The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “Ah, what might have been,” Gran clucks. “You’d have made a fine one if your lovely mother was just as obsessed with country music as she is with ballet.”

  I smile because she has a point.

  And before I know it, we’re at the classiest little fashion boutique in town. I end up finding a white shirt with silver pearl snaps, white fringe, and yes, freaking rhinestones.

  Since I’m stuck now, I also buy a pair of my own dress boots, rather than wearing Granny’s pink-stitched ones. A pair of black jeans gets added to the bill to round out the ensemble.

  I’m ashamed to admit I love the clothes more than I should.

  Even the gaudy rodeo shirt Granny almost staples to my skin.

  After we get home, I head out with Owl to check on the goats we’d delivered this morning, starting with a quick supervised job at the rental properties to clear out the weeds.

  Thankfully, no sign of Carolina or trouble.

  Since then, we’ve divided the tribe up on a couple small jobs they’re working simultaneously.

  The first place we stop at belongs to a young couple, where the goats are busy clearing out a fenced-in area for their sheep. As we pull in, the husband and wife are standing near the barn door, giving friendly waves.

  The building needs plenty of work, but I can see these two turning the place into their hobby farm dream in no time.

  “Hello, hello!” the wife shouts. She’s a petite woman with curly black hair.

  “Morning, folks!” Owl leaps out behind me after I park. “Just stopped by to check on our friends. How’re they doing?”

  “Hungry little guys! They’re doing fine, though,” the husband answers, leading us toward the barn. He’s tall with a shaved head. “Until a few minutes ago, I guess. We heard a big crash and ran out here. They knocked down the back door, and now they’re all inside the barn.”

  “Oh, crap. I’m so sorry.” I glance up at the blue sky, noting a thick cluster of clouds on the horizon.

  I should’ve known.

  “It’s going to rain,” I say flatly.

  Husband and wife look at each other, then at me, like I’ve just lost my mind.

  Hard to blame them.

  My weather prediction wouldn’t have made any sense to me a week ago, either. Not before Quinn Faulkner and a gate over a ditch gave me a lesson I’ll never forget about goats and rainstorms.

  “They can sense it coming,” I tell them as Owl trots ahead to the barn door and I gesture at the clouds rolling in briskly. “They like to take cover and stay dry before any big storms roll in.”

  “Really?” the husband asks. “Well, that explains a thing or two.”

  “For sure. And I hope they didn’t do too much damage to the barn door.” I hold my breath.

  We’re insured, but dealing with goat-caused property damage doesn’t seem the least bit fun.

  “Nah, no problem, that thing was already about to fall right off. We just hurried out here when we heard the commotion because we didn’t want them breaking down this door. It’s not in much better condition, but we thought they might escape.”

  “No, they’ll stay put until the rain stops, usually.” I nod toward the door, which only has one hinge. “Hey, I can help you secure that door, though, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Thanks, ma’am, but I can secure it just fine,” the man tells me. “It’s good knowing what spooked them to take cover, though.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind if we ever get our own herd one fine day.” His wife laughs. “We’re learning more about real-life heartland farming every day. We did our time on the organic farms as WWOOFers in Hawaii, but this is pretty different.”

  “I’m learning too,” I admit. “So, besides breaking into the barn, did they clean everything up?”

  “They’re doing great so far! Looks like they have a little left, but you can leave them overnight if you want. The kids love watching them, and they’re pestering us to get a couple of our own once we’re ready for some animals.” The woman smiles at the man. “If we left it up to the kids, this place would be like Noah’s Ark.”

  Her hubby nods. “I’m gonna grab a hammer and some nails before the rain hits. Thanks for stopping by,” he tells me. “We appreciate it.”

  “Call if you need anything or have more trouble with them,” I tell him.

  After visiting with the woman for a few more minutes, I whistle for my dog and we leave.

  My mind shifts to the other goats as the rain picks up, hitting the windshield in fat waves.

