The Best Friend Zone Read online Nicole Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Romance Tags Authors: Nicole Snow Advertisement

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Read Online Books/Novels:	The Best Friend Zone
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Nicole Snow
Language:	English
Book Information:
From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Nicole Snow comes an intense, heartwarming, and funny standalone read where friends-to-lovers insanity is fate for two stubborn hearts. 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? ****Full-length romance thriller with a Happily Ever After made of laughter, tears, and smiles. Two friends meant to be fall so hard it hurts with a little help from a scheming granny, a tribe of goats, and one big dog.
Books by Author:	Nicole Snow

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 honey.”

“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.”

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