by Nicole Snow
I’m not sure why everyone thinks I need them to book my ticket.
I’m not completely helpless. I’ve just let others rule my life for so long, they think I can’t do it myself.
“What do you—”
“I’ll book my own damn flight when I’m good and ready,” I say coldly. “And I’ll call you again when I make a decision about the job.”
“It’s more than a job,” he tells me, as if I don’t already know it. “And you know how fast these things move, Tory. I—”
“Bye, Jean-Paul.” I cut him off and finger-punch the End Call icon.
“Jean-Paul Whats-the-schmuck?” Granny asks, sauntering around the corner. “What kind of job is that gutless fink offering you now?”
I turn around and shove my phone in my pocket as it dings with a text message.
One from Jean-Paul, no doubt.
Somehow, I doubt standing up for myself—something I’ve never done before—makes him any less relentless.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it, Gran.” My nerves are too frayed to go into all of that with Granny right now, so I change the subject. “What were you trying to cancel on the phone, anyway?”
Fair is fair.
If she can boldly eavesdrop on my conversations, it’s only fair I mention what I overhead, too.
“Oh, just a trip.” She gestures to the pocket holding my phone. “Is he trying to convince you to go home?”
“What sort of trip?” I press her again.
She huffs out a sigh and folds her tanned arms. “A cruise, if you must know, Miss Nosy. A large group of us from the senior center and VA got together and set up a little getaway.”
“Really? To where?”
“Alaska.”
“Whoa, awesome choice!” Then I remember something critical. “Wait. Why were you trying to cancel it?”
“The dates no longer work for me.” She plants her hands on her hips. “So now are you gonna tell an old woman what he wanted or not?”
Fine, fine.
“He offered me a position back home. Creative Dance Director. Higher level, more pay, lots more respect...” Lifting a brow, so she knows I want the truth, I say, “When’s your cruise?”
“Director? Sounds impressive.”
“It is,” I admit, but I’m not about to let her off the hook. “Granny, when?”
“Next week,” she says, chin up, looking directly at me.
Next whaaa—?
Oh, no.
My heart drops.
“You’re trying to cancel it because of me,” I say numbly. “Because I’m here.”
“Mm-hmm. Exactly where you need to be, young lady,” she says firmly. “Now, enough yammering about phone calls. What do you want for breakfast?”
10
Goat Me Down (Faulkner)
Eggplant.
I glance at the two swollen, downright ugly purple beasts in the seat next to me.
That’s the best I can come up with? Hauling around a vegetable that’s become a stand-in for every big dick joke ever spoken in emojis?
Talk about fucked up excuses.
Still, I couldn’t think of a better reason to see Tory, and see her I must.
I barely slept a wink last night.
When I wasn’t tossing and turning, thinking about kissing her, I was dreaming about doing a whole lot more than tongue fencing.
A cold shower was a must when I woke up this morning, temperature cranked to Siberian chill.
Fuck.
I know. I shouldn’t have kissed her last night and scared her off.
I’d fought the urge for so long, swore it’d never happen. My best efforts weren’t enough.
I’d lost the battle and maybe the whole war on that damn Ferris wheel ride.
My self-control, definitely obliterated.
Tory’s lips were so soft, warm and sweet and supple, everything I always knew I’d find after giving her that peach namesake like a fool so many years ago. It’s like teenage me set a colossal trap for grown-up me.
Damn if I didn’t enjoy myself, though, consequences aside.
Once I’d started in on those strawberry lips, once I’d laid my hands on her like a man, once I’d thrust my tongue in her mouth, leaving zero doubt what I wanted to do with more than lips...
I couldn’t stop for nothing.
You don’t get between a kiss that becomes a force of nature.
A grizzly bear with a jetpack coming at us on that ride couldn’t have pried my lips off Tory Three Names.
Thank all that’s holy we were on the Ferris wheel then.
If it was solid ground instead, I’d still have her chained up hostage in my bed.
Reason number one thousand why recklessly kissing my childhood friend can never, ever happen again.
Of course, I can’t leave her hanging, thinking it was her fault.
Or something.
I don’t really know what chicks think when dudes like me put our mouths where they don’t belong.
All I do know is, last night, as soon as that Ferris wheel stopped, she’d wanted nothing to do with me.
It hurt to see her run, even if she did it quietly and politely the whole way back to her place, before she bolted for the house like I had rattlesnakes in my hair.
Distance was clearly her goal, and I can’t blame her.
I need to apologize.
It’s Tory Coffey. I can’t have her hating me forever over one jackass slip.
Dean’s pickup is still in the driveway, the same workhorse truck she uses for the goats, so I know she’s home.
Before I second-guess my pathetic purple excuse to come here again, I pull in, park, and grab the eggplants, carrying them like they’re grenades.
Granny answers the door with a cheery smile.
“Good morning, Romeo.” Her grin fades the second she pushes open the screen door and sees what I’m holding. “What the hell? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing here with devil’s fruit?”
“Making up for the one you had to throw away last night.” I hold up the eggplants.
Her glare knifes right through me.
“Thank you, Quinn,” Tory says, stepping up shyly behind Granny. “That’s so nice of you.”
