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

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

“Well, for what it’s worth,” I say, patting his arm, “you were a good tutor. You opened my eyes to how great reading and writing could be.” “It’s good to hear that,” he says, and the look on his face makes me think he’s genuine. It’s a small, simple smile, but I like it. Sincerity is always attractive. You know what else is always attractive? Aiden. Ugh.

I really don’t need to be noticing how attractive this man is; that way lies heartbreak.

I think she might be the kind of woman who reaches into her closet without looking every morning but is pretty enough that anything looks good.

Juniper certainly has enough of a presence about her that a lot of people will find her intimidating. She’s bold and unapologetic; sometimes that’s all it takes to bring out the insecurities of the people around you.

Even though I have no right to observe such an intimate part of this woman, I’m utterly captivated, waiting to hear what will come out next. Is this what her writing is like? Meandering, vivid, nonsensical and poetic? I want to read her books. I want to capture that beauty in a jar and tuck it into my pocket.

And anyway, Juniper’s beauty isn’t the kind you can capture in a jar and save for a rainy day. It’s not a conventional prettiness. It’s the type you have to experience, the type that doesn’t really reveal itself until you understand her a bit better.

She points, and I lean closer, noting that sweet citrus scent of hers again. It seems to be stronger when her hair is wet.

With the note of hurt in Juniper’s voice as she questioned why her mother was never that happy when she knew her. A pulse of shame hits me somewhere behind my belly button when I think about how good I’ve got it. My parents are alive and well, healthy and happy and living not thirty minutes from here, in Sunshine Springs. There’s nothing shameful about that, of course, but how often do I take it for granted?

But one thing does get a smile out of me: a note on the refrigerator that reads Caroline was happy to oblige, and under that, an old photo of me with an earring.

“Were you guys close?” “Uh,” he says uncomfortably. “We weren’t…not close, I guess?” I blink, frowning. What kind of answer is that? It was a yes/no question. I turn around, intending to clarify, but my words die when I see Gus. He’s not smiling. I repeat: he’s not smiling. “Gus?” I say, my voice hesitant. This is brand new territory. Nothing I learned when I got certified to teach yoga prepared me for a non-smiling Augustus Flanders. And I get it now—I get why he’s constantly smiling. Because he’s terrifying when he’s not.

Plus, what kind of parent lets their teenager go on a road trip by herself?

In order to make room for the Murder Board, I did have to find a new home for the photo of Aiden wearing an earring. It’s now taped to the microwave. So far he hasn’t moved it, which I consider a real win, because it makes me laugh. It also kind of makes me wish he still wore that earring.

He finally seems to notice that he’s about to lose a big bite of pasta, because he gives a little start and then jams the fork in his mouth as fast as possible, slurping up the escaping noodles. This behavior, combined with the messy hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it, gives him more of a Nutty Professor vibe rather than his usual sexy, dark academia thing.

He just looks hot, messy hair and all.

Autumn Grove is one of those towns where you know people simply because they live here and you do too. You see each other at the store, you run into each other walking down the street—it’s a small space we’re all occupying.

So I just sit there, twirling my pasta and shoving massive bites into my mouth like a true lady. I see Aiden eyeing me with a vaguely grossed-out expression, but hello—who’s the one that slurped all his fettuccini off his fork like a barbarian?

“Be honest,” I say, pushing my bowl to the side. This conversation is suddenly much more interesting than my food, mainly because Aiden is so fun to tease. “If you saw me and didn’t talk to me or know who I was, you’d be smitten. You’d fall head over heels.” Aiden nudges his own bowl out of the way and leans forward, a wicked spark entering his eyes. “I’m glad you’re aware it’s your personality that’s the problem,” he says. My grin turns into a full-blown smile. “With beauty like this,” I say, pointing at my completely average face, “it would be rude of me to have an incredible personality. No one should be good at everything.”

