The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance Read online

  The Best Friend Zone

  A Small Town Romance

  Nicole Snow

  Ice Lips Press

  Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America.

  First published in September, 2020.

  Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.

  Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!

  Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf.

  Contents

  About the Book

  1. Here We Goat Again (Tory)

  2. Just Goat Serious (Faulkner)

  3. Goat To Be Kidding Me (Tory)

  4. Someone Got His Goat (Faulkner)

  5. Can’t Goat Enough (Tory)

  6. Goat A Helping Hand? (Faulkner)

  7. Goat It Together (Tory)

  8. Just Goat Real (Faulkner)

  9. Goat A Load of This (Tory)

  10. Goat Me Down (Faulkner)

  11. Goat A Bad Feeling (Tory)

  12. We’ve Goat Issues (Faulkner)

  13. You’ve Goat It Baaad (Tory)

  14. Goat Me All Riled (Faulkner)

  15. We’ve Goat This (Tory)

  16. Almost Goat To Eden (Faulkner)

  17. You Goat Me Dreamin’ (Tory)

  18. We Goat the Beat (Faulkner)

  19. You Goat Me Wrong (Tory)

  20. Goat Me Twisted Up (Faulkner)

  21. Goat Some Bad News (Tory)

  22. We’ve Goat Trouble (Faulkner)

  23. I’ve Goat You (Tory)

  24. We’ve Goat Company (Faulkner)

  25. Goat Ourselves A Party (Tory)

  The Romeo Arrangement Preview

  About Nicole Snow

  More Books by Nicole

  About the Book

  Just friends? Is a peach pie to the face “just” a little mishap?

  I know what I felt the day Quinn Faulkner saved me from death by dessert.

  My best friend was always The One. The Impossible.

  Older. Flawless. Brutally gorgeous. A small-town prince of summer crushes.

  Leagues above a tag-along dance nerd like me.

  Years later, my uncle needs a goat wrangler. I just need an escape.

  What better way to flee a cheating ex and dumpster fire career?

  What better way to collide with the boy who got away?

  And now he's an atrociously hot, mysterious, overprotective beast.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  I'm grown up now.

  Unmoved by his slayer charms and heart-stompy memories.

  I can't stay to unravel his darkness—or savor his vows to protect me.

  We're safely platonic.

  Until the Ferris wheel incident.

  Then we're alone with a tension so thick you can chew it.

  Quinn kisses me like no tomorrow. Truly. Madly. All in.

  I wanted to piece my life back together.

  Will shattering the best friend zone leave us whole or heartbroken?

  1

  Here We Goat Again (Tory)

  Nine Years Ago

  When I look back at my seventeen-year-old self, there are exactly seven minutes and twenty seconds forever burned into my brain.

  That’s how long it takes to get out of Granny’s little red Nova I’d driven over to Farmer Faulkner’s place, carrying a freshly baked peach pie smelling like heaven.

  How long I bite my lip on their doorstep, unsure if Quinn would even be home, much less receptive to a decadent dessert at ten o’clock in the morning. But Granny did give it her ringing endorsement, swearing it’s the best I’ve ever made from her recipe.

  How long I exhale in relief as a tall, handsome boy who looks a thousand times better than this pie smells opens the door with his trademark grin.

  How long I stand there speechless, staring up at him, and forget how to form words.

  Thankfully, Quinn remembers for me, holding the door open and waving me inside with a bewildered look. Even though we’ve been friends for years, I still get clogged full of butterflies when he shoots me that smile.

  “Don’t just stand there teasing me. Get in here,” he says with a laugh like a song.

  “Okay! I just baked it this morning,” I mumble, shocked I can speak with my cheeks in flames. “Granny’s recipe. We thought maybe you’d be in the mood for—”

  Record screech.

  Stop.

  We’re not quite halfway through my seven minutes of heaven. This is when it takes a detour through hell.

  Because a second later, the toe of my shoe catches on Grandpa Faulkner’s unseen pile of boots by the door. For another second, there’s just panic, a faint hope I might get lucky and avoid making a total fool of myself.

  Nope.

  Not today.

  The jarring sensation of my body spinning and hitting the floor proves one thing.

  I just ruined any hope the hottest boy in town ever had of eating this delicious pie by planting myself in it face-first.

  At least it isn’t so piping hot it hurts. Not physically.

  Emotionally? I’m dead.

  I think the only reason I’m not bawling when his strong arms lift me up is because I’m too freaking sticky, plastered in peach filling.

  “Tory, holy shit. Take my hand,” he growls, slipping his big fingers through mine. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  For the next minute, I’m just silent as a grave, counting how many times I must’ve dreamed of this moment, holding Quinn Faulkner’s hand.

  And not one of those dreams ever included being a hot mess of sticky hair, fruit filling, crust, and skin so red with shame I wonder if it’ll stain me crimson for life.

