The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  I know Dean hinted at it before, but I wanted to think he was wrong. Hearing it from Tory’s mouth confirms how big a clusterfuck she really lived.

  Then her phone starts ringing again.

  I swear on my mother’s grave, I could break a window with that thing.

  “Yeah,” she says quietly, ignoring the phone. “It’s just a mess, Quinn, and I don’t want to deal with it. Not yet. Maybe not ever...”

  Damn right it’s a mess, and she’s not diving back in just to get her heart torn up all over again.

  Not if I can help it.

  Snarling, I march over and grab the phone off the counter.

  The screen says JEAN-PAUL (YUCK).

  Turning away from Tory, I hit the answer icon.

  “What?” It shoots out of my mouth like a bullet.

  There’s a confused silence before the man on the other end clears his throat.

  “W-who’s this?”

  “Quinn Faulkner,” I snap. “Why the fuck are you calling every five minutes?”

  Another long pause. “This is Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey’s phone, is it not? I’m looking for her. We need to have a very important discussion, and I don’t appreciate this...odd reception.”

  Shit, he even sounds like a colossal prick.

  Big surprise.

  “She’s busy being happy,” I grind out. “And I don’t think she cares to listen to you flapping your gums till you learn some goddamn manners, champ.”

  “Champ?” he echoes back. “Well. Enough of this nonsense, where’s Tory? I’ve been calling all day and—”

  “And you need to stop. Fair warning. Next time I see your name on her screen, I’ll fly to Chicago and make sure the only person you’re calling is your nurse, fuckboy. She doesn’t want to talk to you. You read me?”

  “I—”

  “And why the hell should she, you heartless, crusty fucking baguette? When—and if—she ever wants to talk, she’ll call. Don’t dial this number again. Because I’ll be the one answering, and you definitely won’t want to hear what I have to say.”

  My heart slaps my ribs like a bear charging its cage.

  I hit End Call, knowing if I don’t stop now, I’ll probably say something illegal, and slowly turn around.

  Tory has a hand over her mouth, trembling. The look on her pale face is pure bloodless mortification.

  “Tory?” I whisper, taking a step forward. “Peach?”

  Shaking her head slowly, she pivots on one foot and races to the laundry room. Then, a moment later, the screen door slams shut.

  Yeah.

  Somebody just fucked up big-time.

  One guess who.

  15

  We’ve Goat This (Tory)

  I’m shaking so hard my teeth rattle.

  One fact keeps replaying over and over in my mind, pressing my thoughts through a spinning kaleidoscope.

  Quinn told Jean-Paul his name.

  Crud.

  No, crud!

  Now Mother has all the ammo she needs to shoot down my decisions. Hell, to tell me I don’t have a hand in deciding anything because somebody has to be putting ideas in my head.

  I can just hear her now.

  Grow up and be responsible, Tory.

  You’re acting out, Tory.

  What? You’re still listening to that farm boy, Tory?

  End me. It doesn’t help that she’s the only person, besides Granny, who knows how in love I was with Quinn.

  The last summer I made it to Dallas, Mother had puppies over me coming here since I’d just turned eighteen—old enough to decide my own fate with the boy I’d always had eyes on. And when she found out Quinn wasn’t there and he’d enlisted in the Army, she’d been ecstatic.

  Pain shoots up my leg. It’s the running making my teeth rattle, I realize.

  Still favoring my undamaged knee, my gait isn’t so smooth.

  It’s hurting, too, so I slow to a slight, off-kilter jog and push through the grove of trees. At the first fallen log, I sit down and rub my leg.

  The hurt muscle is nothing compared to the soreness inside.

  Mother always insisted Quinn Faulkner was beneath me.

  Not because she singled him out, really, but because no one in Dallas was good enough.

  I have three last names, after all. A pedigree that stems from her side of the family.

  Oh, never mind the fact that she married a small-town farm boy who’d bootstrapped his way up the social ladder. She’ll be the first to jump up and explain how Dad was the first crab to pull himself out of his backwater bucket.

