The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Besides a smaller metal workshop building, there’s a large barn behind the house.

  Noting the open door, I make my way over.

  Owl, with his sixth sense, rushes out of the barn and races up the small hill to greet me. I give him a friendly bump with my hip—the best I can manage with my hands full—before we walk to the barn together.

  The building is old, but it’s been painted recently on the outside. Classic red with white trim, which makes me smile.

  “Mornin’, Peach.” Quinn steps out carrying a dustpan.

  My heart skips a beat at the sight of him.

  Basically the normal thing it does now. Actually, it was already a thing when it came to seeing him, but I’m not dwelling on it for too many reasons.

  “Good morning.” I stare at the broom in his hand. “You’re sweeping out the barn with a dustpan?”

  “No, just the corner.” He dumps the contents of the dustpan in a cardboard box on the ground. “There was some old broken glass. Never noticed it before, probably something from way back when Gramps was around. He liked to have his whiskey out here sometimes.”

  I nod, grinning as I step toward the open door. “I remember a big party in this barn one summer. That time he was out of town, fishing in Montana...”

  “A party you were too young to be at,” he growls, his eyes flashing mock-serious.

  “Yeah, right. I was as old as half the other kids here,” I say, heading inside for a good look around.

  The Faulkner barn has happy memories etched in its worn wood. The barn is just as spacious as I remember, with big brace timber framing overhead and an old scuffed-up wooden floor.

  He follows me inside. “The other kids were also too damn young to be here.”

  “I know. Here, figured you could use a refill.” I take a sip off my coffee and pass him the extra mug. “You were always Mr. Hall Monitor, sending everyone underage home.”

  “And you didn’t listen.” He takes a loud slurp off his coffee.

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t make me.” I laugh, flashing him an evil smile.

  “Brat now, brat then. What else is new?”

  “I think you’d agree we’ve both done some growing up.” I laugh again as a sense of genuine happiness fills me. And also at how he sputters on his next sip. “I distinctly recall leaving well before eleven, my curfew time.”

  “Because if you hadn’t, your granny would’ve come looking. Probably riding Edison to help sniff you out.”

  Laughing, I nod.

  She totally would’ve.

  I walk deeper into the barn, sipping coffee and staring at the rafters. This place really is huge and so wide open. I’m not sure they make them like this anymore.

  “What happened to the old tractor? Didn’t he park it here in the winter?” I ask.

  “Sold it at the auction,” he says. “Hated to give it up, but it’s in better hands with somebody who needs it for work.”

  Slowly, I turn, watching him pull a couple cans of paint off a shelf in the corner. “What auction was that?”

  “My brother Alan and I inherited this place, but he didn’t want anything to do with it. So we decided to auction off what we could from Gramps’ old tools and antiques. He got some money, and I got the place.”

  “Won’t you be a little sad to sell it?” I bite my lips, knowing it’s none of my business.

  He sets the paint cans on the floor and leans back, arms crossed.

  “Honestly? Yeah. The longer I’m here, the more it’s grown on me. I’m a country boy to my bones, I guess, even if I’ve spent half my life away from farming. I thought I could just spend a few months fixing it up and sell it real easy, but now, after a year and a half...I’m wondering if I should keep it. Maybe rent it out, or, hell, I don’t know, turn it into another place Ridge and Grace can use for their projects.”

  “Aren’t they like bazillionaires? They probably don’t need the space,” I say softly. “You could just live here.”

  He nods once, but then shakes his head.

  “I mean...nah, it ain’t practical. No matter how long I stay in Dallas, I can’t be running after a place this big forever all by myself. Tons of upkeep.”

  “Why’s that? Looks like you’ve been managing just fine,” I say. “Are you thinking ahead? Once you go back to the FBI?”

  He picks up the paint cans with a shrug that almost seems annoyed.

  “I won’t be going back to the FBI, Peach.”

  Whoa.

  What?

  Confused, I shake my head and speed up to follow him to the door. “Why? You said you were on a sabbatical.”

  “I was, for a year. Then I quit.”

  His eyes seize mine darkly as I catch up. He even sounds bruised, like I’ve just poked at a painful scab.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry...so you’ve been doing your private detective work since then?”

  “That’s the long and short of it,” he tells me, though his voice says there’s a lot more.

  Owl joins us as we head for the house.

  “You make enough to live on with those jobs like the one we did for Grady’s friend? Not being nosy, I’m just curious.”

  “Peach, you’re nosy as hell. And it’s okay.” He laughs. “Some months, the money’s good. This is a quiet town and sleepy county, but there’s always some asshole who’s five years behind on child support or runaway teenagers to find. Some months, the money ain’t great, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “No?” I’m baffled how he’s surviving, especially with what he must’ve sunk into this house for renovations.

  I know Grandpa Faulkner wasn’t a rich man, so he couldn’t have left behind much...

  “Okay, Miss Nosy, you really want to know?” Quinn gives me a lopsided smile, his eyes flashing. “Alan, besides being a bush pilot, is a financial planner. Years ago, when he was first starting in the trade, he convinced me to let him invest my Army pay in a couple of big A’s and G’s. I couldn’t spend it on shit while I was overseas with no family to support back home, so I took the gamble.”

