Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder (Happily Ever Homicide, #1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if my date didn’t like how I look; he might bow out and leave early, and then I could go home and eat chips and guac in my sweats.

It’s Louis Vuitton, sleek taupe lambskin embossed with the trademark initials, and easily several thousand dollars. Do you know how much chips and guac I could buy with several thousand dollars?

We’re absolutely making a scene in this fancy-pants cafe that smells like expensive cinnamon pumpkins, and I do not care. Because the man Matilda set me up with? It’s none other than Roland Bean. My. Little. Brother.

I think we all think about weird things sometimes, but we’re never sure exactly how weird other people are, and we don’t want to give ourselves away for fear that we’re the strangest one in the room.

Hamlet. The play. He’s just…reading it. At seven-thirty on a Saturday morning. I have no words.

“You realize you look like dark academia personified?” “I don’t know what that means,” he says, his voice musing. He turns the page and continues to read. “Tweed blazers and stacks of books and a bust of Shakespeare,” I say. “All you need is a little skull and a typewriter—” But I break off when Aiden looks at me for the first time this morning. My eyes widen. “Stop it,” I say. “Do you have a skull and a typewriter around here somewhere?” “My sister gave me a skull,” he mutters as a faint flush works its way into his cheeks. “It’s not real.”

“You walk around looking like someone who’s just checked the weather and discovered it’s supposed to rain for the next week.” “I love the rain,” he says blankly. Of course he loves the rain.

I don’t need to leave a huge legacy; I don’t need to change the world. But I’m going to make my little corner of life a really excellent corner.

he stutters, and strangely it makes me feel better; stumbling over his words makes him feel more human and less like an iceberg-sized muscle monster.

So I just sit there, twirling my pasta and shoving massive bites into my mouth like a true lady.

Well-behaved women rarely make history. Interestingly enough, though, directly beneath this quote is a line Juniper has added: I have no desire to make history. I want to live a quiet, happy life.

Show me the most beautiful woman in the world and I’ll acknowledge that she’s pretty, but show me a beautiful mind if you want that prettiness to really affect me. Beauty alone is not enough to make my pulse race and my body react. It’s reacting now.

😍💕❤️‍🔥

I don’t know that a quiet life is in the cards for Juniper Bean. She is the stone in the stream that the water must rush around. And those people, whether they want to be or not, are history-makers.

I snort, trying to avoid blushing through sheer force of will. Does that even work? Is that a thing? I should look it up. It might be a useful skill to have.

That would be soo useful

a realization that rearranges my organs to make room for this new truth: I want to be the woman he follows around the kitchen. I want to be the woman he grabs onto and doesn’t let go.

We’re still holding hands, but I pull mine away from his now, resisting the urge to flex my fingers a few times like Mr. Darcy in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice adaptation.

Ahh, I love references

Bait dropped. Wait. Dropped? Dangled? What does one do with bait? Or am I thinking of a lure?

If someone went fishing for a Juniper fish, all they’d need is a bag of chips and a big tub of fresh guac.

Dito but I need potatoes and books, lots of books, and maybe some chocolate chip cookies, oh and Ice cream.

It’s just that my first instinct when it comes to this woman is to hide, because there’s so much about her that scares me. She has a mind that I want to unfold, a heart that I want to keep safe, a fiery streak that I want to be burned by. I want to follow her around, just to see what she does and what she says. I care about those things. And caring…it’s scary.

When we arrive home thirty minutes later, we’re still holding hands, and I’m collecting valuable information. How well can I put away groceries one-handed? What does it feel like to run my fingers over a nail that’s coated with chipped polish? How much smaller is Juniper’s hand than mine?

Her smile widens as she attempts to pull her hand away. “Mine,” I say with a frown, holding tighter.

“I just wanted to let you know, because her mom has passed, so I told her she could borrow mine. I told her—” I clear my throat. “I told her my mom is pretty great.” “Oh,” my mother says, her voice suddenly wobbly. “Oh, dear. Her mother passed away?”