever is.
Despite how gutted I’d felt when she first told me about the new job offer, I need her to leave Dallas behind without looking back.
I can’t keep an eye on her twenty-four seven, and that’s what I’d need to do if she stays here. Bat and the scum working for him have already connected her to me.
I wait until our plates are almost empty before saying, “So, when does this new job in Chicago start up?”
Tory shrugs. “It doesn’t have a set date, but it won’t be long before the groups from overseas arrive. I’m not going back to Chicago until after Granny takes her cruise.”
“You decided to go after all?” I ask Granny. Talk about a wrench in my plan, getting Tory out of town ASAP.
“That’s news to me! Last I checked, I’m not going,” she clips, looking at Tory warily.
“Oh, yes, you are, Gran,” Tory insists. “What kind of granddaughter would I be if I stopped you from going on the trip of a lifetime?”
“Now who said it was the trip of a lifetime?” Granny narrows her eyes.
“Robert Duncan, when I picked the goats up from his neighbor’s place before the Neuman job,” Tory answers.
“How fitting!” Granny snorts. “He’s such a nasty old goat himself.”
“Gran, you’ve already paid for the cruise,” Tory says, her voice strained like she’s on the verge of pleading. “I said I’d stay here and watch your house. It’s no big deal.”
“You can’t, dear,” Granny says. “There’s no other option.”
“Yes, there is,” Tory argues, hot frustration bursting on her cheeks. “Is something going on? Is it Mom breathing down your neck again?”
For a second, Granny Coffey looks jarred.
Damn. Not totally wanting to self-insert into the middle of their fight, I feel I have to, especially when I don’t like the thought of Tory staying here alone. “But you could go if she took the Chicago job, right?”
“Oh, no. She’s not taking that bait,” Granny answers, rolling out a sigh. “She came here to heal, and she’s not done healin’ yet.”
“I’m healed enough, Gran.” Tory levels a glare at her grandmother. “And you never answered my question. Are Mom and Dad involved in this? I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn, otherwise.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s being stubborn as a mule, missy.” Granny says. “And no. You really think I’d do your parents’ bidding? Ha!”
Granny throws up her arms.
Tory facepalms.
Yep. I’d say they’re neck and neck in the stubbornness department.
“Then give me one solid reason why I can’t just stay here and house-sit while you go on your cruise like a normal person.” Tory holds up a finger. “A good reason, Granny. Not an excuse.”
Granny sets down her fork with a clink and leans back in her chair, arms crossed.
“Fine. You want to know the real reason? I’ll tell you. It’s because the cruise was a package deal that Imhoff Builders offered to seniors. Anyone who booked a cruise was given a large percentage off the cost of a home remodeling project to be completed during the cruise.”
“What? Oh...” Tory frowns thoughtfully. “So that’s what you meant when you said you were having your kitchen and bathroom remodeled soon.”
“Yes, soon-soon, and that’s exactly why you can’t stay here if I’m gone. You won’t have a kitchen or bathroom, or any running water. So, I’m just canceling the entire thing. I’ll do it next year.”
“Next year? No.” Tory shakes her head. “Did you already pay for the remodeling too?”
“It was all one big ball of wax.” Granny shrugs. “No biggie. I’ve lived in this house as is for forty years. What’s one more?”
“It’s a lot if I’m the cause of it. You deserve a vacation and a nicer place, Gran.” Tory runs a hand through her hair, letting out a hiss of frustration.
“Let’s not get dramatic,” Granny says softly. “It’s my choice not to go, dear. I’m still kicking and my mind’s plenty sharp. I invited you to come here and stay until you’re fully healed, and that’s what’s going to happen. You’re not going back to Chicago until you’re ready. And I’m not going to Alaska. Easy-peasy.”
“You’re right about me not going back to Chicago just yet. I have to finish the goat gigs. I promised Uncle Dean I would.” Tory slaps the table gently. “Hey, that’s it! I could stay with Uncle Dean and keep an eye on the remodeling project for you.”
No, dammit, I think to myself, her going to Chicago would solve b
igger problems.
“In that hovel?” Granny scoffs. “He only has two bedrooms, and with all the crap in his house, good luck finding them. Last time I was there, he had a lawnmower engine on his coffee table.” She looks at me. “I love my son, but he’s a Neanderthal.”