At least there’s a smile on her face, but her eyes look somber.
She reaches around Granny and takes the eggplants gingerly like they’re baby animals.
“Ohhh, you picked some good ones. We’ll have eggplant parmesan for sure tonight!”
Granny’s eyes widen. I can practically see the flames shooting out as she grabs my arm.
“Quinn said he’ll be joining us for supper tonight! He wisely brought along plenty for three,” she says as Tory walks to the kitchen.
I shake my head.
“Like hell you won’t,” Granny hisses. “If I have to eat that purple shit, so do you, son!”
“It can’t be that bad,” I whisper. “Pretty sure I’ve had it a time or two—”
“We’ll both find out tonight, won’t we?” Under her breath, she adds, “Jackass.”
I have to chuckle at her.
“Laugh it up now, barf later.” She yanks me inside. “Come have some coffee, though. Tory needs the company after the morning we’ve had.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“She’s just in a funk today,” Granny says with a sigh. “I’m sure it’s due to those calls from Chicago.”
Before we reach the kitchen, Tory, with Owl on her heels, steps into the hall.
“Quinn’s going to have coffee with us,” Granny says. “Fetch him an extra mug, please.”
“With you,” Tory says, stepping around us. “I have goats to round up.”
“I’m already wired for the day,” I tell Granny, pivoting on one heel to follow Tory.
“Is something wrong?” I ask once we’re outside.
She keeps walking toward Dean’s pickup without missing a beat.
“Nothing you should worry about, it’s just...it’s tim
e for goat duty.”
“Big jobs?” I wonder, trying to pierce through this evasive mask she’s wearing.
“Bigger one this afternoon.” She stops at the truck and pulls open the door. “The morning should be light. I’m doing city hall and the police station. Don’t think there’s much to clean up there. I’m pretty sure they just want the goats around for publicity.”
She sounds weirdly despondent and looks like it, too.
“Need help?” I ask. “I’m pretty free today if you—”
“Owl does all the real work, you know, I just—” She throws her arms in the air, clearly annoyed. “I just open the trailer, talk to people, and sign papers. Easy work as long as I’m not late for it.”
I gently lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Tory. What’s going on?”
She shakes her head, biting her bottom lip.
Fuck.
“Listen. I didn’t mean to stir shit up by showing up on your doorstep. Thought you’d get a kick out of the eggplants.” I give her a lopsided grin, feeling like the world’s biggest dummy right now.
She sighs, glancing back at the house.
“Goats and eggplants. What a life.” She lets out a raw laugh. “Might as well add raining on everybody’s parades too.”
“What parades?”
She snaps her fingers at Owl, gesturing him to get in the truck. “Granny. She tried canceling an Alaskan cruise with her friends because I’m here. Tying her down.”
“When’s the cruise?”
“Next week.” She throws her purse in the truck and climbs inside. “But it’s all right. She’s still going, and I’ll be gone by then.”
My heart hits my gut like a falling stone.
“Gone? You mean you’re going home?” I try not to growl my words.
“Maybe. I’ve been offered a promotion of sorts...a new job. Dance director for the studio. They won a contest to host some prestigious dance groups from around the world. Pretty much the dream.” An oddly sad smile digs at her cheeks.
It doesn’t sound much like the dream to me.
Not with the way she’s acting.
Yet I have to admit, her leaving town would solve my issues, like it or lump it.
If she goes back to Chicago, I won’t have to worry about her getting caught up in my Pickett mess.
And without having to run around town checking up on her, maybe I’ll get my head screwed on straight. I’ll finally be distraction free to hunt down that maniac the second he arrives, and if I’m lucky, keep him locked up for good.
Yeah.
I should be fucking happy as a lark.
So why does it feel like I’ve just been sucker punched square in the gut?
Tory pulls the door shut without another word and starts the truck.
I’m well aware we’ve ignored the three ton elephant in the room—the glaring fact that I kissed Tory Three Names like I own her and she can’t make heads or tails of it any better than I can.
Ass, I think to myself.
I question if I should follow her, but it’s clear she doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want me around. Doesn’t want anything except space to think about her problems, one of which is me.
How did I fuck this up so bad? A friendship we’d just reignited.
A friendship I’ve treasured having in my life again.
However it happened, I know one thing—asking questions doesn’t help.
If I ever want to fix this, I need more, and not from Granny.
With my head messed up, I head over to Dean’s place.
I need an updated list of jobs where she’ll be delivering the goats, plus Dean might know more about that Chicago job she’s been offered.
He’s in his garage, assembling what looks like...bee boxes?
Christ.
“Hey, Dean, what do we have there?”
“Bee boxes,” he answers, just like I thought, while pointing his hammer at a book titled, Beekeepin’ for the Total Fool. “Honey’s the new gold. Did you know that? All natural. Healthy. Cheap to mass produce. People love it. You can even make pretty candles out of the wax!”
I glance around. “Have you already ordered the bugs yet?”
“Nope.” He pats the top of one box. “I just bought these boxes from Jake Murray. He was gonna sell them at a garage sale, but I talked him down to a steal.”
