by Nicole Snow
“You know you’re trespassing on private property, right?” Those were the first words Quinn ever said to me.
Oh, I’d known, but before I’d had a chance to say so, he’d started in. Red-faced and tongue running a mile a minute about how flipping hard his grandfather works at beekeeping, harvesting the honey, and selling it because his flimsy pension and Social Security weren’t much to live on.
By the time he was done, I was in tears.
He went quiet when I started up the frantic litany of apologies.
And then he bent down, this hangdog look on his face. He helped me up, pulled the honeycomb I’d pried out with the stick from my hand, and just...
He hugged me.
This big, bearish embrace, even when we were just kids.
“Heard enough out of you, little girl,” he whispered in my ear. “Guess you’ve learned your lesson. I’ll make sure Gramps understands. Now dry your eyes. We’ll forget this ever happened.”
Everybody knows how much teenagers suck at using their words, but Quinn didn’t.
I never realized then how rare it is to meet a straight shooter, but I already respected it.
I didn’t want to join that group of kids anymore.
I just wanted to be his friend.
The same thing I still want now.
“Here ya are, hon! Your man said to mix it up, so I gave you this special stuff Grady bought up for the summer from Maui brewing. Aloha.” The waitress sets two glasses of beer on the table with a smile that smacks me back to the present.
I thank her and take a long sip of the pleasantly sweet, light Hawaiian brew as my eyes roam over to Quinn. He’s talking to a big man at the end of the bar with a thick black beard.
From what I can tell, it’s a heavy conversation.
Neither of them look particularly happy.
Hmmm. My toes scrunch up inside my boots.
He arrives at the table a minute later, finally, but doesn’t sit down, lifting his beer instead for a quick audible slurp before he sets it down.
“Shit, that’s good,” he says, wiping his mouth.
I smile.
“Where’s the fire? Nothing stopping you from sitting down and savoring it like a normal human being, Quinn.” I wink at him, taking another satisfying drink off my glass.
But his face is anything but fun and games.
Oh, no.
“About that. Hey, I’m really sorry, Tory, but Grady, the owner over there,” he gestures to the muscle man he’d been talking to, “he just told me about something I really need to check on.”
“Oh. Okay.” I can almost feel my frown sliding off my chin.
Whoa, that just came out of left field.
So maybe I wasn’t wrong about the bridge. He must’ve had Ridge put it up so he wouldn’t have to deal with me, and now he’s enlisted the bar owner for a good excuse to get rid of me tonight.
“No prob. I’m ready to call it a night myself. This goat business has me wanting to turn in earlier than Granny.” I stand up and stretch, willing myself not to waste the delicious beer. I managed to drink it down halfway while he does the same. “All that bike riding wears a girl out, too.”
Quinn cocks his head.
“I don’t want this to end. I just need it to,” he says, this weird chill in his voice I can’t decipher as he fishes through his wallet to pay the tab.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, already on my way to the door.
At least I didn’t spill my guts about how disappointing my life has been. Then I’d really look like a double idiot. Probably as stupid and naive as I’d looked when I saw Jean-Paul’s phone lit up with flirty texts and kissy-faced, half-naked pics of Queen Bitch Madeline Shafer.
“Seriously, I was having fun tonight. I wanted to catch up,” Quinn says as he opens the door for me. “Can we do this again? After I’ve taken care of business?”
Jesus, do I look that fragile?
I shouldn’t be this disappointed, or this suspicious that he’s just trying to be nice in that oh-so-gentlemanly Faulkner way, but I just can’t help it.
My love life—if you can call it that—has been riddled with too much cloak-and-dagger stuff for this lifetime.
So is it any wonder I sense at least three meanings to every sentence out of his mouth?
Ugh. Am I really letting love woes rub off on Quinn, though?
Good Lord, I need help.
“Tory?” he calls my name again because I haven’t said a word.
Part of me wants to smack myself. The other part is just hurt. Bewildered. Self-pitying.
