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

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

“Next time you’re going to do research for a novel, tell me first,” he says. “So I can have the fire department ready.” I give his shoulder a good whack, but I smile, too.

Was he right? Was it a reckless promise to make, that I would kiss him if he didn’t let go of me? It’s possible. I’d even say probable. But I meant it. And I’d say it again. When it comes to my heart, I’m a seize the day kind of girl. And I was ready to carpe that diem.

He widens his knees as I reach the edge of the bed, allowing me to step in closer. It’s an intimate provision, but I know he’s allowing me this near so that I can show him the tattoo. So I move into his space and then turn around, lifting my shirt just high enough that he’ll be able to see. A thin, raised scar and six words above it: Never more than you can handle.

I don’t jump when I feel his fingers, warm and gentle, tracing the scar. I let him take that liberty, touching me, outlining the scrolling font. I don’t jump either when he lifts his other hand and holds me gently by the hips, turning me around until I’m facing him once more.

I reach out, slowly at first, tentatively, until I see that he’s not going to stop me. Then I reach around the back of his neck, feeling along his hairline until I find it: the thin white line he showed me that day, the one he got from trying to cut his own hair as a child. I run my thumb over the spot, only noticeable because I remember where it is, as his grasp on me t...

But just wait until you see me in one of your sister’s fancy-pants outfits.” She grins. “You’ll be drooling at how wildly attractive I am, and then we’ll see who’s the lecher.” “My sister wears yoga pants and mom jeans,” I say, trying to ignore the effect that grin is having on my pulse. “Nothing about her is fancy.”

I swallow as my heart gives a few extra thuds somewhere in my chest cavity. That keeps happening—I keep catching my body responding to this woman in ways it shouldn’t. And I know it’s because I keep discovering new facets of her mind and her personality that fascinate me.

“All right,” I say, apparently shocking her completely—she startles, her eyes widening and losing that dreamy quality. “I’ll bite. But if we get to Tonya von Meller’s house and I don’t like the plan, I’m throwing you under the bus.” She recovers quickly from her surprise, batting her eyelashes and giving me a cheeky grin. “I’m too pretty to throw under a bus—” “Hardly,” I cut her off with a snort of laughter.

Juniper drives me crazy in the bad way and in the good way. She’s obnoxious; pushy and invasive and snarky. But there have also been a couple times when arguing with her was the highlight of my day, filling me with an almost euphoric amusement—or when I’ve found myself wondering if kissing her would get her to shut up. We bicker like cats and dogs, in other words, but there’s also a strong undercurrent of mutual attraction.

When I was a kid, and even still today, I have always been able to sit at a table that’s loaded with food. We could afford it, yes, but I was also raised by parents who took the time to cook for us. Hunger, especially as a child, has many different sources, but two of them are the lack of money to buy food and the lack of an adult figure to prepare that food. I grew up with both.

I’m rounding the table before I even realize my feet are moving. And when I reach my mother, enveloping her in a huge hug, my arms are folding her into my embrace before I even give them consent to do so. “Thank you,” I say into her fluffy hair. She smells like dish soap and lavender potpourri.

How do I even begin to explain? How do I tell her that I’ve been feeling irritable about my high school students throwing food around, and yet I didn’t even think to thank the woman who made sure I was always fed and clothed and happy? How do I tell her I’m slowly learning that it’s okay to feel grateful rather than guilty that I grew up with so much?

“You’re not allowed to call me weird,” she says, tucking some of that hair behind her ear and frowning at me. “I’m your wife. We have become Aidiper. We have a beautiful daughter—” “For the love,” I say, standing up quickly.

I have this theory—I’ve always had this theory—about Aiden. My theory is that he’s a prickly, grumpy, miser of a man. But I think that if you break through all those outer shells, if you get down to the tender underbelly, he’s the kind of man that follows his lover around the kitchen as she cooks, his arms wrapped around her from behind the whole time. I think he’s the kind of man that doesn’t let go once he’s grabbed on.

And a splash of realization paints the inner walls of my mind—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.

What’s the point of a couch if you couldn’t sneak a nap on it?

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

Do not make a Miss Congeniality joke, I tell myself firmly. Resist the urge. You are a strong woman with impeccable impulse control.

I can’t figure this man out. I really can’t. Sometimes he seems to dislike me; sometimes the opposite seems true. He held my hand with no complaint. And right now, despite the fact that he’s not looking at me, his arm is still around my shoulder, no longer squeezing so tightly. His thumb rubs back and forth, back and forth, little patterns that I can feel despite the blazer separating my skin from his touch.

“I understand,” she says again. “And I’m completely fine with that. I appreciate you speaking up. Communication is important when we’re living together.” And once again, everything she’s saying sounds fine. It all sounds accurate. But…her words curdle in my stomach like sour milk, making me feel faintly sick.

The miles pass in silence, and not the comfortable kind. Strangely enough, it’s not even Juniper making things uncomfortable. She’s just looking out the window, glancing through the windshield every now and then. It’s me. I’m the issue here. The quiet is torturous, and for the first time in probably my entire life, I’m desperate to say something—anything—just to fill it up.

“Here,” I say then, turning around so that my back is to her. I reach around and pat myself awkwardly between my shoulder blades. “Hop on.” “Are you sure?” she says after a second’s hesitation. “Yeah,” I say, speaking over my shoulder to her. “It’s fine. It’s not far, is it?” “No,” she says with a little shrug. “Okay. Thanks.”