  He made it to a good college. He learned real estate. He’s slayed a hundred dragons in business and investing—no thanks to a little lemon squeeze from her trust fund.

  The wealth and pride behind the Redson-Riddle line goes back generations. And Mother clings to that reputation with an iron fist. It’s how she keeps Dad on a short leash, and—though I hate to admit it—it’s how she controls me.

  She’s held big money, bigger pride, and fantastic dreams over my head my entire life.

  If I played along, there was always a prize at the end.

  A new doll, a new dress, new ballet shoes, hell, even my car. She bought me a shiny pink convertible that’s sparkling away in the garage back home when she first heard I’d started dating Jean-Paul.

  I needed something fitting to impress him, in her eyes, because my personality and good looks count for diddly, I guess.

  A stick snapping loudly has me glancing over my shoulder.

  Owl bounds forward, tail wagging as if to say, found you!

  Then I hear heavy footsteps plodding over more twigs strewn on the ground. Quinn’s right behind him.

  “Hey,” he says, somewhat cautiously. “Figured you’d need the fresh air.”

  “Yeah, well...” I rub Owl’s head as the fluff of a mastiff hunkers down beside me. “No sense in letting what happened back there waste a nice day.”

  Quinn steps closer, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Tory. I don’t know what the fuck else to say. I shouldn’t have answered your phone and ripped his throat out. Shouldn’t have said what I did to that dude—even if he is a pushy fuckin’ snail of a dude.”

  It’s hard not to smile.

  Okay, make that impossible.

  I’ve never seen Quinn anything but confident, just, protective.

  Upstanding. Righteous. Hard-ass.

  That’s how he’s always been, and it isn’t a bad thing.

  His apology right now makes him even more endearing.

  Slowly, I sigh, craning my head to look up at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Quinn. I’m not mad at you. Sit down.”

  He walks to the log and hunkers down next to me.

  “Then why’d you run?” he asks. “I thought you were gonna bound right out of here and hop on the first plane home after I pissed in Jean-Paul’s Cheerios.”

  I hold my breath until my lungs burn.

  Letting it out, I tell him the truth. “Because you told him your name.”

  “Yeah, guilty. What’s that got to do with—”

  “He’ll tell Mother,” I say, shaking my head.

  “So? I’ve never met your mother.” He quirks an eyebrow, clearly not comprehending the fire-breathing piece of work Gloria Redson-Riddle-Coffey can be.

  “No, you haven’t.” I sigh again. “Thank God.”

  He scratches the side of his neck. “I’m not sure what to do, Peach. How to make up for what I did. Don’t think your ma’s got any place telling you what to do, but it’s your life. I ain’t here to make your decisions, but I do get real pissed off at the folks trying to make them for you.”

  “You don’t need to do anything.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “I owe you a huge thanks for telling Jean-Paul to stop calling me, honestly. He has no business harassing me constantly. I told him he’d hear back once I’ve made up my mind...I need time. Time to figure out what I’m going to do.”
r />   He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close.

  “You deserve time. It’s your life to figure out without any prick getting in the way,” he rumbles, his inked muscle tightening around my shoulders.

  “It was my life until my knee went out. Maybe I just never realized how stuck I was. How I was letting everyone else control me.”

  “Can’t beat yourself up, Peach. Your blinders are off. How’s the knee doing now, anyway?” he asks, his eyes flicking to my legs. “I saw you rubbing it.”

  “It’s fine.” To prove it, and to prove I’m in control of myself, I stand. He rises with me, arm still around my shoulders.

  “Come on,” I say. “I have stir fry to finish.”

  “With bok choy,” he mutters, dryly amused.

  “And you’re going to like it.”

  “No promises, lady.”

  I giggle because I can’t decide who’s more ridiculous with new foods—Quinn or Granny.

  But I love how he can make me laugh so effortlessly.

  And an hour later, I love that he wolfs down the stir-fry I made and goes for seconds.

