The Best Friend Zone

Hell no. I’ve got half a mind to just keep her there holding a screwdriver, looking real pretty.

She laughs. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Other than pushing the start button, I don’t have a clue how washers or dryers work.”

“Can’t be that hard. They came with a big fat instruction manual. Nice not having it all online. You can read it to me.”

She laughs again, amusement pouring out of her like energy. Like music. Like life.

Her laugh always echoed like a song.

Tory’s voice has a melody like no other. I think I could listen to her talk or grumble or giggle her little face off all damn day.

And that’s why this shit is so hard.

The chasm between how I should be in her peach-sweet presence, and how I want to be, only grows wider.

My house is on the edge of town, and the look Tory gives me as we pull into the driveway fills me with a sense of pride I haven’t felt in ages.

“Wow. No, wow. Quinn, this place looks amazing!” she gushes, her face splashed with tilting light.

The sun, just starting to set, surrounds the house with the same rosy golden glow.

Normally, I’d be fighting off her shower of praise with a humble umbrella, but I’ve gotta admit, it ain’t half bad. My hard work pays off a little more with each passing week.

The brand spankin’ new red siding and white trim, brick walkway, new sod, and freshly trimmed hedge do look awfully fine.

“It’s like…magazine-perfect,” she whispers again, opening the passenger door. “I can’t wait to see the inside. Race you to the front door!”

“Tory!”

Shit, she’s quicker than a rabbit. I jump out and race after her, knowing I don’t have a prayer of catching up with her lithe body flying toward the porch.

“C’mon, slow poke. Can’t you see I’m excited?” She bounces on her heels, sending a ripple through layers of curves I really don’t need to see.

Turning so she can’t see my mutinous hard-on, I fish out my keys.

“It’s not all done yet,” I warn her, casting her a settle down look. “Very damn much a work in progress.”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I’m here, right? To help you install a washer and dryer I know nothing about.”

I snort. “It’s more than the appliances that ain’t fully settled yet, Peach.”

I watch as she does a quick turn, taking in the porch we’re standing on.

“Did you do all this yourself?” she asks, her voice airy with wonder.

“I had a little help with some things. Mostly friends and locals.”

“I love this brick porch! It’s so unique. And right there, the perfect place for a swing.”

Damn her. I forgot how many times we’d slip onto the same wavelength in the past, and apparently that hasn’t changed with time.

I point to the corner of the porch. “You get one guess what’s in that box.”

“No way. A white one?” she whispers hopefully.

“Maybe,” I tell her coyly.

“Holy crap. Awesome. We’re so hanging that up after we finish with the machines.”

“We’ll see. No telling how long the install will take,” I tell her, smiling as I unlock the door.

“I have all night,” she says, sidestepping me to run up to the box. “Oh my gosh, I can see it now. Sitting out here in the morning with a cup of coffee, listening to the birds sing…that would be so calming. This place is a lot quieter than it was in your grandfather’s day.”

I nod. No arguing with that. Unlike Gramps, I haven’t gotten buried with tons of critters.

Also can’t help picturing Tory sitting there, lazily sipping off a warm mug and listening to the birds tweet while the sun warms the horizon.

Hell.

Another life, I tell myself. A dark flicker roils my guts, a repressed wish that things could be different if she wasn’t Miss Fancy Schmancy, and if I didn’t have a violent fucking convict breathing down my neck.

And if I’d had the balls to write her after that last summer, if I’d visited Chicago between deployments…

Goddamn.

Shaking my head, I dispel the what-ifs and question my sanity.

Why did I bring her here, really?

“Come on, I’ll show you our project,” I tell her, trying to answer my own question.

Pushing the door open, I wait impatiently while she oohs and aahhs over the hardwood floors, the vaulted ceiling, and the open floor plan I spent weeks knocking down drywall to perfect.

Nice to see someone appreciates my work.

I guess.

The not-so-nice part is the tempting fury she puts in my blood.

“Ohhh. White trim with black doors—nice contrast!” She opens the closest door, grinning like a kid who’s been given the keys to the kingdom. “Whoa, a mudroom? Too perfect for North Dakota. You really thought of everything, Quinn.”

“It was just gonna be a closet at first, but I decided to enclose the length of the wall instead,” I tell her, forgetting how I’d whacked my thumb with a hammer and woke the devil with my curses on that little modification.