“Sure, sure, I was just running my schedule through my head,” I lie. “Uncle Dean says he has a long list of customers lined up for the goats. Add that to Granny’s schedule, all the little things she needs help with, and I can’t say when I’ll be available. But thanks for the drink. It was nice seeing the legendary Purple Bobcat.”
He gives me a firm smile but says nothing. Almost like he can taste the bitter steam rolling off me.
We arrive at his truck and I open the door, climbing in.
A tense silence fills the space as Quinn buckles his seat belt and starts the engine.
I stare at the flashing neon purple sign of a big winking bobcat as he backs the truck up and then pulls onto the highway.
“So,” he ventures, his eyes fixed on the road. “You were telling me about your dance career back home. Do you still love tearing up the floor? Or stage? Or fuck, whatever dancers dance on?”
I shrug, fighting back a smile. Mainly because it’s another loaded question.
I’m not sure if I loved it since I was little. Long before the pressure, the weeks full of practice, all the milkshakes I had to skip to stay fit as a grasshopper for my bulldog teachers.
“As much as anyone can love dancing seven days a week,” I say, brushing a loose strand of hair back over my ear.
“Damn, it was that time consuming?” his eyes light up as they flick over, twin emeralds in the sunset.
“Worse when we were on tour. I might do eight or more hours straight between warm-ups and shows.”
“On tour? What, like Broadway?”
I wince at hearing my broken dream destination.
“No, never Broadway, but other big shows. We did Chicago, Boston, L.A., Miami, St. Louis, New Orleans. I think I must’ve gotten a few whiplash tours of the entire country. Too bad we never stuck around a day or two after the shows to enjoy it.”
I sigh, hating how hard it is to rip myself out of poor me central.
“Pretty impressive, lady,” he says, genuine excitement in his voice. “You must miss it like hell.”
That’s the worst part.
Ever since Wicked Witch Madeline arranged an “unfortunate” accident...
I haven’t missed it enough.
No. I don’t miss the pressure. I don’t miss the deadlines. I damn sure don’t miss Jean-Paul’s two-timing, wine collector ass.
“Absolutely,” I tell him firmly, purely for show.
If this is the last ride I ever get in Quinn Faulkner’s truck, I won’t have him thinking I’m a loser.
“Bet this feels like the longest summer of your life, huh?” he asks, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You’re looking forward to getting back to it ASAP, I’m sure. I’ve only been back in Dallas for roughly a year and a half and it already feels like an eternity. Time just moves slower out here.”
“I’m looking forward to my knee being a hundred percent functional,” I say.
Maybe then I can get on with life.
Being in limbo sucks, but oddly enough, I’ve felt like I’ve been drifting for years.
“How about you?” I need to get the subject off me. “What are your plans once you sell your grandpa’s place? Will your sabbatical end? You’ll go back to the FBI?” Shaking my head at my own rambling, I add, “Nothing like twenty questions, right?”
He chuckles. It’s such a nice manly sound and fills me with an odd sense of longing f
or something I missed.
Whether he’s desperate to give me the brush-off or not, I can’t say I’m not enjoying this.
I’ve missed him like hell.
“Still working that out, Peach. Just between you and me, it feels nice to settle down and whittle away at a slower place, even if it ain’t forever. Bureau work gets sticky, draining, dangerous,” he says, his profile glowing with the shadows at dusk, accenting that strong, able jawline peppered with stubble.
“Ever land any big-time bad guys? Like bin Laden or Ted Bundy kinda stuff?” I ask, studying him in the creeping darkness.
“The assholes I was after were more like little El Chapos with none of his mystique. Usually crossed paths plenty of times with the DEA, but the details are classified. All I’ll say is Oklahoma and Texas are big places. They’re crawling with dirty, well-organized scum always looking for their next payoff.” His voice drops to low thunder and a chill sweeps up my spine. “Hell, even this little town’s had its worries. Just ask Drake Larkin or sit down with Ridge and Grace.”