  Three days later, I have something else to love: how he’s transformed the old barn.

  I’ve helped, sure, but Quinn did the heavy labor—with his shirt off at times.

  Lord, he has a body to die for.

  It’s like he’s trying to destroy any daytime reprieve from the dirty thoughts I’ve been having at night. It’s safe here, quiet and peaceful, but I’ve spent every night since I moved in tossing and turning, knowing he’s just a few walls away.

  We’re both early risers. I know he sleeps shirtless the times I’ve caught him coming out of his room, wearing nothing but a loose pair of shorts that hang off his hips like the devil’s own torture, obscenely close to exposing what’s under that rigid V of muscle slicing up into his washboard abs.

  And just like today, when he’s shirtless, and I can see—really freaking see—that mass of muscle flexing, pumping, folding its ink like a living canvas...

  Holy Toledo.

  Holy London.

  Holy Tokyo.

  I don’t think there’s a city big enough to stand in for the tingle that shoots through me, pools between my legs, and leaves me so wet it’s an effort just to walk.

  Last night, I lost it.

  I rubbed one out like an animal in heat, biting my fist to keep from gasping his name, fingers striking my clit with reckless need.

  Every single time with the same forbidden visions of Quinn Faulkner on top of me, behind me, under me, flinging me against his slab of a body until I break.

  It’s not like I had any choice.

  It was either give in to raw fantasies and bring myself off...or tiptoe to his room and jump him.

  And we know I’m not brave enough for that.

  I also haven’t been able to decipher his signals—if they’re actually signals at all and not just wishful thinking.

  No, he hasn’t kissed me again.

  Not since that day Drake showed up. Mainly because he’s been working on the barn nonstop, rigging up everything just for me.

  He rented a huge sander for the floors, then coated them with varnish that shines so bright I can practically see my reflection. He also hung new lights, big ones, so I can be out here long after dark if I want.

  Then, today, after the big brown truck dropped off my mirror panels, aerial silks, and sound system, he instantly went to work installing everything.

  The space has transformed into a proper dance studio.

  An amazing one.

  “I’ll never doubt it again. Dreams can come true,” I say, watching him secure one of the speakers up in the rafters.

  He shoves a screwdriver in his back pocket, then turns around on the ladder, looking around at the space. “It does look pretty awesome.”

  “Pretty?” I shake my head. “It’s totally awesome!”

  Kicking off my shoes, I drop the ballet slippers I’ve been holding onto the floor. “I can’t wait any longer. I have to try out this floor.”

  I’ve been itching to break it in ever since I watched him varnishing it.

  Moving to the center of the floor, I position myself in front of the mirrors, bend, rise up, and glide left, loving how wonderfully the smooth floor helps me flow so free and easy.

  I dart around, complete a tight turn, and then glide back to the center, where I do a full pirouette, spinning, rising to a full pointe on my toes.

  Arms over my head, one hand up, I whirl on the ends of my toes, until my momentum slows.

  I bend at the waist, spread my arms wide, and lift one foot, revolving on the other until coming to a stop.

  Unexpected applause echoes off the high ceiling and solid walls.

  Blinking, I twist around to face him and bow, a smile tucked between my reddened cheeks.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “I’m fucking speechless.” He walks closer, off the ladder now. “That was glorious, Peach. But aren’t you dizzy after that?”

  “Nope. I’m used to it.” I tap my temple. “My brain adjusted years ago. I can’t even remember the last time spinning made me dizzy.”

  He glances at my feet. “And your toes? They don’t hurt, either?”

  “No way.” I press both hands to my chest and flutter my lashes. “They feel like heaven.”

  “What about your knee?”

  He’s too sweet.

  His concern is too real for me to laugh at, but it does make me smile.

  “The knee’s just dandy.” A sigh full of happiness escapes. “I can’t wait until tomorrow morning, when I can try out the silks.”

  “Why do you have to wait till tomorrow?”

