The Best Friend Zone

I know for certain it’s been done. When Ridge and Tobin find out there’s anything they can do to upgrade their property, they’re on it.

Now I’m looking forward to Tory’s reaction, whenever she sees it.

I shouldn’t be so impatient. What’s waiting a little longer for her to call?

I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, like replenishing my kitchen.

Walking along the meat aisle of the grocery store, I absently grab at packages, making sure I hit all the major food groups.

Beef. Chicken. Pork. Sausage. Salmon. Bacon.

More bacon.

My freezer needs to be stocked. Working day and night, I’ve barely left the house, trying to wrap up the kitchen remodel I’ve been picking at since late spring.

The rest of the house will need minor stuff. New doors, trim, fresh paint. The floors and windows were done last year. Same for the siding and new porch.

“Wellll, if it isn’t Quinn Faulkner!” a familiar voice chirps, announcing my presence to the whole store.

I’m already wearing a grin when I turn around.

“Hello, Granny.” My smile widens when I notice two helmets in her shopping cart, both with white and yellow daisies painted on them.

The knowing glance I share with Tory nearly makes me burst out laughing.

“Look at this cart, young man,” Granny says, clucking her tongue. She shoves her hands inside, lifting out a couple meat packages. “Meat, more meat, and chips? Not a fruit or vegetable in sight. Shameful.”

I pick up two bottles and hold them out. “Hot sauce is made of peppers, Granny Coffey. Peppers are a vegetable, last I checked. Plus, catsup, tomatoes, technically a fruit. Unless scientists have started giving plants the Pluto treatment.”

Tory bites her lips together as she swallows her laughter.

“Nice try. Since you mentioned Pluto—still a planet, forever, by the way—your nonexistent veggies are just as invisible to the naked eye.” Granny plants her hands on her hips, eyeballing me with the same bright-blue eyes she shares with her granddaughter. “Are you still working day and night at your grandfather’s place?”

She’s wearing a neon orange shirt, white ankle-length jeans, and high-heeled sandals. Her hair is dyed dark brown, and her skin is as tan as a teenager’s. All in all, she looks good for her age, but it’s her personality that wins everybody over.

This woman’s not afraid to tell anyone how a bear shits in the woods.

“It’s keeping me busy,” I tell her, eyeing my stolen bacon.

“Along with your detective work,” she says. “Tell me, has anyone had you MacGyver anything with a sausage yet? You’ve got enough to feed three grown men, so surely there’s some to spare.”

I glance at Tory, who has a brow lifted.

“Hardly. And those side gigs of mine ought to stay quiet if I want folks to hire me,” I tell her. “Enough with the rumors.”

I give her a friendly wink.

Honestly, I’m grateful for the detective jobs. Mainly for something to do besides swing a hammer, lay tile, and put in countertops. It keeps me paid and comfortable in a town where jobs don’t grow on career trees.

“They aren’t rumors and you know it.” She’s pulling lettuce, cucumbers, bananas, peaches, and other vegetables and fruits out of her cart and putting them in mine. “You should show Tory what you’ve done with the old place.” Setting a basket of strawberries in my cart, Granny looks at her. “You’d like a trip down memory lane, wouldn’t you?”

“Um, Gran…you just put all the groceries into Quinn’s cart,” Tory says, avoiding the question. “It took you twenty minutes to pick them out.”

“Isn’t that kind of me? Making sure he has the very best in the store.” Granny looks at me. “Tory’s not busy tonight, Quinn.” The old gal wags her painted-on eyebrows once. “She’ll be home alone while I go to the senior center. It’s bridge night.”

“Gran!” Tory hisses.

Holding in a chuckle, I pick up the strawberries to put back in her cart, but she wheels it behind her, safely out of my reach.

Damn, she’s good.

Inwardly groaning, I drop the berries back in my cart to keep the peace. “Bridge night? Don’t you mean Texas Hold ‘em?”

She gives me a dull look from beneath her lashes. False ones, I’m sure.

“I know Wilson,” I remind her. The old man who deals cards for the seniors at the center is also a regular at the Purple Bobcat, my favorite watering hole in town.

Shrugging, Granny nods.

“He’s an excellent dealer in all the games worth playing. I do believe he spent some time working one of the big casinos in Vegas years ago.” She turns and grabs the handle on her cart, spinning it around. “Come on, Tory! We have to get to aisle one before Thelma Simon gets all the good strawberries!”

“Sorry,” Tory mouths as she turns to follow her grandmother, so mortified she’s gone pale.

Hilarious.

“You can pick her up at seven,” Granny whispers loudly over her shoulder. “She’s never been to the new Purple Bobcat. Not since Wylie sold the place off and Grady made it his baby. Show her a good time, won’t you?”