“Yeah, I heard...some kinda mafia drug thing, right?” I blink as he nods, gobsmacked at how some people seem cursed with the wrong kind of excitement. “Granny gave me little bits and pieces about Bella, too. It’s cool that she landed herself a badass cop.”
“Yep. Dude married her before they said hello, no thanks to her grandpa putting it in his will. Wild shit. Drake’s a great guy, though. They’ve got themselves a little girl and a hundred bucks says he’ll run for sheriff one day when old Rodney Wallace steps down.”
“I can’t imagine. Makes my worries seem like nothing,” I say idly, hoping he doesn’t latch on to that.
“Gotta ask you about that bike you ride with Granny before I forget,” he says. “I’ve heard they can be tricky.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I laugh. “Once you get the hang of it, it’s fine. But the first few starts are rough. Helmets are a must. It’s a little like dancing, really. One person has to lead, the other has to follow, or it just doesn’t work.”
“I hadn’t noticed it around town before. When did Granny get it?”
“Pretty much the week I arrived. She’d ordered it through Wayne’s Hardware, and Uncle Dean picked it up. This was before his big back blowout, of course.”
“Gotcha,” he says with a knowing wink.
The rest of the ride home is actually decent. We spend our time talking about bikes, the hand-me-downs we’d ride through town when we were younger, and share a few words about the locals who’d either give us fresh-baked brownies or come out with their fist raised and a warning to stay off the damn lawn.
In a little town like this, you get to know real fast how folks treat company when you’re a kid trying to find ways to pass a lazy summer.
“Thanks again for the beer,” I tell him, opening the passenger door once we’re in the driveway leading up to Gran’s lilac-colored house. It’s been that mellow shade for as long as I can remember, along with the white trim and shutters that have these cute breezy hearts carved in them.
Quinn opens his door before I have a chance to step out.
Walking me to the door isn’t necessary, I want to tell him, but it’s Quinn. Even as a boy he was Mr. Gentleman, and it’s adorable he hasn’t lost it with age.
Not like Jean-Paul, who’d get me a taxi or an Uber and slap the hood as a signal for the driver to leave.
Maybe it’s the whole Army-turned-FBI thing. It must’ve cemented whatever basic chivalry he grew up with in his bones.
As we both arrive near the front of the truck, I wave at the overhead door. “I’ll go in through the garage. I can use the keypad. Think there’s a jug of cider Granny wants brought in.”
“Call me when it’s time to round up the goats,” he says while we head for the garage.
Holy hell.
Not what I expected him to say but...what if he’s just being nice?
I nod, too tangled up to think. Way too conflicted over this long-lost friend I swear to God I’m not still crushing on.
But with the bridge to the gate installed, even if he’s being real, there’s no good reason to bother him.
I probably shouldn’t see him again.
Not until I put a leash on my runaway thoughts, at least.
Comparing him to Jean-Paul seems like the quickest, craziest way to ruin a friendship, after all.
We arrive at the garage and I punch in the code.
“Need help with that cider?” he says, flexing one arm and turning his nose up like a cartoon sailor.
“Ha, no! I can still lift five pounds without going to pieces,” I tell him. “Thanks again for tonight, Quinn. It was fun.”
And I actually mean it by the time I dash inside the garage as the door is still going up. I grab the cider and beeline it to the door, then hit the close button so the overhead door slips back down.
I don’t look back.
Even if I know he’s not the type to linger—especially if he really does have a fire to put out somewhere—having his eyes on my backside makes me feel some kinda way I shouldn’t be feeling.
God, what if it’s all in my head?
And I’m here, acting like a jealous-scorned-crazy person over nothing?
A heavy sigh rolls out of me as I shove the door open and stomp into the house.
The worst part is, Granny will be bursting with questions about my evening when she gets home.
Not the kind I want to dwell on.
So I grab one of the cinnamon apple muffins she made this morning, wolf it down, and head straight to bed.
Maybe if I sleep on it, I’ll forget all about caring what Quinn Faulkner thinks of me.