But I stumble into silence as awareness pricks at me, as I realize that somehow both of us have leaned forward so far that our faces are now separated by no more than six inches. Our food sits forgotten, pushed out of the way, and our breathing is too fast, too harsh, too loud in this kitchen. His lashes are too dark, too long; his eyes are too full of fire as they drop to my lips; that smirk looks too much like something I could lick right off of his face.

Something sharp pulses in my gut then, an electric current that radiates from my bones to my skin to the very air around us, supercharging the space between us, bringing it to life—magnetic, dangerous, full of possibilities.

So many possibilities, all of them tantalizing, all of them dangling in front of me. And he feels it too; his knuckles are white where his hands grip the tabletop, his lips ...

“We shouldn’t, right?” I breathe, so quietly that Aiden might not even hear me. “Definitely not,” he murmurs, sounding as dazed as I do. His voice is hoar...

And it honestly feels like I’m in a trance right now, or maybe hypnotized—like there’s a little gold pocket watch or some sort of pendulum swinging back and forth in front of me, back and forth, back and forth, only that pocket watch has Aiden’s stupidly se...

“Don’t you dare blame that on me. That was mutual. I’m not your biggest fan either, you know.” It’s partly true; I dislike him sometimes. Except for when I don’t. But whatever. He doesn’t need to know specifics. Current incident aside, that ship is just as unlikely to sail now as it was that Christmas Eve all those years ago. So I force myself to stay calm, to keep hidden the rapid gallop of my pulse in my veins and the breath I’m still trying to find.

I get a few good whiffs of whatever cologne Aiden uses, something subtle and woodsy. He seems to have forgotten all about the freak moment of mutual attraction in the kitchen the other night, but I haven’t; for some reason the image of his white-knuckled grip on the table is burned into my retinas. I’m pretty sure that’s how Aiden would hold onto any lover or girlfriend he had.

“Why are you rolling down the window?” he says five seconds later. “Just feeling a little warm,” I say, fanning myself with my hand. “I need to get some air.” “You’re feeling warm?” he says, casting his eyes skeptically over my outfit—jeans and a vintage t-shirt. “You’re wearing short sleeves.”

Normally I’d be more tactful, but this man clearly isn’t trying to hide his feelings, so it feels okay to ask. “What’s with the death glare? Why are you making that face at me?” Another unhelpful snort of laughter from Aiden, and I reach blindly in his direction until I find him. Then I give him a good whack.

“Pudding, maybe?” And without another word, she steps into me, her body pressing gently against mine—no more than the touch of a butterfly landing on a flower. Then she tilts her head up, looks at me with her laughing gaze, and licks the pudding right off my cheek.

“Do you recall,” I say shakily, “telling me that you wouldn’t flirt with me?” I don’t move. I am a statue, too afraid to move—a sculpture, not of stone but of ice. And if I stand here too long, pressed up against this woman and her wandering tongue, I will melt.

“All right,” she says with a melodramatic sigh. “I will keep my body parts to myself from now on.

I’m still frozen, my hands in fists at my sides, my body tense. “When you do stuff like that,” I say instead of answering, “what exactly is going through your mind?” And I regret asking immediately, because the change that comes over her is unmistakable. She recoils as though she’s been slapped, her body curling in on itself. The smile she gives me is forced, and even her pink hair seems to wilt like a flower without water.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She takes another step back, her eyes falling to the floor. “You’re right. That was weird of me. I’m weird.” Her voice cracks on the words, and they emerge broken from her lips. “I’m genuinely very sorry. It won’t happen again—” “Stop,” I say, frustrated. I’m melting, just like I suspected I would, but it’s happening in an unexpected direction. It’s her words, the look on her face, that have my sharp, icy edges succumbing to warmth—not the press of her body or the velvet of her tongue. “That’s not what I mean,” I say, pushing my hand through my hair and scowling when I’m reminded of how crusty it is. “I’m not making fun of you or getting angry. I just…want to know. You can’t—you can’t go around licking people, Juniper,” I say, sighing.