I smile in agreement, but the hair on my neck starts to stand on end as Granny’s gaze locks on. A slow, curly smile forms on her lips.
Oh, hell. What now?
As her eyes begin twinkling, she glances at Tory.
“Say, now, that’s not such a bad idea,” Granny says, rubbing her chin. “You staying with someone else in town...why didn’t I think of that?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
My stomach churns as I realize what the old woman’s thinking, and it ain’t happening.
Tory living with me isn’t even an option right now.
I’ve got headaches with men who want me dead, a torn-up house, and last but not least, she’s a walking Siren.
How the hell would I ever get anything done with Peach up in my space?
How could I even undo the kiss at the rodeo and keep us friends?
“It would have to be someone upstanding,” Granny continues while she stands. “Someone I could trust a hundred percent.” She pats my shoulder as she walks behind me, around the table. “Come to think of it, I would like to go on that cruise, and they can’t guarantee me a spot next year.”
I watch her, glaring as she opens the fridge and pulls out a lemon meringue pie.
“And wouldn’t you know I’ve dreamed of having a dishwasher for thirty years?” she laughs.
Tory gives her a weird look, and then starts collecting the dinner plates and silverware, carrying them to the counter.
“Well, maybe I could stay next door with Otis and Velma.”
“Not happening.” Granny sets the pie on the table. “It has to be someone who can stand up to your folks if they start trying to jerk you around. Would you, handsome?” She hands me a knife to cut the pie.
“Yeah,” I say dryly, stabbing the knife into the creamy layers.
“Because you just know your parents, or that Jean-Paul character,” she says his name with a sneer, “are gonna show up with pretty excuses sooner or later. They’ll try to reel you back in as soon as they hear I’m gone.”
“I mean...fine. You’re right.” Tory brings small plates and forks to the table and sits down with a sigh. “They’ll give it their best annoying shot. Maybe I can just rent a cheap place.”
That won’t work, but I don’t have to say it.
Not when Granny’s already on the case.
“Maybe if it was winter, but this time of year? There’s nothing to rent around here.” She pats my shoulder again. “We need someone with a big old house. Lots of spare rooms. And it always helps to have somebody you know because, who needs that awkwardness, living with a total stranger?”
Yeah.
Subtlety and Granny Coffey don’t share the same universe.
I help her lift the pieces I’ve cut up with the knife, ignoring her brutally obvious hints of me and my house.
Granny sets three big pieces of pie on the plates and lays forks next to them. Then she picks up two of the plates.
“Well, this old gal’s brain is fresh out of ideas. Why don’t you two think on it while I take these next door for Otis and Velma?” She gives me a devilish wink. “Ta-ta!”
A moment later. She’s out the door, whistling to herself.
“Oh, Granny...she only left us one piece. I’ll get another plate and fork. It’s a big one so we can share,” Tory says.
I lay a hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m full. The eggplant parm was really good.”
She picks up the fork with a sunny smile. “You sure? Granny makes the best lemon meringue pie on the planet.” She slices the pie with her fork and holds it up to me. “It’s won more than one blue ribbon. Just try it.”
I lean over and take the bite of pie off the fork. The sudden tart hit of sugar and citrus is blue-ribbon worthy, I’ll admit.
She laughs when I’m still chewing after ten seconds.
“That good, right?”
“Very,” I grunt, hating how my eyes instantly fall to her pink lips.
The lemon meringue might be dessert heaven, but it’s not the pie making me hard as a rock now.
Fuck.
Using the same fork, she takes a bite, moving her lips in a way perfectly designed to torture me. “Mmmm-mmm. Oh my God. I’d forgotten how good.”
Oh my God.
Hearing her gasp in sheer rapture replays in my head like a loop.
My dick jerks in my pants.
I can’t help picturing her under me, those long legs wrapped tight, raking my back with her nails while I tame that wicked mouth and my hips pound hers into the mattress.
So this is what it feels like when a man loses his mind.
The fork hangs at my mouth again, holding another piece she’s peeled off, offering to feed me.
I eat it, hoping the taste brings me back to earth.
“Why don’t you want to go back to Chicago yet? Besides the goats, I mean?”
