The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  I laugh, feeling the tension seeping out of him, and I’m glad.

  “Stick around long enough and maybe you’ll learn some new ones. You already heard 'son of a biscuit eater.'”

  “Have you drunk any of your granny’s strawberry rhubarb wine?”

  I blink in confusion. “What wine?”

  “She told me she was taking some to the neighbors, and her famous wine was the reason they’d invited her over.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I shake my head, even though I fully believe him, and her...I think.

  Granny might’ve just made up the steak and salad thing as an excuse. But I also can’t put it past her to whip up a secret stash of country wine. Wasn’t there a big jar of something in the garage fridge?

  “I told her I thought most grandmas make strawberry rhubarb jam or pie,” Quinn continues. “She made sure I know she’s special.”

  “Ha, I heard that part,” I say. “And now I guess I know what’s in the big glass dispenser in the spare fridge.”

  “Might have to sample that stuff someday. Give the old gal her due.”

  “Careful, Quinn. Knowing Granny, it’s probably stronger than straight-up moonshine.”

  “Hell yeah. I’d be disappointed if it weren’t.”

  We share a laugh and then chat about the homes and little shops we pass until he parks in front of the diner. Little wooden airplane cutouts with DALLAS on them cling to every lamppost, a cute reminder of the town’s oil history, back when Jonah Reed used to tell everyone who’d listen that Amelia Earhart was a distant relative of his.

  He even staked North Earhart Oil’s name on the alleged ancestry.

  “Wow. So this place actually won best burger in North Dakota?” I ask, nodding at the flashy sign in the window for the first time as we walk to the door.

  “That’s what the sign says, so it must be true.” He opens the door and holds it for me.

  So maybe I’m blushing, okay?

  We both order the Mack burgers, their trademark dish. It’s loaded with a big mess of gooey cheeses, fried pickles, and hot peppers, plus a basket of fries bigger than my head. Oh, and it’d be downright sinful to turn down a frosty strawberry shake on the side.

  The shake alone would give my mother and Jean-Paul a double heart attack.

  In an odd sense, that feels good.

  Defying them, taking a day off counting calories and fats and macros, ordering for me with Quinn’s lovable encouragement.

  “What are you smiling about?” Quinn asks, leaning back in his chair.

  I wonder if it’s how his taut white shirt stretches over the miles of muscles he’s packing now.

  “The food!” I tell him, rubbing my hands. “I’m starving, and I can’t remember being able to finish a whole Mack burger back when we were young. Lord knows I’ll try tonight. Jeez, I don’t even recall the last time I ate a hamburger. Probably a birthday or something.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m serious. Our dance group had really strict standards and a killer fitness routine with a nutritionist. I’ve broken it a few times already since arriving at Granny’s, that’s for sure, but...not to this extreme.” I nod at the waitress carrying two tall glasses of pink deliciousness topped with whipped cream and cherries. “And I plan on thoroughly enjoying every second.”

  He thanks the waitress and then looks at me.

  “Ladies first. Tell me what you think.”

  I take a draw on the straw and nearly melt at the heavenly taste of rich ice cream, juicy real strawberries, whole milk, and just the right tartness.

  “O. M. G.”

  I flop back in my chair.

  More than a little scared I might have a spontaneous milkshake orgasm in front of him.

  “That good, huh?” He laughs, slapping his hand gently on the table. “Should I call you an ambulance?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I...oh, Jesus, it’s divine.”

  Or else I’ve just been deprived like a starving monk.

  “Why such a strict diet anyhow? Dancing must burn up a shit ton of calories.” He looks at me, taking a sip off his own shake.

  “Yes, but it’s more than just the calories. It’s the macronutrients, the carbs, the supplements...a whole lifestyle that has to be maintained. We put lean proteins first—baked or grilled, never fried—carbs in moderation, endless leafy vegetables...” I rattle off my diet, sadly aware of how slim my pickings became after summers with Granny ended.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, his green eyes bulging comically in that oh-so-Quinn way. “Sounds like a starvation death march to me. Didn’t you ever snap?”