“I know that. My brain fully realizes that licking people isn’t normal. Neither is hoarding food or killing all my main characters or—or—ugh.” She shakes her head, pushing the bobby pins more aggressively into their little line. Then she looks up and gives me a tight smile. “I’ll do better,” she says.

But for the first time since lunch, I forgot. Juniper made me forget everything. My frustration, my anger, my burning desire to make these kids understand that food is a precious commodity—my pink-haired roommate made me forget all of those things that were drowning me when I walked through our front door.

And in the shower, I clean my face and my neck several times, first with soap and then with shampoo. But no matter how I scrub, no matter what I use…somehow I can still feel Juniper’s tongue on my skin, staking her claim without even realizing it.

for the first time I notice that today her nails are army green.

“Can I really poke around?” There’s a beat of silence before Juniper answers, “Yes—if you promise you won’t judge me no matter what you find. And…if I can do the same in your room.” Of course I’m going to say no to that. Right? I’m going to say no to that, right? “Deal,” I say. It slips past my lips too quickly, too easily. I press my hands to my cheeks, feeling them burn; I feel strangely naked having agreed to this. Not because of what she might find in my room, either—more because this proves to her that I want to learn more about her. I don’t need her getting the wrong idea.

But it’s too late now. I’ve opened the lid to my Pandora’s Box, the part of me that’s almost hungry for more information about this woman. I don’t want to count her bras or peek into her underwear drawer; I want to peek into her mind, her heart, her past. She’s managed to interrupt my life so thoroughly, and I want…more.

I want more. More interruptions. More pink hair. More insults flung back and forth over the dinner table. I want more, and I will take that secret to my grave. No one—not Juniper, not my sister, not my solitary friend at work—will e...

I can’t have a relationship with this woman, romantic or otherwise. We’re roommates. She has baggage. And I… I swallow. I’m keeping a secret from her. So no matter how intriguing I find her, no ...

I smile when I see that the vase is a little grinning skull; maybe that’s why she liked the one on my desk so much. “Does your skull have a name?” I call without turning around. The grinding and scraping and clinking sounds stop. “Catherine Earnshaw,” Juniper says from the other side of the door. A bark of laughter escapes me at this. “Is Heathcliff around here somewhere?” I say. “Just Cathy.” I can hear the smile in Juniper’s voice. “I thought she seemed like a character who would enjoy having her skull turned into a flower vase.”

Yet another has a quote I’ve heard before scribbled on it: 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. Huh. That’s…unexpected.

Up until this moment, my attention has been floating easily around the room; now it anchors firmly to the desk. My eyes dart hungrily over every Post-it I can find, devouring her words.

She sees her shadows; she weaves them through her fingers. She knows their value. But she doesn’t drown in them. She remains sunshine—not soft, gentle sunshine, but abrasive sunshine with sharp edges. That’s how she channels her demons, both in her poetry and her life: she uses them to make her light shine brighter in contrast.

I read them all. Lines and stanzas and snippets of phrases, words that rise and words that fall, melodic and dreamy and evocatively beautiful. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—I rest one hand on my chest, feeling my heart race—I have never been more attracted to anyone in my life than I am to her, here and now, in this moment.

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.

Any time your presence causes people to change, you’re making history. Sometimes small history, sometimes grand—always worth paying attention to.

“You don’t need to keep all that food under your desk. You’ll attract ants.” I pause at the rapid blush that climbs her cheeks, her look of triumph dying. “As long as you live in this house,” I finally go on, “I promise I will not let you go hungry. Okay?”

It’s not much of a vow; it shouldn’t feel as momentous as it does. But the gravity settles on my shoulders all the same—not stifling but grounding, like the comfort that comes from lying under a weighted blanket.

I give her one last nod before making my exit. The last thing I see is a pair of blue, surprise-filled eyes—the same eyes I first saw twenty-something years ago, peeking at me ...

“You smell stupidly good.” Which somehow makes me feel worse. If I’m going to need rescuing, the least he could do is not be so freaking hot all the time. Level that playing field a bit.