The interrogation I’d avoided by turning in early last night catches up with me come morning.
Granny fires questions off faster than she pedals her bike before she’s even poured my coffee.
Isn’t he the sweetest thing?
Didn’t I adore Grady’s bar?
And when—damn her—am I going to see that handsome young man again?
She’s also quick to remind me we have a history. Totally unlike any of those “lazy, good-for-nothing” boys who don’t know how to treat a real woman back in the Windy City.
Yeah.
Shoot me.
A bit of screaming hot lead couldn’t be worse than feeling my face turning into a cherry tomato as I sit through her grinning attempt to play matchmaker, mumbling half answers.
I’m grateful when it’s finally past breakfast and time to round up the goats for the day ahead. I’m honestly stunned at how much they’ve devoured. Most of the brush is down to nubs and it looks like a brand-new piece of land.
The happy, well fed tribe comes bounding back into the trailer without a hitch, no thanks to Owl, stepping over the comfortably placed bridge.
Even the big shaggy black goat with a taste for mischief seems more cooperative today. I’ve nicknamed him Hellboy.
Tobin the butler apologies profusely for my trouble with the gate and hands me a check.
My heart swells with pride, knowing I’ve actually made myself useful, until I’m back with Gran. She just doesn’t let up.
More than anything, she impatiently wonders why Quinn hasn’t called for the next two days.
He hasn’t, no, but he has sent a few text messages spaced several days apart.
Faulk: I’m sorry as hell for cutting things short the other night, Peach. Let me make it up to you?
Faulk: You free tonight or are you just pissed at me?
Faulk: Hell. How ’bout we skip the Bobcat and I take you out to Libations? It’s Dallas fancy. Bella says they’ve got this peach cobbler that’ll make you think you kissed an angel...and this time nobody cares if you stick your face right in. I ain’t judging.
I haven’t responded with more than a quick maybe.
I’ll let you know, I text him. I’m not mad. Just busy.
The baggage, the guilt, the angst I’m carrying around has only
increased the last few days because my mother starts texting constantly.
Sigh.
Updating me on the ballet and Jean-Paul, the huge show he staged in the city to raise money for the fire department, telling me how much I’m missed.
Right.
I’m sure I’m missed about as much as an old doormat when you buy a new one. You either banish it to the backdoor or the dumpster.
I can’t believe I’ve hit the dumpster quite yet, though. I am a good dancer, but I’m definitely backdoor material. Even the prettiest doves can’t fly with a broken wing.
Mother doesn’t want to admit how screwed up my knee really is.
I wonder if she ever will.
She’s pushing for me to return soon so I can attend the summer show.
It’ll run for the next two and a half months, so there’s no reason to rush home—even if I wanted to see my cheating ex of a director giving the spotlight to the skank who set my life on fire.
Nope.
I’m not that big a sucker for punishment.
Owl lets out a loud woof, bringing me back to the task at hand.
“Thanks, dude,” I tell him as I take my foot off the gas and turn on the blinker.
At least I’ve got a big furry anchor to keep me grounded.
We’re on our way to pick up the goats from the latest job. I’d driven out this morning to check on them after dropping them off yesterday evening, and then went to Uncle Dean’s place to pick up the trailer.
He said word’s spreading far and wide about the incredible job our little eating machines did, no thanks to Ridge. Apparently, he’s back in town and just as awestruck as his wife at the goats creating usable land from thin air.
A recommendation from someone so high-profile has our phones blowing up. Uncle Dean has several new places lined up, and I guess he’s already looking at getting more goats.
Dang.
I still feel a little guilty for not texting Quinn when I picked them up from the Barnet ranch, but I really won’t be needing his help. Why bother him?
Keeping a safe distance, and my mind off him, is the healthiest option right now.
It also makes it ever-so-slightly easier to dodge Gran’s machine gun questions.
“Hope you’ve had lunch. We’ll be at this all day,” I tell Owl as we turn onto a country road. “Several smaller jobs are up next. They should go fast. Easy work and quick cash.”
