The Best Friend Zone

Brutal.

Not that I can fully blame her old man for having a stick up his ass on this one. The old place was called The Den, and it definitely attracted a rougher crowd. Old Wylie, the owner then, kept a shotgun behind the bar, though I don’t think he ever put it to good use.

It dawns on me that the Tory back then and the one sitting here have one thing in common.

She always followed the rules to the letter, and she still does it now because she hates disappointing people.

That’s why I caught her that day at Gramps’ house, holding a half-broken stick with a runny honeycomb on the ground. Bawling her eyes out and blubbering apologies when I so much as asked what the hell she was doing with the bees.

“It’s a cooler bar now, even if it still attracts a younger, single crowd,” I say. “Grady worked his way up to owning this place not long ago after working here forever. He upgraded it into a real honky tonk. Not the wannabe biker bar it was before.”

“Big upgrade if the stories are true.” Shaking her head, she adds, “Seriously, though…it’s nice. I like the woodwork and the décor. Old signs and antiques and just a few off-color jokes. It’s pretty rustic. Fits nicely here in Dallas.”

“That’s what Grace does. Ridge’s wife. She helped Grady polish up the interior about a couple months ago.”

“Awesome. It shows.” She nods and then looks at me. “So, I almost called you this afternoon when I saw the bridge from the road to the gate while checking up on the goats, but…I figured you already knew about it.”

I nod and feel slightly odd, detecting she’s not real happy about the bridge.

“Did you try it out? Ridge just had it installed. Somebody couldn’t help but mention what a hazard that ditch can be.”

“Oh, I did! So did Owl. It makes the job much safer, that’s for sure.”

“Good,” I tell her, taking a long, thoughtful pull off my beer.

Maybe that disgruntled hint in her voice earlier was just my imagination.

Tory glances around at the full tables and barstools. “Looks like the new owner is pulling in some good business.” Holding up her glass, she adds, “The beer’s good. Probably twice the amount you’d get back home for the same price.”

“I figured you for a wine gal,” I say, taking another sip of beer.

“I’m flexible. Literally. Before my injury, I used to be able to touch my shin to my head.”

Holy fuck.

Not the image I need right now.

It’s suddenly a feat to choke down my brew without spewing it everywhere.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I mutter. Ignoring my dick pulling at my jeans, I take another furious slurp off my beer. “When did you stop coming to Dallas, anyhow?”

“Right after I turned eighteen. I graduated high school and then went off to college in Chicago, because of dancing with the ballet and—” She clamps her lips tight and shakes her head. “Well, nothing too exciting.”

“Do your parents still live in the city?” I ask, wondering if that’s what made her clam up.

I know how hard they used to drive her. Her ma, especially, was a stickler for perfect grades and a list of extracurriculars so long it got exhausting just hearing about it.

“Oh, yeah, they’ll never leave while they’ve got a pulse,” she says, perking up. “How about your family? Are they still in Oklahoma?”

“Nah, Dad retired a couple years ago and they moved to Hawaii.”

“Beautiful place! How about your brother? Where’s he at now?”

I’m amazed she remembers so much about me. Alan never spent the summers here, but I’d mentioned him to her years ago.

Hell, I’d mentioned a lot of things. She’d always been so easy to talk to, not mean or judgmental like other kids. A true friend when I’d needed one.

I smile. “Guess my whole family just got sick of living in the lower forty-eight states. He moved up to Alaska a while ago. He’s a bush pilot now and loves it to death. Married with two kids.”

“Wow. Good for him.” She lays her chin on her palm, genuinely interested in my family’s boring moves.

Damn.

I’ve never felt unsure around Tory before, yet I’m beginning to sense this weird tension that wasn’t there yesterday.

“What about you and your dancing? I heard bits and pieces from Granny. Sounds like a hell of an accomplishment. Dancing with a prestigious ballet group and living your dream.” That’s the way her grandmother put it, anyway.

She shrugs. “Yes and no. It was my dream, but like everything else…dreams aren’t always all they’re cut out to be.”

“Is it your knee?” I venture, hoping it’s not a touchy subject. “I can see how that’d put a person out of commission, no matter how talented.”

She empties her beer and sets the glass down with a loud thump.