  The ones back at a rental cabin have trees to gather under, but the farmer with the empty lot worries me. I’d left him three goats, and he’d just had an old corn crib leveled, leaving almost nothing except overgrown brush and weeds.

  I give him a quick call. Fortunately, the man tells me they’re just fine after taking shelter in an old storage shed with a tin roof.

  While we’re talking, I think about the clothes I bought this morning, and if I’ll go to the rodeo.

  I’ll never hear the end of it from Gran if I don’t.

  But I also wonder...would Quinn ever ask me on a real date?

  It’s silly. I don’t even know if he’s a rodeo kinda guy.

  I’ll go if he asks, but if he doesn’t, I’ll skip it.

  Silly, I said.

  And it’s extra silly that he’s stuck on an endless loop of handsome enigma in my brain.

  I’d purposefully stepped closer to him more than once at his place, especially while we were working on the swing.

  If he was interested...

  Let’s just say he had ample opportunity for a kiss.

  At one point, I’d thought it might happen when we sat on the swing together. His gaze was glued to the stars for most of the conversation, this far-off look in his bottomless green eyes.

  But every time he looked at me, they twinkled so much brighter than the sky.

  He was full of kind words and sexy half glances he probably didn’t give a second thought to.

  Exactly the kinda glances putting awful ideas in my head, filling it with crazy wishes I’m sure we’d both regret the second after they came true.

  I mean, nothing happened.

  End of story.

  In fact, when he’d dropped me off, he couldn’t seem to get away fast enough.

  I should be glad he’s always been the careful one.

  “Guess I’d better face the facts,” I tell Owl. “He’s interested in being friends for old time’s sake, and it’s probably for the best, right?”

  Owl turns his head and stares at me with big dark almond eyes, his monster of a tongue rolling out.

  “Quinn,” I clarify. “He’s not interested in wagging his tongue like you are. As much as I might wish it was different...it’s not. Tell me I should be happy? I’m not a casual fling kinda girl. That isn’t why I’m here. Despite what Granny thinks, that won’t solve anything. It’d just make my life a whole lot worse.”

  Owl lets out a single loud yip.

  I turn the corner and head up the same street that veers off toward Carolina’s rental house, and the empty lot we finished this morning. It’s raining harder now, a proper shower, and I click the wipers up a notch.

  I really hope the goats are okay at all three properties. There’s no telling what Hellboy might do if he gets antsy or scared.

  He hasn’t done anything curse-worthy since the butt-gate incident, but that doesn’t mean he’s earned my trust.

  Between the wipers swishing across the windshield, clearing away the drops, I decide to turn down the street and drive by the rental houses. If I can confirm that ratty old truck belonging to the gross guy with the gun is gone, it might set my mind at ease, and Quinn’s too.

  As soon as we’re going past, I notice a pickup in Carolina’s driveway, but it’s not the beat-up truck from yesterday.

  A blue pickup I know too well.

  Quinn’s.

  What the hell?

  My heart doe
sn’t know how to react. My brain starts rifling through reasons he’d be here.

  More trouble with the man he confronted?

  More shady business he’s scoping out?

  More interested in that skank than he let on?

  No way. I can’t believe he’s the least bit into Carolina, but why else would he be here if it isn’t trouble?

  A nervous twitch in my belly makes the decision for me.

  I pull over on the side of the road so the trailer isn’t blocking the driveway. Ignoring Quinn’s truck, I scan the empty lot.

  Nothing seems too out of the ordinary.

  It’s the same quiet, melancholy-looking old house with a few pieces of junk on the porch and spilling out into the front yard. No different than yesterday, really.

  I should be satisfied, and leave to go check on the other goats, or at least call the clients. Shuffling back to the truck, I get in and grab the keys, but someone steps up to the passenger door, just a silhouette in the rain.

  My heart shoots into my throat.

  Wait.

  Quinn.

  A hiss of relief slips out as I hit the unlock button.

  “Jump in the back, Owl,” he says, opening the door.

