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She eats another bite of pie. “It’s a mess back there, Quinn. I’m not ready to face it yet.”
“What sort of mess?” I wonder, surprised at her honesty.
Setting down the fork, she shakes her head, blinking away sadness.
“A mess. A bigger one than here,” she whispers, throwing me a bitter look. “Thing is, I can deal with whatever small-town drama happens here. But back home…I just don’t know where to begin. The dance director job has a massive catch I’m still working through.”
Great.
So Chicago isn’t the best place for her, and who am I to tell her how she should go about chasing her own dreams? Even if she’s damn good at what she does, and I think she’d be real sad giving up dancing.
There’s also no mistaking what she means about Dallas drama, something I had a big fat hand in—or rather, a big fat mouth.
My brain scans through my options and keeps sticking on the same one.
If she’s gonna stay here in Dallas, it has to be where I can keep her safe.
At least till I know for sure what’s going down with Bat Pickett and his crew.
I pick up the fork and feed her a hunk of sweetness as I gather up the strength for what’s coming next—the unbearable admission that Granny Coffey’s dumb idea might be right.
“Quinn? You’re quiet,” she says, smiling sheepishly when she’s done chewing.
“We’d better get your stuff packed,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Stuff packed? Why? I just told you I’m not going back to Chicago.”
“I know.” Filling the fork with a bigger chunk from the end, I hold it to her lips again.
Once she’s so full of pie she can’t speak, I drop the bomb.
“You’re moving in with me tonight.”
Her eyes widen.
She slaps a hand over her full mouth, desperately trying not to spit.
I hope like hell I didn’t just ruin that last bite, waiting with bated breath for her to swallow and speak. She beams a look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“W-what did you just say?” she asks, her words shaking.
For the life of me, I don’t fucking know.
I just know what has to be done.
13
You’ve Goat It Baaad (Tory)
When I think back, it’s somewhat of a blur how it happened, but I’m here.
Quinn’s house.
This time for a whole lot longer than just one evening installing appliances and a swing.
I’m not sure if it was Granny’s idea, or Quinn’s, or God’s. But the fact remains, I’ve moved in, and Granny is busy packing for the Alaskan wilderness.
She’d flat out told me if I didn’t stay here with Quinn, she’d cancel the trip and the remodeling job, ultimately forfeiting half the money she’d put down for a deposit.
Ugh.
What could I say to that?
The only part that surprises me is it was Quinn who invited me. Well, more than invited, he’d demanded it in all his growly, green-eyed glory.
I knew I shouldn’t just up and agree.
Not with the issues back home, the issues in my head, or the ginormous fire-breathing issues of living with my best friend who kisses me with the solar heat of a thousand suns.
An issue I still haven’t touched with him. Much less sorted out. Much less forgotten.
Happy days.
It’s so rare when a red flag whacks you right across the face like this one, screaming bad idea. But it did, and I’d ignored it.
That first day was awkward to say the least.
We went about our business on pins and needles, inhabiting the same space without truly sharing it. Yesterday was better, though, and today might be the first day I can actually call this arrangement fine.
At least the house is gorgeous, no thanks to Quinn’s remodeling work and keen eye for detail. It’s plenty large enough for far more than two people.
He gave me my pick of the four bedrooms—excluding his, of course.
Sharing a house already makes me twelve shades of red.
The thought of sharing a room with him might cause spontaneous Tory-combustion.
I finish brushing my hair and leave the tiled bathroom attached to my bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I pull on my boots and give my arms a solid overhead stretch. My muscles are still burning from the resistance band exercises I did this morning.
Without Granny around, I’m not riding the bike all over town, so I’ll have to find another way to give my legs a good workout every day.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs, though I’m sure Quinn is up.
Owl was also part of the move from Granny’s to Quinn’s, but I don’t see him in the laundry room, where he’s made himself comfy the last couple of nights, sprawled out on the cool floor.
He must be dying in the summer heat behind all that fur, so I like to get him outside to check on the goats early in the mornings, before the day’s oppressive heat rolls in.