“You do know Tory’s highly allergic to bees, don’t you?” I ask.
He sets down his hammer and blinks. “Nah, I didn’t know that.”
“At least that’s what her mother always told her.”
“Ah, hell, probably a lie, then,” Dean says with a laugh. “Gloria’s been making up nonsense ever since the day she brought Tory into the world, wanting to keep her under lock and key.”
“You sure?” I press.
It doesn’t take much to get Dean Coffey going.
“Yep, she smothers the poor gal, just like she does my brother. Why John ever married her, I’ll never know. She never was all that cute. Aw, what the hell am I saying? It was the money.”
“Come again?” I cock my head.
“That’s the real reason he married Gloria Redson-Riddle—her family was loaded. But she’s held on tight to those purse strings, doling out cash only when she wants to, and on what she wants.” He looks down at the boxes and shakes his head. “Tory won’t be here much longer, anyway. Gloria will be getting her way again soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has that stupid-ass calling Tory now, offering her a bigger job at the ballet,” he snarls, shaking his head.
“Tory told you about the job offer?” I ask.
“No, my ma called me a little bit ago. Told me all about Gene-Pete or whatever the hell he’s called baiting her back to misery.” He leans against the workbench and crosses his arms. “Nieces get a man in a special way. I love that girl, and I’ll tell you what, I’d rather shoot that bastard than look at him. He blew it once, and now he’s trying to make up for cheating on her.”
Cheating?
My spine stiffens. I need to make sure I heard him right.
“Cheating on who, Dean?”
“Tory, man. Pay attention.”
“Yeah, I figured. Hell. Who’s this guy you’re talking about, though?”
“Jean-Paul Delong. I think that’s how you say it. Even his name sounds like a stuck-up snail. That’s what he is, too. I met him once when Ma and I went to Chicago to watch Tory dance.” He whistles. “Never saw nothing like it. That girl can take the stage like a butterfly takes to the skies. Graceful. Beautiful. Real good at what she does. And how she can do it all on the very tips of her toes is beyond me. That crap’s gotta hurt.”
He pauses, smiling so wide I can’t help but smile back.
“She says it doesn’t,” he continues. “That you get used to it when you’ve been at it as long as her. She has grit. Just look what she’s done with those goats. Shame I’ll have to find those guys a new home this fall. Don’t know how I’ll even be able to finish the jobs I’ve got lined up without Tory around. See, my back—”
“This Jean-Paul dude,” I say, steering his conversation back where I want it. “He’s the one who offered Tory a new gig in Chicago?”
“Yeah. He was the dancin’ director or whatever of the company she danced for, and...” He huffs out a heavy breath. “And he was Tory’s boyfriend for a while. Mostly ’cause Gloria wanted him to be Tory’s man. It was prestigious for her daughter to be dating the director. That’s all Gloria’s ever cared about. Titles and status. How much higher she can get her nose stuck up in the breeze.”
A wave of jealousy strikes me so hard my jaw goes tight.
“They were serious then? And you said he cheated on her?”
“Afraid so. Prick even messed around with the dancer who caused her accident, the one that tore her knee all up. Now he’s calling our girl, offering her some big fancy-sounding job. All so she’ll come lick his boots.” Dean slaps the c
ounter behind him. “I’ll tell you the real reason he’s doing it. It’s so Gloria won’t pull away the money if he doesn’t listen. She’s been propping up the arts and cultures with big donations for years, including his shady ass, usually with Tory none the wiser.”
Sonofa...
Well. That explains Tory’s behavior today.
Why her dream job isn’t much of a dream.
I feel the same way as Dean. I’d rather show Jean-Paul Delong the business end of a shotgun than look at him, and I don’t even know the fuck.
I’m sure as hell not gonna let Tory get stung by him a second time, lured into games bound to bruise the heart.
“Where’s she taking the goats today?” I ask. It’s not my place to butt into her life, but someone needs to, and it might as well be me. “And the ones she’s picking up today? I’m just wondering if she needs a hand.”
“A couple city places this morning, then Neuman’s Dairy this afternoon,” Dean says. “It’s a big job. They’ve got major acreage. It’ll probably take the entire tribe a couple weeks to clear everything. If she’s gone, I’ll have to wrap it up myself.”
Which wouldn’t be the end of the world, but there’s no use in telling that to a man who believes honey’s the new gold.
“Chalk it up as another good reason not to order bees,” I say.
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right about that, this already feels like a lot of work.” He throws down his hammer. “So much for beekeepin’.”
I walk to the door. “Wise choice, Dean. Bee farming isn’t as easy as it sounds. It’s a helluva lot of work. My grandpa did it for years, and trust me, he didn’t get rich.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You’re also awful nice to offer a helping hand with the goats, but I can’t afford to put you on payroll.”
“Don’t worry about it. Favor for a friend,” I say, and then I turn, quickly heading for my truck.
There’s nothing worse than having to play superhero, but duty calls.
If I have to save Peach from everything fixing to mess up her life—Jean-Paul the Snail, Bat Pickett, and my own dumbass—then so be it.
I just hope I’m not too late to come out of this without her hating me.
