The Best Friend Zone

He chuckles. It’s such a nice manly sound and fills me with an odd sense of longing for something I missed.

Whether he’s desperate to give me the brush-off or not, I can’t say I’m not enjoying this.

I’ve missed him like hell.

“Still working that out, Peach. Just between you and me, it feels nice to settle down and whittle away at a slower place, even if it ain’t forever. Bureau work gets sticky, draining, dangerous,” he says, his profile glowing with the shadows at dusk, accenting that strong, able jawline peppered with stubble.

“Ever land any big-time bad guys? Like bin Laden or Ted Bundy kinda stuff?” I ask, studying him in the creeping darkness.

“The assholes I was after were more like little El Chapos with none of his mystique. Usually crossed paths plenty of times with the DEA, but the details are classified. All I’ll say is Oklahoma and Texas are big places. They’re crawling with dirty, well-organized scum always looking for their next payoff.” His voice drops to low thunder and a chill sweeps up my spine. “Hell, even this little town’s had its worries. Just ask Drake Larkin or sit down with Ridge and Grace.”

“Yeah, I heard…some kinda mafia drug thing, right?” I blink as he nods, gobsmacked at how some people seem cursed with the wrong kind of excitement. “Granny gave me little bits and pieces about Bella, too. It’s cool that she landed herself a badass cop.”

“Yep. Dude married her before they said hello, no thanks to her grandpa putting it in his will. Wild shit. Drake’s a great guy, though. They’ve got themselves a little girl and a hundred bucks says he’ll run for sheriff one day when old Rodney Wallace steps down.”

“I can’t imagine. Makes my worries seem like nothing,” I say idly, hoping he doesn’t latch on to that.

“Gotta ask you about that bike you ride with Granny before I forget,” he says. “I’ve heard they can be tricky.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” I laugh. “Once you get the hang of it, it’s fine. But the first few starts are rough. Helmets are a must. It’s a little like dancing, really. One person has to lead, the other has to follow, or it just doesn’t work.”

“I hadn’t noticed it around town before. When did Granny get it?”

“Pretty much the week I arrived. She’d ordered it through Wayne’s Hardware, and Uncle Dean picked it up. This was before his big back blowout, of course.”

“Gotcha,” he says with a knowing wink.

The rest of the ride home is actually decent. We spend our time talking about bikes, the hand-me-downs we’d ride through town when we were younger, and share a few words about the locals who’d either give us fresh-baked brownies or come out with their fist raised and a warning to stay off the damn lawn.

In a little town like this, you get to know real fast how folks treat company when you’re a kid trying to find ways to pass a lazy summer.

“Thanks again for the beer,” I tell him, opening the passenger door once we’re in the driveway leading up to Gran’s lilac-colored house. It’s been that mellow shade for as long as I can remember, along with the white trim and shutters that have these cute breezy hearts carved in them.

Quinn opens his door before I have a chance to step out.

Walking me to the door isn’t necessary, I want to tell him, but it’s Quinn. Even as a boy he was Mr. Gentleman, and it’s adorable he hasn’t lost it with age.

Not like Jean-Paul, who’d get me a taxi or an Uber and slap the hood as a signal for the driver to leave.

Maybe it’s the whole Army-turned-FBI thing. It must’ve cemented whatever basic chivalry he grew up with in his bones.

As we both arrive near the front of the truck, I wave at the overhead door. “I’ll go in through the garage. I can use the keypad. Think there’s a jug of cider Granny wants brought in.”

“Call me when it’s time to round up the goats,” he says while we head for the garage.

Holy hell.

Not what I expected him to say but…what if he’s just being nice?

I nod, too tangled up to think. Way too conflicted over this long-lost friend I swear to God I’m not still crushing on.

But with the bridge to the gate installed, even if he’s being real, there’s no good reason to bother him.

I probably shouldn’t see him again.

Not until I put a leash on my runaway thoughts, at least.

Comparing him to Jean-Paul seems like the quickest, craziest way to ruin a friendship, after all.

We arrive at the garage and I punch in the code.

“Need help with that cider?” he says, flexing one arm and turning his nose up like a cartoon sailor.

“Ha, no! I can still lift five pounds without going to pieces,” I tell him. “Thanks again for tonight, Quinn. It was fun.”