  I shrug. “I never had time to think about it. My meals were premade and stacked up in my fridge, usually. Perfectly planned out and labeled. Sure I’d go out for a nice dinner every so often or cheat during the holidays, but I mostly stayed true.”

  “Who did the meal planning?”

  “My mother,” I say, blocking a frown with another big sip of strawberry ambrosia.

  So maybe Granny’s right. Mother has ruled too much of my life for too long.

  She always claimed she was doing everything to give me a leg up over the other girls. The money my parents dropped on a high-end meal service was like nothing to them and made things far easier for me.

  Mom was doing me a favor, yeah, but she was also doing herself one, too.

  The realization is a stinging slap across the face, really, but I won’t let it drag this night down.

  The burgers arrive and I grin so hard my cheeks hurt.

  “Holy...it’s as big as the plate!” I point at my burger in astonishment. “Something tells me this won’t be the day I conquer Mack’s finest.”

  “Only one way to find out,” he tells me, grabbing a fry and popping it into his mouth.

  There must be ten or twenty Idaho monsters sliced up, steaming in the basket between us.

  “Bon appétit!” he says, picking up his own burger, loaded with extra jalapenos.

  I cut mine in half, intending to avoid death by burger today, and pick one section up.

  The first bite is just as heavenly as the shake.

  We spend a few minutes eating quietly, blissfully chewing, enjoying our own companionable munching.

  “So, to be clear, I’ve been living in Chicago, dancing, and eating kale for the last decade,” I say, hoping to get the spotlight off me. “But what about you? Where have you been? Besides traveling around playing superman with the Army and the FBI, I mean.”

  He sets his burger down and gives me a wry smile. “I spent a lot of time defending borders of several allied countries, special ops, and then the Bureau kept me on the go. Even if home was Oklahoma City for a long time.”

  “Hawaii? Alaska? Do you get to see your family?” I ask.

  “Yes. Damn nice places. Though I think I’m a Midwestern boy to my bones. Can’t imagine living anywhere full time that’s too frigid or too tropical.”

  “Where’s your favorite place?” I ask, leaning forward.

  He frowns for a moment, pondering, then sighs with another smile I can’t read.

  “Call me crazy, but hell. I think I might’ve found it right in front of me.”

  Those jade-green eyes are blazing now, staring right past me into the future.

  “Dallas, you mean?” I’m actually stunned.

  He nods.

  “Wow. Having second thoughts about putting your grandfather’s place up for sale, then?”

  He shakes his head. “Can’t.”

  “Why? You already have a buyer lined up?” I cock my head.

  “Nope. I think I’ll sell anyway, even if I’m planning on staying here a while. The place is big enough for a family and I’m just one dude.” He looks at me cryptically. “I’ve got...reasons I’m getting to. Hang on, food first.”

  He pauses to devour his burger, making these muffled pleasure sounds that make me want to smile, but I pretend not to notice.

  I follow his lead, polishing off as much
Mack burger as I can stand, wondering the entire time what he’s holding back.

  I still have half a burger left and a pile of fries a few minutes later. I wave a hand at my plate and basket. “Still hungry? Help yourself. I’m stuffed. But about those reasons, what’s up?”

  “Gonna need a couple boxes.” He shakes his head and pushes his plate to the side. “Listen, Peach, I have to tell you something.”

  My stomach twists, full of food, and I brace for what’s coming.

  I can tell it’s as heavy as a boulder.

  Pushing my plate aside, I lock eyes with him.

  “All right. What it is? Shoot.”

  “That guy at Carolina’s earlier today...” He glances around quickly before looking at me again. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him, and I need to know if you get so much as a glimpse of that prick. Or anybody else like him who gives you a bad vibe.”

  Huh? Whatever I expected, it wasn’t being asked to play informant.

  An odd sensation sweeps up my spine.