  Somehow, he’s still laughing, even as he brings me upstairs to the bathroom and fetches a washcloth from nowhere, wiping at my face.

  But it’s not a cruel, arrogant, look-at-what-a-klutz-you-are laugh.

  He’s too good for that.

  It’s kind, as if to say, no big deal. Peach-flavored shit happens.

  I’m a little less sticky when I grab the washcloth out of his hand and use it to blot at my face, trying to hide the tears, and failing.

  “I...I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I tried to do one nice thing for you and—”

  “And?” he echoes, snatching the damp cloth from my trembling hand and gently blotting peach goo off my cheek. “Last I checked, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “But you saw how clumsy I am!” I whine, tipping my face up to the ceiling.

  “I saw you practicing one hell of a talent act,” he whips back.

  For a second, I look down and glare at him, biting my lip. But the gentle, joking shine in his bright-green eyes is there to soothe me. Not taunt.

  He’s always been the older boy, but he’s also mature beyond his years.

  “Is this what you do when you go home to your fancy-schmancy dance routines?” he asks, that Oklahoma twang in his voice turning me to butter.

  “You think I planned this?” Shaking my head, I smile anyway at how absurd it is. “You think I wanted to look like a total ass in front of you and your grandpa?”

  “I mean...it’s a step up from the bees,” he says with a wink, referring back to the infamous time we met several summers ago. “And Gramps ain’t here. He’s in town today picking up jars for his hon
ey.”

  “Okay, but all that effort...I made it for you guys and I ruined it. You never even got a chance to taste—”

  I flinch as he runs his finger over my cheek, wiping a small dab of peach off my skin. Then I watch in disbelief as he plucks it into his mouth, taking his sweet time licking his finger.

  Oh my God.

  I pull my messy hair over my face like a shield.

  Bad idea, probably, when blushing this hard could set my face on fire.

  “Tastes like summer to me. Sugary, sweet, just a little tangy, and...oh, wait a minute.”

  I freeze in terror as he frowns, deep in thought.

  “Yeah, I think it tastes just a little bit like an overachieving whiner who thinks I’m gonna send pictures of her peach-splattered face to her family, her friends, her teachers, all her future bosses, and every dude who wants to date her.” His eyes practically fuse with mine as he smiles.

  “Idiot!” I snap, punching him in the arm. “Be serious. I’m trying to apologize.”

  “And I’m telling you, there’s no need. Shit happens. You’ll bring over a new pie when you feel like it and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  Right.

  Like it’s just that easy.

  But the twinkle in his eyes insists it is.

  “You’re the worst,” I say, grabbing the washcloth again so I can scrub away the smile I’m fighting. “I’ll never live it down. And what kind of man wants a girl who makes a mess like this? He’d probably be scared I’ll hit him in the face with a pie, sooner or later.”

  “Plenty of guys, Peach. I promise you. You’re gonna make some dude ecstatic.”

  My eyes dart up, fully expecting to see another playful and annoyingly gorgeous smirk etched on Quinn’s face.

  Only, there’s not a shred of fun in those emerald fire eyes.

  None of the usual clown sarcasm.

  He’s stone-cold serious.

  And I try to blame every last bit of the searing hot blood rushing to my face on the pie mishap as my seven minutes and twenty seconds to heaven expires.

  That’s how long it takes for him to save me for the second of many times in my life.

  It’s also how long it takes me to fall from schoolgirl infatuation to head over heels in love with Quinn Faulkner.

  Present

  Life is a whole series of firsts.

  The rush of a first kiss with an impossible boy on a sticky summer day.

  The first disappointment of that damning B on a Euro history test your overachieving butt busted itself over.

  The first time your adult self steps into a small town that still feels magical, even though you’re far too old for that kinda thinking anymore.

  And then there’s your first time with goats.

  “Come on, guy, why are you looking at me like that? It’s not like I planned on winding up a goat wrangler in Dallas, North Dakota,” I tell Owl, the huge black hill of a dog sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He’s looking at me now, turning away from staring out the truck’s windshield like my copilot.

  Honestly, he is my copilot on this journey. The only one I can depend on when the time comes to turn loose a dozen bleating, horned eating machines on a couple overgrown acres.

  “You know, I could be dancing on Broadway right now,” I whisper to the Tibetan Mastiff. “If it wasn’t for this bum knee...”

  I glance at the dog. His big almond-shaped brown eyes settle on me, and he blinks lazily. Just once before turning his square block of a head back to gazing at the hills rolling by.

  He’s not impressed.

  Fair enough.

  I’m not either.

  Deep down, I think I always knew I’d fall short. A Spidey-sense warning me my dancing career wouldn’t last forever.

  Heck, how many dancers are still tearing up the spotlight in their forties?

  Trouble is, I’m not even thirty years old yet. I still had over a decade to go, and if I’d just gotten to Broadway...you’d better believe I’d have slayed.

