The Best Friend Zone

And I actually mean it by the time I dash inside the garage as the door is still going up. I grab the cider and beeline it to the door, then hit the close button so the overhead door slips back down.

I don’t look back.

Even if I know he’s not the type to linger—especially if he really does have a fire to put out somewhere—having his eyes on my backside makes me feel some kinda way I shouldn’t be feeling.

God, what if it’s all in my head?

And I’m here, acting like a jealous-scorned-crazy person over nothing?

A heavy sigh rolls out of me as I shove the door open and stomp into the house.

The worst part is, Granny will be bursting with questions about my evening when she gets home.

Not the kind I want to dwell on.

So I grab one of the cinnamon apple muffins she made this morning, wolf it down, and head straight to bed.

Maybe if I sleep on it, I’ll forget all about caring what Quinn Faulkner thinks of me.

The interrogation I’d avoided by turning in early last night catches up with me come morning.

Granny fires questions off faster than she pedals her bike before she’s even poured my coffee.

Isn’t he the sweetest thing?

Didn’t I adore Grady’s bar?

And when—damn her—am I going to see that handsome young man again?

She’s also quick to remind me we have a history. Totally unlike any of those “lazy, good-for-nothing” boys who don’t know how to treat a real woman back in the Windy City.

Yeah.

Shoot me.

A bit of screaming hot lead couldn’t be worse than feeling my face turning into a cherry tomato as I sit through her grinning attempt to play matchmaker, mumbling half answers.

I’m grateful when it’s finally past breakfast and time to round up the goats for the day ahead. I’m honestly stunned at how much they’ve devoured. Most of the brush is down to nubs and it looks like a brand-new piece of land.

The happy, well fed tribe comes bounding back into the trailer without a hitch, no thanks to Owl, stepping over the comfortably placed bridge.

Even the big shaggy black goat with a taste for mischief seems more cooperative today. I’ve nicknamed him Hellboy.

Tobin the butler apologies profusely for my trouble with the gate and hands me a check.

My heart swells with pride, knowing I’ve actually made myself useful, until I’m back with Gran. She just doesn’t let up.

More than anything, she impatiently wonders why Quinn hasn’t called for the next two days.

He hasn’t, no, but he has sent a few text messages spaced several days apart.

Faulk: I’m sorry as hell for cutting things short the other night, Peach. Let me make it up to you?

Faulk: You free tonight or are you just pissed at me?

Faulk: Hell. How ’bout we skip the Bobcat and I take you out to Libations? It’s Dallas fancy. Bella says they’ve got this peach cobbler that’ll make you think you kissed an angel…and this time nobody cares if you stick your face right in. I ain’t judging.

I haven’t responded with more than a quick maybe.

I’ll let you know, I text him. I’m not mad. Just busy.

The baggage, the guilt, the angst I’m carrying around has only increased the last few days because my mother starts texting constantly.

Sigh.

Updating me on the ballet and Jean-Paul, the huge show he staged in the city to raise money for the fire department, telling me how much I’m missed.

Right.

I’m sure I’m missed about as much as an old doormat when you buy a new one. You either banish it to the backdoor or the dumpster.

I can’t believe I’ve hit the dumpster quite yet, though. I am a good dancer, but I’m definitely backdoor material. Even the prettiest doves can’t fly with a broken wing.

Mother doesn’t want to admit how screwed up my knee really is.

I wonder if she ever will.

She’s pushing for me to return soon so I can attend the summer show.

It’ll run for the next two and a half months, so there’s no reason to rush home—even if I wanted to see my cheating ex of a director giving the spotlight to the skank who set my life on fire.

Nope.

I’m not that big a sucker for punishment.

Owl lets out a loud woof, bringing me back to the task at hand.

“Thanks, dude,” I tell him as I take my foot off the gas and turn on the blinker.

At least I’ve got a big furry anchor to keep me grounded.

We’re on our way to pick up the goats from the latest job. I’d driven out this morning to check on them after dropping them off yesterday evening, and then went to Uncle Dean’s place to pick up the trailer.

He said word’s spreading far and wide about the incredible job our little eating machines did, no thanks to Ridge. Apparently, he’s back in town and just as awestruck as his wife at the goats creating usable land from thin air.