  “He had a prison tattoo on his neck,” Quinn tells me, a shadow hanging over his face. “A laughing joker with a real ugly mug. That’s a favorite in some prison circles down south. He’s hooked up with some shit, no doubt, even if I don’t know exactly what he was in for.”

  Yikes. I hadn’t noticed the creepy tattoo, and I’m kinda glad.

  “O-kayyy. But why do you think we’ll see him again? Or anybody like him?”

  “Can you keep this hush? Pinky swear for old time’s sake?”

  He gives me that lopsided grin that takes me back to a hundred pinky swears we made on summers so long ago. Smiling, I hold my hand up and feel his warm finger hook around mine.

  He gives it a little shake and pulls away.

  “All right. A while back, I was part of an op that put away a big-time meth manufacturer in the OKC. He did hard time and wound up being sentenced for life. That tattoo’s connected to one of the big gangs in the state pen. I’d know it anywhere.”

  This is getting freakier by the second. I take a sip of strawberry flavored courage and shake my head as I swallow.

  “And you think he’s out now? After you?”

  “Not him. The dude who got life died while he was in the pen, but there were a lot of people in his network.” His eyes glow darkly. “This man’s brother, he’s still behind bars, locked up in another cell back in Oklahoma. You’d better believe he’ll come looking for revenge if he’s let out.”

  “Jesus. You’re being, like...cased?” I only know that word from watching TV mysteries and I’m not even sure it’s right.

  He leans forward, giving me this feral look, those huge, powerful hands folded in front of him.

  “Yes. I just wanted you to know so you’ll be extra cautious. Always keep one eye in the back of your head.

  Eep.

  My throat feels dry as cotton and I reach for the shake again.

  “Um, I’ll try,” I whisper, still trying to process everything.

  “Please do. And you call me whenever you’re going around these parts with the goats. Pickups, drop-offs, tune-ups, whatever. I want to know about it, you hear?”

  I nod firmly.

  That guy today was a major creepazoid, but the others were all nice, normal people. It seems like overkill.

  “I don’t know, Quinn. Seems like I’d be calling you nonstop for every job. You don’t have time for that, do you?”

  He sits back in his chair as the waitress arrives and asks how the meal was. We both give her rave reviews as she takes the plates away to box up our leftovers.

  “Trust me.” While pulling out his wallet, he looks at me. “I do have time for that. Besides, it won’t be forever. In a few weeks, I’ll have the house ready to sell and you’ll be healed up, safely back in Chicago.”

  I don’t like the sound of that one bit.

  Sighing, I pick up my purse. “I’m paying, remember? I owe you one.”

  Before he can object, I stand and speed-walk to the cash register near the door. There, I lay out my money on the counter, tell the waitress thanks again, return to grab our food, and walk to the door.

  Quinn tries to give me cash as we walk outside, and I push it back in his hand.

  And by push, I don’t even move him an inch, but I hope he gets the message.

  “Quinn, no. Dancing was not only time consuming; it paid pretty well, especially in Chicago.” That’s a small stretch, but I was comfortable, especially living at home without the city’s brutal rent.

  If I had to pay my parents back for the lessons they’d shelled out money for over the years, I wouldn’t have a dime to my name, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  And right now, Quinn Faulkner also doesn’t need to know I’m a little freaked over this inmate with a grudge, either.

  Not scared for me.

  For him.

  6

  Goat A Helping Hand? (Faulkner)

  Talk about a botched plan.

  Shit. Why had I told her any of this? Why did I decide to open my big mouth, much less run it to an early grave?

  Why the hell can’t I have one—just one—nice, easy, laugh-it-up evening with Tory Three Names like old times?

  It’s like we’re frigging jinxed.

  The whole threat feels like a curse, anyway.

  I put Jake Pickett in jail to rot years ago. Now his brother Bat is paying for any and all intel on me, probably planning to hire a hatchet man to put the axe in my skull if he doesn’t do it himself whenever he gets out.

  That doesn’t mean I need to spill my guts and scare the living shit out of the little lady, though.

  It’s just...fuck, it’s Tory.

