The Best Friend Zone

“A couple city places this morning, then Neuman’s Dairy this afternoon,” Dean says. “It’s a big job. They’ve got major acreage. It’ll probably take the entire tribe a couple weeks to clear everything. If she’s gone, I’ll have to wrap it up myself.”

Which wouldn’t be the end of the world, but there’s no use in telling that to a man who believes honey’s the new gold.

“Chalk it up as another good reason not to order bees,” I say.

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right about that, this already feels like a lot of work.” He throws down his hammer. “So much for beekeepin’.”

I walk to the door. “Wise choice, Dean. Bee farming isn’t as easy as it sounds. It’s a helluva lot of work. My grandpa did it for years, and trust me, he didn’t get rich.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You’re also awful nice to offer a helping hand with the goats, but I can’t afford to put you on payroll.”

“Don’t worry about it. Favor for a friend,” I say, and then I turn, quickly heading for my truck.

There’s nothing worse than having to play superhero, but duty calls.

If I have to save Peach from everything fixing to mess up her life—Jean-Paul the Snail, Bat Pickett, and my own dumbass—then so be it.

I just hope I’m not too late to come out of this without her hating me.

11

Goat A Bad Feeling (Tory)

I watch as Owl races around, his huge furry bulk whipping past in a blur, herding the last of the goats into the large overgrown pasture.

The Neuman place is a good-sized dairy farm specializing in everything from butter, to cheese, to milk that gets shipped out across the state. The new owners are looking to expand their herd, which means more pasture space, but first they have to clear up the brush.

I like the thought of the goats clearing land naturally for their organic farm products instead of harsh chemicals.

That’s one of the nice things about this job, knowing it’s environmentally friendly.

It’s also a hundred times less stressful than dancing. The endless practice, keeping up with en pointe routines, artistic huddles with Jean-Paul, sleepless nights, and travel that never seemed to end is still branded in my head.

You couldn’t pay me to forget how grueling it can be, and the director job promises a meaner gauntlet.

The last goat goes through the open gate and Owl barks at me before I get too deep in my own head, brushing up against my waist.

Good boy, keeping me on task again.

Walking up, I push the tall gate closed, latch it, and rest my chin on the top rung, watching the goats sniffing around, getting to know their new space.

They’re sweet animals. Besides the first day, not even Hellboy has given me an issue. Not a single complaint from customers, either.

They eat up everything they’re supposed to, never make a mess, and depart leaving shiny new land ready for whatever the owners want.

Call it silly, but there’s a lot to be said for goat wrangling.

Only, it’s still not something I want to do with the rest of my life.

It isn’t even practical if I did want to make it a career. Not in a town this small.

Since talking with Jean-Paul this morning, I’ve realized just how much I’ve missed dancing.

Not the action itself, and definitely not the backbreaking work, but the rest of it?

Yes.

There’s a beauty, a grace, a challenge I haven’t found anywhere else outside the stage.

And as much as I don’t want to admit it, teaching—helping others learn their moves and watching them improve—is what I truly miss.

It’s insanely fulfilling to watch someone improve, gaining new skills, growing their confidence. You make new friends and launch careers. You win respect for life.

And with the director position, it’s not as physically demanding. I could do it for the rest of my life whether or not my body fails me.

If only people were more like animals: honest, upright, and completely without ulterior motives.

There’s my solution—a dance program for animals.

I smile at my own ludicrous thought.

Then frown because the goats aren’t my main problem anymore.

Neither is the job offer from Jean-Paul hanging over my head like an axe.

It’s the fact that I might have to leave without resolving anything with Quinn.

Inwardly, I cringe, thinking back to this morning.

Neither of us mentioned what happened last night.

If he’s embarrassed, if he’s wishing it never happened, I just might crawl into a hole and die.

I might do that anyway, overstaying my welcome in Dallas.

Granny won’t go on her cruise if I hang around any longer. It tears me up.

She’s done so much for me over the years, always the voice of wisdom with the self-restraint of a twelve-year-old.

I can’t let her cancel her plans on my account.

It’s just…if I return to Chicago, Jean-Paul will think it’s because I’m snapping up his offer.