The Best Friend Zone

If I knew for certain that Bat Pickett wasn’t coming for my ass, I’d write them with my tongue all over her skin, and deal with the fallout later.

Until then, I’ll have to learn to live with the raging hard-on from hell.

Until then?

Hell, what am I saying?

I’ll never be able to fulfill carnal promises of any kind with Tory once Pickett gets released.

That’s a given. Same for the fact that he wants to cut off my head. The psycho won’t ever get over my part in putting his brother away.

Not while I’m still breathing.

I need to be prepared for that.

Fully.

I’d shown her Pickett’s sneering mug shot, and she said that probably wasn’t the man who’d been in the red Chevy. I hate that she couldn’t get a good read on his face. We couldn’t get a positive ID from the low-res pictures Grady took, but my gut tells me the dude had something to do with Pickett, guaranteed.

Another Marvin, another minion, looking for intel to feed to Bat.

I pull the steaks off the gentler side of the grill and carry them inside. Even with the kitchen in disarray with all the cupboards open, missing their doors, this place has started to feel more homey than anywhere else I’ve ever lived.

I’m starting to like it a lot.

And yeah, that might just have something to do with the fact that I’m not alone anymore.

No denying I also like the sight of Tory, wearing her short shorts and skimpy tank top, in the kitchen, in the house, in the guest room. I like it more every time I see it, and the only thing I’d like more is having her wearing less.

Shifting my pants for cover, I try to battle the bulge before heading back into the house.

I buck up, pull on my best wasn’t-just-thinking-about-you-naked grin, and call out, “Steaks are done!”

In the morning, I drive her to check on the goats again, then we stop by Granny’s house before heading home.

“Wow!” Tory says, staring at the dumpster in the driveway. “They left the whole freaking kitchen and bathroom in here.” Frowning, she asks, “Do you think they’ll have it all done by the time she returns?”

“Yep. They’re a good, trustworthy company, and that’s why they wanted the place empty. A house is a lot easier to remodel with nobody living there.”

We go inside, chat with the workmen for a few minutes, and have a good look around. Then, once Tory’s satisfied that all’s well, we head back to my place.

“I’ll go change and meet you in the barn,” Tory says as she climbs out of the truck.

I don’t know whether to be happy or worried.

She’s bound to return with another skimpy pair of short shorts clinging to that delectable ass.

I’m starting to regret ever giving her that peach nickname.

“C’mon, buddy,” I tell Owl, holding the door for him to hop out of the truck and into the balmy summer heat. “I think we could both use a splash of ice water.”

After I’ve watered the dog and tried to douse my own fire, I turn around and face today’s death by sexy roommate.

Bam.

Right between the eyes.

The shorts she’s wearing are cut-off blue jeans with ragged fringes. They’re short, riding up to the edge of her ass, and naturally they look damn good. So does the tight red t-shirt hugging her chest, a wicked eye-trap contrasting with the jean shorts.

The blocky white lettering on her shirt says NOBODY’S PERFEC—NEVER MIND!

“Granny strikes again?” I stare, not skipping a fair chance to have a good look at her tits, my eyebrow raised.

“Nope, all me this time,” she says proudly. “Kind of a running joke in our dance group. That’s what happens when you throw together a bunch of girls who obsess over every single detail.”

I nod, fully aware I’m the one doing the obsessing right now. Can’t peel my eyes off her till she begins walking.

Later, we make small talk while giving the cupboard doors a second coat of paint. As I walk over to do the last door, I test the paint on the first one I’d finished.

Finding it dry, I say, “We’ll be able to hang these after lunch.”

“Awesome. I can’t wait to see how they look.” Tory smiles like I just made her day. “I really like this slate grey color. What’s next on the list after these?”

“Mainly trim work,” I say, half sorry the project is almost over. I’ve enjoyed working on the house, and having her help has even made it fun. “Quarter round molding on the doors and windows, and crown molding for the ceilings.”

“Is that what’s wrapped up in plastic in the corner?” she asks, pointing to the section of the barn where I’ve been storing materials like a beaver prepping for the apocalypse.

“Bingo. It’s already painted white. Didn’t want it getting scratched.”