  For being the size of a small pony, the dog is graceful and lumbers into the back seat while Quinn climbs in and shuts the door.

  “This rain came out of nowhere,” he says. “Is that why you’re here? Driving around to check on the goats and you saw my truck?”

  “Sure,” I say, holding back the burning need to ask why he’s here. Mainly because I don’t want to find out if he’s interested in Carolina for some ungodly reason.

  “Have you spoken to Dean today?” he asks.

  “Not since this morning. Why?”

  “Damn, I thought he’d mention it.” He huffs out a breath. “Well, I stopped by his place this morning.”

  Noting a harshness in his tone, I shift in my seat, studying his features, the worried frown lines etched on his forehead. His chiseled jaw looks like it’s about to crack.

  The tension makes me shiver.

  “What’s wrong? Is Uncle Dean all right? Did something happen?” I try to keep my voice soft, anything to soothe the beast staring at me.

  “He’s fine, and yes, something happened.” He looks at me with eyes of dark emerald, secretive and stern.

  “You’re scaring me, Quinn.”

  His death-stare eases just slightly.

  “Look, I...I’m sorry, Peach.” He slowly sighs. “I stopped by to talk to Carolina, but she ain’t home. Or else she isn’t answering her door. Figures.”

  “What does that have to do with Uncle Dean?” I’m genuinely confused.

  “Turns out, some clown in an old Dodge was sneaking around your uncle’s place last night. Dean was watching TV when he heard noises and ran outside with his shotgun. He sat out there till morning waiting for trouble.” He stares at his truck in the driveway. “I think it was that lowlife chickenshit who was staying here. So I stopped by to see what I could learn.”

  “Who, that Marvin guy? Joker tattoo man?”

  He nods. “Marvin Heckles. That’s his name. I’ve been digging into his background.”

  “And?” I shake my head. “Why would he have been at Uncle Dean’s?”

  “Trying to make a connection between you and me,” Quinn growls. “I was afraid that I hadn’t seen the end of him, but don’t you worry. The sheriff’s on the lookout for his shitbox Dodge, and I sent Drake Larkin over to your uncle’s place. Told ’em to keep it quiet and friendly so Dean doesn’t raise a fuss over involving the cops. Drake’s helping put up some surveillance cameras in case anyone comes sneaking around again. Same ones he used to help Bella once, and then loaned to Ridge last year.”

  A chill knifes through me, and not from the rain still pelting the windshield.

  “Okay. And what aren’t you telling me?”

  He freezes, those green eyes glowing like brilliant jade.

  “Peach, I—”

  “Don’t you dare hold out on me, Quinn Faulkner. I know there’s more. You’re barely a better liar than I am.”

  For a second, he pauses, then lets out a soft growl through his faint smile.

  “Heckles is a snake from Texas, originally. He’s got a nasty record, a string of crimes, mostly petty thefts and drug dealing in Oklahoma, where he did some time and picked up that shitty tattoo.”

  “The same prison as that guy you put away? Just like you thought?”

  “Unfortunately, and now I’m sure Heckles isn’t working alone. That’s why I wanted to talk to Carolina. Pick her screwed up brain, find out where she snagged him, and whatever else she’ll tell me.”

  Dang.

  I must be a sick person for ever thinking he came over here for anything besides that. But knowing he wanted to chat up Carolina about the thug makes me happy.

  Maybe Dad was right.

  I’m only causing trouble by staying here, getting myself worked up over nothing, stressing over a crush I swore I squelched years ago.

  And now I’m chasing ghosts of butterflies and getting up in his very serious, very dangerous business.

  Would it be better for everyone if I was back in Chicago?

  “What should I do?” I wonder out loud, biting my bottom lip.

  “There’s no reason they’d want to hurt you or any of your kin,” Quinn says, reaching over. “Don’t worry, Tory. I’m not gonna let this bastard chase you home before you’re ready.”

  My heartbeat stalls as his fingers touch my chin, gently tilting my face up, right into the storm of his eyes.