  “Big A’s and G’s?”

  “Amazon and Google, mostly, back when they were little. I’ve also made out like a bandit on a few other companies you’d recognize. He’s kept up being my financial planner ever since and makes sure to rap me across the knuckles if I ever start trying to draw out so much money it won’t last.”

  “Wow. The Faulkner wolves of Dallas Street. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” I’m being silly, but I love how his face lights up anyway.

  “Let’s just say my brother’s ingenuity not only set him up for life, it’s bought me one hell of a cushion.” He gives me a cock-eyed grin.

  “Good for you—and Alan! You guys are humble about it, too.”

  So not like Mom’s old school money and Dad’s endless boasting about his tech stocks.

  We arrive at the house a minute later, enjoying a companionable silence, and I point to the paint cans he’d picked up again just before leaving the barn. “Are you finally tackling the cupboards today?”

  “Sure am.” He holds open the screen door for me to enter. “Are you interested in helping?”

  “Definitely! But Owl and I have to go do goat duty first. They’ve still got a long ways to go at Neuman’s Dairy before they’re close to finished.”

  He sets the cans down on the laundry room floor.

  “I’ll come with,” he says, his voice serious. “We can go through the drive thru and pick up a couple breakfast burritos on the way through town, then we’ll come back and paint some cupboards.”

  “I’m game for that.” I set my coffee down. “Ready whenever you are.”

  He opens the door again. “Then let’s grab our stuff and go. We’ll take my truck.”

  Like Uncle Dean’s, it’s a large GMC, just a whole lot newer and nicer. “We should take mine. We’ll need Owl in case we need to chase the goats around the property or something.”

  “My truck’s
dog friendly, Peach.”

  I shrug. “If you don’t mind, neither do we. I’m sure he’ll love the air conditioning.”

  “It’s not working in your truck?”

  “It’s Uncle Dean’s truck,” I say. “What do you think the answer to that is?”

  He chuckles knowingly. “We can have one of Jess Berland’s mechanics look at it. He owns the Chevy dealership. I bought my truck there and he’s a good guy. Grady’s nephew, Weston, also does auto work part time.”

  We climb in his truck with Owl filling up the back seat.

  “Sounds like overkill,” I say. “I’ll only need the truck for a couple more weeks tops.”

  The relaxed smile hanging on Quinn’s face fades.

  “Still thinking you’ll head back to Chicago by then?” he asks, steering us out of the driveway.

  I nod, even as a tight knot forms in my stomach.

  “I can’t stall forever. I have to face my other life sooner or later.” Watching the trees, the grass, the open space go by through the window, I hold in a sigh.

  “I guess I’m a lot like you. The longer I’m here, the more this place grows on me. It’s nice not having the pressure of the city. All the people. All the work. All the stress.” I release my sigh then, as reality hits home. “But I’m not like you...I didn’t have an older brother invest in any magic letters for me.”

  “And you miss dancing like hell,” he finishes for me.

  “Maybe.” I twist my head to get a good look at him. “How’d you know?”

  “You have to miss what you’re good at.” He grins. “I’ve got a confession. Don’t hate me. When you sent me that link to the cloud, I checked out a couple of your videos...”

  Oh my God.

  I barely resist the urge to pull my hair over my face and hide behind it.

  “You’re one hell of a dancer, Tory Three Names. Like lightning in a bottle.”

  Oh, wow.

  Suddenly I’m less upset that he’d looked at the videos I’d clumsily left up.

  Actually, I feel weirdly flattered.

  “Thanks. I think. And how much do you know about ballet?”

  His next laugh comes straight from the gut, one of the best ever, so intense it makes me want to join in just hearing it.

  “Probably about as much as you knew about goats when you showed up back here.”

  “That much?” I’m giggling as I say it.

  “Yep. But just because I’m clueless doesn’t mean I didn’t like what I saw. You were fucking amazing.”

  “Well, thanks,” I sputter, trying with all my might not to blush. “Good thing we have Owl. I think he’s a secret expert on everything.”

  Quinn’s eyes are glowing like emeralds in the sun as his gaze turns on me.

  “And I have you. You must know more about dance than anyone. You’ve been doing it your entire life.”

  I nod, but no longer feel like laughing.

  “You’re not wrong,” I tell him.

  “So, what’s it like? Dancing on the ends of your toes?” He shakes his head. “Just thinking about that shit makes my feet ache.”

  “It hurts,” I say. “At first. But once you get the hang of it, you don’t even notice. And most dancing these days is a lot more contemporary, a fusion of past and present.” Memories whip through my mind so fast, I close my eyes. “When the music fills you and you’ve got your routine down pat...it’s a little like you’re flying. It doesn’t take any effort, any thought. You just let the music be the wind beneath your wings.”

  I lean back and smile at the rush. I do miss that. Letting the music carry me away like I’m a feather on the open air.

  The hundreds of routines I’ve practiced over the years flood my mind. I can see myself dancing, twirling, and spinning on the tips of my toes.

  “You really miss it, don’t you?” he asks quietly.