  “Because it’s almost time for supper. I have barbecue ribs in the slow cooker, and you must be starving after all the work you’ve done this afternoon.”

  “We’ll eat later. Go ahead and give it a whirl.”

  Excitement fills me. I bounce a couple times on my toes.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind? I won’t take long, I promise. The ribs should be fine for a little while longer.”

  He grabs my hand.

  “One question first. If your ma made all your meals, how do you know how to cook like a boss?”

  “You think I cook...well?”

  “Very well.” He tilts his face down, bathing me in a gaze that leaves zero doubt he’s serious.

  Oh, wow.

  Just when I think he’s out of ways to charm me...

  “From Granny mostly. She drafted me to help her every summer here. But I picked up a few things from Mother, too, in all fairness...”

  “Let me guess—the eggplant parm?”

  I give him a wink and run to the colorful ribbons hanging off the last beam.

  Leaping as I reach it, I twine the silk around one leg and climb, finding my balance and inching my body upward.

  Silks, like dancing, are kinda like riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget.

  In minutes, I’m in the midst of a full routine of wraps, swings, and spirals, loving the freedom that comes with gliding through the air on makeshift tethers.

  By the time I finish the routine a second time, my muscles burn, proving just how out of shape I’ve become since leaving Chicago. Not wanting to overdo it the first time, I flip my way down the silks, shimmying carefully.

  Quinn’s big, firm hands grasp my waist before my feet touch the floor.

  Next thing I know, he’s twisting me around, pulling me against him.

  “Good job scaring the hell out of me, Tory,” he growls, his arms locking around my hips. “You were all the way at the top. Nothing there to hold you up except that flimsy material wrapped around one ankle. Be careful.”

  I cup his face with both hands, gently squeezing my palms against his jaw. “That’s how it’s done.”

  “Too dangerous. I’m installing a damn net next. What happened to your fear of heights?”

  I grin. “I told you. When I’m
in control, it’s fine.”

  Quinn gives me the stink eye.

  Why does he look so hot when he’s pissed?

  And “dangerous” is definitely the way he’s holding me, off the floor, flush up against him.

  It’s the feral way he’s staring, sending my heart racing.

  God, I want to kiss him so bad—and his lips land on mine before my thought finishes.

  He pushes into my mouth angrily, as if he wants to tame it for talking back, for taking risks I shouldn’t.

  His arms close around my hips, his hands clasp my ass, and then I’m tasting his heat, his passion, his fury.

  I shouldn’t love this kind of bossy, grumpalicious kiss as much as I do, but good luck resisting.

  No woman ever had a prayer when a man this hot, this intense, and this maddeningly caring lifts her up in his storm.

  Thrilled, I not only wrap my arms around his neck, I hook my legs around his waist, sealing us together.

  His body is too perfect, too firm, too muscular.

  Nothing like the men back home who carve lean bodies with orderly protein and trips to the gym.

  Quinn’s country edge comes naturally, sculpted by real work, sweat, tears, and the harsh, scary things I’m sure he did as a soldier and a secret agent man.

  Holy hell!

  Even his smell makes me delirious, earthy and masculine, like lying underneath a huge pine tree.

  It’s enough to drive me mad, and I flush when I realize I’m grinding against him, dragging a harsh groan out of him against my tongue.

  “Peach, fuck,” he snarls, pulling his hips away from mine—only for a split second before he collides with me again, this time making me feel the raging bulge in his jeans.

  Every vicious inch of him catches my folds with just the right friction behind a few thin layers of fabric.

  It’s so on.

  I don’t think the entire town walking into the barn right now could stop the category five full-body lashing Quinn Faulkner is about to lay on every bit of me.

  I can’t help it—I shudder.

  I’ve never been that into sex, but now? I want it like a crazy person.

  He pulls out of the kiss, and like the last two times, I feel his regret, like he shouldn’t have kissed me at all. It’s a total contrast to the passion flooding his kisses barely a second ago.