  Can he read my mind?

  The fact that I’m even asking the question tells me I’m off my rocker.

  “They only want info on me. They’ll want to keep it clean and quiet, and getting tangled up with anybody else complicates that,” he says, dropping his hand but keeping that bright-eyed gaze on me.

  “And what will they do with that info?” I whisper, my hands gripping my thighs.

  “Sell it.”

  I do a double take.

  “Sell it? What do you mean—”

  “That’s how shit works in the prison system. Everything has a price, and you can bet any man who’s currently locked up looking for intel on me is willing to pay through the nose.”

  Just then, a rusty old car pulls up in the driveway, and Carolina gets out with a sneer on her face.

  “Sweet, there’s Miss Congeniality. I have to go,” Quinn says, opening his door. “See you later, Peach.”

  My insides do a weird somersault as I watch him walk up to Carolina, and again when he fights her off after she tries looping an arm through his.

  Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder as if to say I’ve got this, they head for her house.

  8

  Just Goat Real (Faulkner)

  Three Years Ago

  He’s a freak of nature, but then, as I’d learn soon enough, both Pickett brothers are.

  Across the table, Jake Pickett towers over everyone, even sitting down.

  I’m a tall man myself, and so is Ted Goode, the senior police investigator at my side, but we’re nothing against this titan in a suit that must’ve cost a fortune to custom tailor for his size.

  He’s over seven feet tall. Tattooed hands with fingers so long they look more like ropes. A set of harsh eyes set deep in his head, more like a hawk’s than a human being’s.

  Now I know how David felt facing down Goliath.

  Only, in this case, Goliath has one hell of a lawyer—if only he’d let him do the talking.

  “Jake, please, if you’d allow me to talk to them like we agreed—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Jake snarls, whipping his face around until the ant of a lawyer sinks into his chair. Then that harsh gaze is on me again. “Listen, Fed, I haven’t done shit, and I know you know it. If you had anything on me, I’d already be in handcuffs. I came here as a courtesy.”

  I look at him coldly, wishing
like hell that were the case.

  “Of course. Your lawyer, Mr. Tweedy, kindly responded to our information request hoping to clear your name,” I say, folding my hands, leaning forward into his I-will-kill-you stare. “As you know, Oklahoma City Police have arrested a number of laundromat owners in the area this past year with evidence of illegal weapons deals and large caches of methamphetamine. What’s curious is this—your name comes up as a repair contractor for all six businesses. However, considering their accounts omit any references to receipts paid to Pickett and Fix-It Appliance Repair...we’re wondering how that works.”

  “Objection!” Tweedy sits up, stiff as a board. “My client overpaid his taxes the last three years, as the returns show. There’s hardly anything suspicious about messy bookkeeping for a man as busy as Jake Pickett and the fine establishments he services, so I’d argue the nonexistent receipts, invoices, or whatever paperwork you’re looking for simply isn’t relevant.”

  Prick.

  “We’re also wonderin’ why trucks registered to you showed up overnight on cameras at several of the places, and pretty darn consistently too,” Ted, the investigator, says at my side. “Just how often, Mr. Pickett, do laundry machines need servicin’?”

  I turn slowly. I’d expected Ted to save the real gotcha question for the end, like we’d discussed. The fact that he’s dragging it out into the open now seems risky.

  Still, I nod firmly, playing my favorite role as bad cop.

  “Pretty damn often if they’re as old and shitty and run-down as the units around here. You boys stupid or something? Do you know how many loads those places handle every single day?” Jake glowers, his brow furrowed, completely ignoring the puppy dog looks from his lawyer to keep his mouth shut.

  Keep talking, asshole. Help us dig your grave, I think to myself.

  “Interesting,” I whisper, flipping through a couple pages in front of me. “Because it says right here, the Bumblebee Laundromat in Midtown got all new high-capacity machines a couple years ago. And they came with warranties from the supplier. So, Mr. Pickett, you care to explain why your repair crews showed up there five times last month?”