  Way back when, when we were the summer munchkins, I’d been able to talk to her like nothing. Confide in her. Joke about any dumb thing.

  I’d been sent up to Gramps’ place for the entire summer that first time because Dad had it with my shit. I’d been suspended for fights at school three times. He barely talked the principal into stopping short of expelling my dumb ass.

  The year before, my ma died and my dad remarried awful fast. Far too quick for my liking.

  I hadn’t been a happy camper at all.

  Truthfully, I’d acted out like the teenage punk I was, so I got a one-way ticket to Dallas to cool my heels. I’d told Tory all about it one day, and she’d listened, without judgment or advice.

  Just listened with her heart.

  I guess that’s what I was hoping would happen here again. Especially when the stakes are a little bit higher than me working through some family grief.

  If Bat Pickett comes calling with a mark on my head, then I just became radioactive to everybody close to me.

  I climb in the pickup feeling like mud, shut the door, and turn to her.

  “You aren’t in any danger, Tory. Not yet. I promise I won’t let anything happen.” My words come out strained, this growl that surprises even me. “I’ve got people who can help, and I’m gonna take care of this. Didn’t mean to get you all stirred up over nothing.”

  “I’m not worried about being in danger, Quinn. This is Dallas, North Dakota. Not Dallas, Texas. Not even Heart’s Edge...did you hear about the insanity that happens out there?”

  Damn her, I smile.

  “Yeah, who hasn’t? If only I could hire a couple of those Montana boys to lick that shady fuck behind bars. But I’m thinking they’re enjoying their retirement.”

  “Right. Kids around here still ride their bikes all over town. They know it’s time to go home when the streetlights switch on, and then sneak out to go swimming in the pond behind the park. Crazy murder mystery stuff doesn’t happen out here.”

  “Not counting what went down with Drake and Bella, Ridge and Grace, poor old Tobin, you mean...” I tick each name off with my fingers. “This town might be a speck on the map, but it’s not as quiet as it used to be, darlin’.”

  I’m not just trying to give her shit. She reminded me of something else the ins
tant she mentioned swimming in that pond.

  How I’d found her with the other kids, swimming in the city pond that last summer before I went off to serve Uncle Sam. Stripped down to their skivvies.

  She was too young, too perfect, too hot not to drill down in my brain and leave me with dirty damn dreams out the wazoo.

  I’d been twenty. Already too old to look at her with any longing.

  But hell, when she looked up and smiled with all that skin, asking if I was just gonna stand there all day with a stick up my butt or take off my shirt and dive in...

  I’d wanted to leap in and show her sassy little hind the palm of my hand.

  “Remember that? When you’d hauled me home to Granny after swimming?” she asks, flashing me a smile that drags my mind right back to her sweet, grown-up, all-too-enticing ass.

  I start the truck and back out of the parking spot.

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. You shouldn’t have been out that late. It was already almost sundown; the fireflies were coming out. And that pond is mostly for ice skating in the winter. It’s never been deep enough for real swimming, more like a soak,” I grumble, trying like hell to avoid thinking about how she’d look now in nothing but a bikini.

  “So? That never stopped you from joining in for all of ten or twenty minutes.”

  My throat catches on this little sputter.

  She isn’t wrong, but damn her if I’ll admit it.

  Damn her again if Tory ever finds out I practically dragged her home because I couldn’t take this other boy her age looking every time she turned around. I was on the brink of laying claim to every bit of her, and goddamn jealous, too.

  “I know you liked it,” she says. “My memory never lets me down.”

  “Sure. We all used that little hole to cool off when it got real humid,” I tell her.

  “I bet kids still mess around in the pond.”

  “I don’t. The party’s over.”

  “What? No way.” Her eyes light up adorably. “Why?”

  “Because Sheriff Wallace decided to step up park patrols a little while ago. Too many punks bringing their daddy’s six-packs there to slurp without even having the decency to clean up the cans. Can’t have minors getting drunk on public property or turning it into a dump.”