The Best Friend Zone

Then I hear heavy footsteps plodding over more twigs strewn on the ground. Quinn’s right behind him.

“Hey,” he says, somewhat cautiously. “Figured you’d need the fresh air.”

“Yeah, well…” I rub Owl’s head as the fluff of a mastiff hunkers down beside me. “No sense in letting what happened back there waste a nice day.”

Quinn steps closer, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Tory. I don’t know what the fuck else to say. I shouldn’t have answered your phone and ripped his throat out. Shouldn’t have said what I did to that dude—even if he is a pushy fuckin’ snail of a dude.”

It’s hard not to smile.

Okay, make that impossible.

I’ve never seen Quinn anything but confident, just, protective.

Upstanding. Righteous. Hard-ass.

That’s how he’s always been, and it isn’t a bad thing.

His apology right now makes him even more endearing.

Slowly, I sigh, craning my head to look up at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Quinn. I’m not mad at you. Sit down.”

He walks to the log and hunkers down next to me.

“Then why’d you run?” he asks. “I thought you were gonna bound right out of here and hop on the first plane home after I pissed in Jean-Paul’s Cheerios.”

I hold my breath until my lungs burn.

Letting it out, I tell him the truth. “Because you told him your name.”

“Yeah, guilty. What’s that got to do with—”

“He’ll tell Mother,” I say, shaking my head.

“So? I’ve never met your mother.” He quirks an eyebrow, clearly not comprehending the fire-breathing piece of work Gloria Redson-Riddle-Coffey can be.

“No, you haven’t.” I sigh again. “Thank God.”

He scratches the side of his neck. “I’m not sure what to do, Peach. How to make up for what I did. Don’t think your ma’s got any place telling you what to do, but it’s your life. I ain’t here to make your decisions, but I do get real pissed off at the folks trying to make them for you.”

“You don’t need to do anything.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “I owe you a huge thanks for telling Jean-Paul to stop calling me, honestly. He has no business harassing me constantly. I told him he’d hear back once I’ve made up my mind…I need time. Time to figure out what I’m going to do.”

He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close.

“You deserve time. It’s your life to figure out without any prick getting in the way,” he rumbles, his inked muscle tightening around my shoulders.

“It was my life until my knee went out. Maybe I just never realized how stuck I was. How I was letting everyone else control me.”

“Can’t beat yourself up, Peach. Your blinders are off. How’s the knee doing now, anyway?” he asks, his eyes flicking to my legs. “I saw you rubbing it.”

“It’s fine.” To prove it, and to prove I’m in control of myself, I stand. He rises with me, arm still around my shoulders.

“Come on,” I say. “I have stir fry to finish.”

“With bok choy,” he mutters, dryly amused.

“And you’re going to like it.”

“No promises, lady.”

I giggle because I can’t decide who’s more ridiculous with new foods—Quinn or Granny.

But I love how he can make me laugh so effortlessly.

And an hour later, I love that he wolfs down the stir-fry I made and goes for seconds.

Three days later, I have something else to love: how he’s transformed the old barn.

I’ve helped, sure, but Quinn did the heavy labor—with his shirt off at times.

Lord, he has a body to die for.

It’s like he’s trying to destroy any daytime reprieve from the dirty thoughts I’ve been having at night. It’s safe here, quiet and peaceful, but I’ve spent every night since I moved in tossing and turning, knowing he’s just a few walls away.

We’re both early risers. I know he sleeps shirtless the times I’ve caught him coming out of his room, wearing nothing but a loose pair of shorts that hang off his hips like the devil’s own torture, obscenely close to exposing what’s under that rigid V of muscle slicing up into his washboard abs.

And just like today, when he’s shirtless, and I can see—really freaking see—that mass of muscle flexing, pumping, folding its ink like a living canvas…

Holy Toledo.

Holy London.

Holy Tokyo.

I don’t think there’s a city big enough to stand in for the tingle that shoots through me, pools between my legs, and leaves me so wet it’s an effort just to walk.

Last night, I lost it.

I rubbed one out like an animal in heat, biting my fist to keep from gasping his name, fingers striking my clit with reckless need.

Every single time with the same forbidden visions of Quinn Faulkner on top of me, behind me, under me, flinging me against his slab of a body until I break.

It’s not like I had any choice.