She eats another bite of pie. “It’s a mess back there, Quinn. I’m not ready to face it yet.”
“What sort of mess?” I wonder, surprised at her honesty.
Setting down the fork, she shakes her head, blinking away sadness.
“A mess. A bigger one than here,” she whispers, throwing me a bitter look. “Thing is, I can deal with whatever small-town drama happens here. But back home...I just don’t know where to begin. The dance director job has a massive catch I’m still working through.”
Great.
So Chicago isn’t the best place for her, and who am I to tell her how she should go about chasing her own dreams? Even if she’s damn good at what she does, and I think she’d be real sad giving up dancing.
There’s also no mistaking what she means about Dallas drama, something I had a big fat hand in—or rather, a big fat mouth.
My brain scans through my options and keeps sticking on the same one.
If she’s gonna stay here in Dallas, it has to be where I can keep her safe.
At least till I know for sure what’s going down with Bat Pickett and his crew.
I pick up the fork and feed her a hunk of sweetness as I gather up the strength for what’s coming next—the unbearable admission that Granny Coffey’s dumb idea might be right.
“Quinn? You’re quiet,” she says, smiling sheepishly when she’s done chewing.
“We’d better get your stuff packed,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Stuff packed? Why? I just told you I’m not going back to Chicago.”
“I know.” Filling the fork with a bigger chunk from the end, I hold it to her lips again.
Once she’s so full of pie she can’t speak, I drop the bomb.
“You’re moving in with me tonight.”
Her eyes widen.
She slaps a hand over her full mouth, desperately trying not to spit.
I hope like hell I didn’t just ruin that last bite, waiting with bated breath for her to swallow and speak. She beams a look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“W-what did you just say?” she asks, her words shaking.
For the life of me, I don’t fucking know.
I just know what has to be done.
13
You’ve Goat It Baaad (Tory)
When I think back, it’s somewhat of a blur how it happened, but I’m here.
Quinn’s house.
This time for a whole lot longer than just one evening installing appliances and a swing.
I’m not sure if it was Granny’s idea, or Quinn’s, or God’s. But the fact remains, I’ve moved in, and Granny is busy packing for the Alaskan wilderness.
She’d flat out told me if I didn’t stay here with Quinn, she’d cancel the trip and the remodeling job, ultimately forfeiting half the money
she’d put down for a deposit.
Ugh.
What could I say to that?
The only part that surprises me is it was Quinn who invited me. Well, more than invited, he’d demanded it in all his growly, green-eyed glory.
I knew I shouldn’t just up and agree.
Not with the issues back home, the issues in my head, or the ginormous fire-breathing issues of living with my best friend who kisses me with the solar heat of a thousand suns.
An issue I still haven’t touched with him. Much less sorted out. Much less forgotten.
Happy days.
It’s so rare when a red flag whacks you right across the face like this one, screaming bad idea. But it did, and I’d ignored it.
That first day was awkward to say the least.
We went about our business on pins and needles, inhabiting the same space without truly sharing it. Yesterday was better, though, and today might be the first day I can actually call this arrangement fine.
At least the house is gorgeous, no thanks to Quinn’s remodeling work and keen eye for detail. It’s plenty large enough for far more than two people.
He gave me my pick of the four bedrooms—excluding his, of course.
Sharing a house already makes me twelve shades of red.
The thought of sharing a room with him might cause spontaneous Tory-combustion.
I finish brushing my hair and leave the tiled bathroom attached to my bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I pull on my boots and give my arms a solid overhead stretch. My muscles are still burning from the resistance band exercises I did this morning.
Without Granny around, I’m not riding the bike all over town, so I’ll have to find another way to give my legs a good workout every day.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, though I’m sure Quinn is up.
Owl was also part of the move from Granny’s to Quinn’s, but I don’t see him in the laundry room, where he’s made himself comfy the last couple of nights, sprawled out on the cool floor.
He must be dying in the summer heat behind all that fur, so I like to get him outside to check on the goats early in the mornings, before the day’s oppressive heat rolls in.
The coffee brewing in the drip maker is still hot. I pour myself a cup and grab one more for Quinn before walking out the back door, looking for signs of activity as I walk down the steps.