  I open my eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t miss the pressure. Or all the shit that comes with the territory. People—a few very specific people—are the worst.”

  “Everything’s a give and take.”

  “No denying that,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on him.

  Somehow, I get the feeling we’ve moved past ballet, casting these longing looks at each other. Or maybe it’s just my imagination after being run through an emotional juicer.

  Thankfully, we’ve arrived at the breakfast place, lending a much needed distraction.

  “One burrito or two?” he asks as he pulls into the drive thru.

  “Just one. I’m still a little burritoed out after Kenny’s truck, even though these are way smaller.”

  He orders six, plus two orange juices.

  “Six? Um, you must be really hungry,” I say just as we arrive at the window to pay.

  “One for you, two for Owl, and three for me.”

  Owl barks in loud agreement. We both laugh.

  We eat our food in the parking lot and then head for the dairy farm, talking about nothing important, yet conversing the entire time.

  It always was that way between us, easy conversations and easier feelings.

  I should be glad that’s falling back into place, our friendship, especially now that we’re living in the same house.

  Too bad this wild, anxious part of me isn’t glad.

  The persistent part that keeps wishing something would happen with Quinn Faulkner, consequences be damned.

  The goats are fine over at the Neuman’s.

  As we stand in the pasture, after accounting for all of them, I ask, “If you do decide to keep your grandpa’s place, will you get any animals?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why? You don’t like them?”

  “I like ’em just fine. It’s just that being a detective can pull me anywhere, any time, and then what do I do? Animals need people around every day to take care of them.”

  “You’ve got friends who’d help in a pinch, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be fair to them or the animals. I think my farming days ended while Gramps was still alive.”

  We start walking back to the gate.

  “I guess I see your point,” I mutter quietly.

  And I do, even if I can’t help being a little disappointed. It’s too easy picturing this place with a happy family and a diverse menagerie scattered across the grounds.

  “Are you getting attached to the tribe?” he asks.

  “I mean, I don’t mind them. They’re cute little guys, and I will miss them. They just don’t quite fit in my life or Uncle Dean’s once he’s moved onto his next scheme. I’m really going to miss this big guy, though.” I pause long enough to give Owl’s thick neck a hug. “I already made my uncle promise he’ll hang on to Owl if the goats have to move on.”

  “You’ve never had a dog before?”

  “With my mother?” I laugh hysterically. “Nooo way. Not even a stuffed dog because they collect dust, don’t you know.”

  “What about a cat?”

  “Something that pees in a box? Absolutely not. There was a squirrel living in a tree near my room once, and she called animal control to get rid of it.”

  “Shit.” He rakes a hand through his sandy brown hair like he can’t believe it.

  “Yep.”

  “Is your apartment near your folks’ house?”

  I’m ashamed to admit just how close it is, but it’s Quinn. “It’s kinda...right above their garage. When I turned twenty-one and wanted my own place, Mother had the attic remodeled.”

  “Damn, woman. I wondered how she filled your fridge with food.”

  “Now you know.”

  Yes, I’m blushing. Big surprise.

  Now he also knows how pathetically stunted my adult life has been, and why my summers with Granny meant so much.

  They were the only freedom away from home I’ve ever had.

  Getting a taste of it again makes me not want to return. Ever.

  But I have to. I miss my career.

  It’s a part of me I’m
not quite ready to bury, and I’m also not excited to stare down the barrel of what’s next? If you quit, what then?

  “Well, are you ready for some painting?” he says, slashing through my thoughts with the perfect distraction.

  “I’ll make those cupboards sing, Quinn Faulkner.”

  “Wow me,” he rumbles.

  We share a wicked grin.

  Surprise, surprise.

  As much as I love painting, the giddy excitement wears off fast.

  Hours later, I arch my back to smooth out a kink from bending over for so long and set down my brush. The cupboard doors are laid out on sawhorses throughout the barn.

  We’ve already painted all of the actual cupboards inside the kitchen but brought the doors here where it was easier to lay them flat.

  “Your arms about to fall off yet?” Quinn asks.

  “Are yours?” I flick my tongue out at him.

  Laughing, he sets his brush down. “Fuck, this is tedious.”

  “But they’ll look so nice once they’re done! No work, no reward.”

  “Yeah, well, right now they need to dry before we can give them a second coat. Let’s clean up and stretch our legs. I could go for a walk. Then I’ll grill us some steaks.”

  I collect my paintbrush and rolling pan. “Holy crap. It’s really almost dinner, isn’t it?”

  Forget having fun, time flies when you’re working yourself into jelly.

  We use the outside spigot to wash our painting gear and leave it in the sun to dry before making our way around the barn.

  Behind it, there’s a trail that leads into the trees, where a shallow creek twists and turns through them before making its way to the pond on the far side of the grove.

  “How many acres do you own?” I ask as we walk together.

  “Ten. Luckily, it’s never been annexed into the city, so I just pay state and county taxes for the land.”

  “The others are that much more?”

  “Yep, they’d be charged as buildable lots rather than farm acreage.”

  I think about that as we continue.

  There are so many things I don’t know about because I’ve been so sheltered.

  And how badly I don’t want to go back to that.