  “Wanna know a secret, Owl? It wasn’t my fault,” I tell him, mainly because this shaggy beast is the closest thing I have to a true confidant now. “It wasn’t even an accident. The bitch tripped me—on purpose.”

  I get another dull look from him.

  “I’m serious. Swear to God. Madeline Shafer. She’d make you lick salt in Death Valley if she thought she could get away with it. Fake blonde hair, long legs, and no tits.” I glance down at my own rather flat chest with a sigh. “I mean, meh boobs kinda come with the territory. I’ve done enough cardio for ten lifetimes.” I huff out a breath. “The fact that I’m almost up to a B-cup might be the only good thing about sitting on my ass for months.”

  Owl’s big brown doggie eyes land on my hair. Probably because sitting on the seat the way he is makes him taller than me.

  I feel like he should be wearing the seat belt, but I couldn’t figure out how that would do anything except get him tangled up and annoyed. He’s still staring at my hair with his meaty pink tongue flopped out as I touch my ponytail, making sure it’s intact.

  “I thought dogs couldn’t appreciate bright colors? I’ll have you know I kept these pink highlights from my last big show. Jean-Paul swore I’d be center stage, but I guess Madeline talked him into other plans. I still can’t help but wonder if they schemed it together.”

  My teeth grit together. A wave of ice-cold sadness strikes as I glance in the rearview mirror at the stock trailer I’m pulling.

  The one full of goats.

  Forget Broadway, prestigious dance halls, two-timing competitors, and cheating exes. This is my life now in Dallas. Hauling around Rent-A-Goats for my lazy slug of an uncle, bless his heart.

  “Never mind,” I tell the dog, swallowing my frustration. “But having pink highlights in brown hair is no easy task. They had to strip all the color out of those sections, so for a week I was walking around with white stripes, looking like some kind of overgrown skunk. Then Cheryl, she’s my—was my—hairdresser, put in the pink. Bright neon pink. You should’ve seen it, Owl. I basically glowed in the dark. This is after two months, so it’s pretty faded now.” I release a heavy sigh. “Good things don’t last forever. I’m not going through the process of having my hair stripped again.”

  He leans forward then, laying his big scrunched muzzle on the dashboard with a hint of drool.

  “Jeez, sorry to bore you!”

  He lets out a long grumble-sigh, no doubt counting down the seconds until he’s free to flop down on Uncle Dean’s porch again without a care in the world.

  Who can blame him?

  My personal tragedy only makes sense to yours truly. To anyone else, it’s one more dream that fell short.

  But I’m so bright, they tell me. Good education, good looks, and oh-so-pleasant. Hey, my parents are even rich.

  I can reinvent myself and do practically anything.

  I’m young. I’m smart. I’ll figure it out.

  And sometimes I take a second to count my blessings and realize they’re almost right. Almost.

  But if I had my druthers? I’d still be in Chicago, dancing my heart out, working toward the day when people would spend exorbitant sums on tickets to see the fantabulous Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey.

  Yeah, I’m certain the Queen Bitch tripped me intentionally, right in the middle of a double cabriole.

  Madeline was in line behind me. There was no reason whatsoever for her to have gotten close enough to bump into me.

  Her little oopsie sent me crashing down face-first, narrowly avoiding a broken nose. The way my knee hyperextended meant nasty surgery to repair the torn ligaments and a ruptured tendon.

  I still have over three more months of real healing before I can even consider slow dancing again. Light exercise and a few other physical therapy exercises are all I’m allowed to do right now.

  Good thing the goats and Owl do ninety-nine percent of the work on this gig, or so I’ve been told.

  The dog
sits up and lets out a low woof a split second before my phone’s navigation tells me I’ll need to turn in a quarter mile.

  “How’d you know?” I ask him.

  He barks again, but because I don’t speak canine, I have no idea what he’s saying.

  “Good dog.” I flip on the blinker.

  He is a good dog from what I’ve seen. This will be our first time truly working together, besides loading the goats into the stock trailer back at Uncle Dean’s place.

  Owl pretty much did that part all by himself.

  I swear, if he had hands instead of paws, he wouldn’t have even needed me to pull down the ramp or open the trailer doors.

  “Ever met this guy before?” I ask, turning down the long dirt road leading up to the grand country estate on a hill. “Our client today is no less than Ridge Barnet, the famous actor.”

  I grin. I haven’t ever met him since I came back here, but he’s still the talk of the town.

  I’ve heard the same story over a dozen times from so many people, how the billionaire actor moved here over a year ago and got himself in a mighty big pickle with a girl being chased by some bad guys her dad owed money to.

  It had a happy ending, of course.

  All the best stories do.

  A sham engagement, a whirlwind romance, a gaggle of villains brought to justice.

  Dallasfolk seem just as grateful to Ridge for giving them something to boast about as they are for the times when he let half the town put their drinks on his tab.