I’m about to crouch down so she can reach better, but she leaps before I get the chance; her arms band around my neck, and instinctively I reach back to grab her legs as they wrap around me. “That’s my butt—” “Yep. Sorry.” I adjust my grip and ignore the flush of heat rushing to my cheeks. And then we’re off again, her pointing the way and leading me like I’m her faithful steed.

No fire I’ve ever sat next to has felt the way she feels, her citrus-scented hair a slash of pink in my periphery, her breath on my skin as she directs my path. You don’t like her romantically, huh? a little voice in my head says. I drop kick that little voice clear out of my mind.

Then she turns back to her mom. “This is Aiden,” she repeats. She pats me on the chest. “He thinks I’m a good roommate, and he promised he won’t let me go hungry.”

Why is it that calling her a roommate sounds right but feels wrong? And why does calling her more than a roommate sound wrong but feel right?

Earlier I wanted to fill the silence, but now it seems inappropriate to do so; I wait quietly, taking my cues from the woman next to me. I watch the leaves scattering in the wind; I note the headstones around us that seem well cared for and the ones that don’t. I remember what Juniper said about feeling sad for people who are forgotten after they die, and I promise myself that when I someday lose the people I love, I’ll bring flowers to their graves.

My body is coming alive with electricity, sparks dancing in my veins, and I could honestly kick myself. But the way her mind works is fascinating. I want to take out a monthly subscription to her world view.

We listen to the piece on repeat for long enough that I lose track of time. And when Juniper’s head nods onto my shoulder some time later, I remove the headphone from her ear. Then I pick her up and stand as gently as possible, carrying her in my arms all the way back to the car. I carry her from the car to her bed once we arrive back at the house, and she doesn’t wake up once—not even when I remove her shoes and place the covers over her. I can only assume she’s dreaming of dancing skeletons.

So call me stupid, but I make a list of things I want to ask about before I call him. I do the same thing before I go through the drive-thru. Preparing ahead of time helps me feel less frazzled when the time for action comes. Because when I get put on the spot, I end up either looking like an idiot or letting my true personality shine through—impatient and slightly abrasive. I don’t mean to come off that way; I just get flustered and those things come out.

I watch every single bite she takes. She barely seems to notice me after we’re done talking. And when she trails back up the stairs, looking like she’s headed to bed again, she doesn’t see me smile.

I do not do well with screaming. I can handle snide, sarcastic, argumentative, and downright rude. But something about screaming makes me want to curl up into a little ball.

You know what else makes me want to curl up into a little ball? Dead poultry on my doorstep. Who even does that? Is this a mafia movie? Are we threatening the local gangs?

Then I sat in my room and cried, wondering why someone who obviously loved me so much could be such a terrible mother.

“You two are running around doing heaven-knows-what, digging up the past, and you’re going to get hurt. Some nutter stole my chickens this time, but next time that could be you.”

Once my shower tears subsided, I started getting really, really angry. I’ve worked hard for my entire adult life to provide a safe space for myself—my home. It’s something I didn’t have as a child, so safety is priceless to me now. And someone has come and trampled it under their stupid, stinky, chicken-wielding feet. I am not okay with that. And I refuse to live in fear.

Aiden curses when he sees me, but he doesn’t say anything else. He simply leans down and lifts me, hefting me up until I’m bridal style in his arms. He smells like the woods and crisp, fresh air, and I press my face into his neck, breathing him in more deeply. He carries me down the small stairs, around the corner, down the big stairs, and finally to his bedroom. There he sets me gently on his bed, propping pillows up behind me and spreading a large blanket over my legs.

Food, I realize dazedly. He keeps food in there. For…me? My eyes flutter closed as a fresh wave of tears finds me, and I burrow back into the pillows. This blanket is so warm, and the bed is so soft, and there’s food nearby so I’m not going to starve. Safe. I feel safe. It’s the last thought that flutters across my mind before I drift off, finding sleep easily for once in my life.

My heart hurts for the woman curled up asleep on my bed, and I didn’t know I had the kind of heart that could do that.

My heart aches for the hungry and the cold and the lost. It aches for the people I can help and the people I can’t. My aching heart is the catalyst behind most of my life’s actions.

But it’s never ached so personally before. It’s always been a detached sort of hurt, a hurt that I could walk away from at the end of...

This hurt, though, this pain…it isn’t just in my heart. It’s in the blood being pumped and oxidized and sent throughout my body, branching and spiraling and reaching to the furthest tips of my toes and fingers. This pain I’m feeling for her isn’t the kind of pain I ca...

It is the kind of pain that ties itself to my ankle and follows me home, trailing behind as I drag. It is riding piggyback, its arms tightening around my neck. That is this pain. It hurts because ...

“You should sleep more,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest returning to her own bed, but I can’t quite bring myself to kick her out. I can handle Juniper Bean in my bed for one night. I’ll sleep on the couch and then wash my sheets and pillowcase so that none of her intoxicating citrus scent is left behind.

“Aiden,” she says, so quietly I barely hear. “Yeah.” Another sniffle, and then three little words: “My heart hurts.” So does mine. But I sigh heavily. “I know.” I reach out without thinking to stroke the top of her head, but I freeze when my fingers are inches away. I debate for only a second before giving in and closing the distance. Sometimes it’s best to follow your instincts, especially in situations that are as emotionally sensitive as this. So I stroke her hair lightly, feeling the softness, the warmth. “Let yourself grieve,” I say. “It might take some time.”

“Aiden.” “Hmm.” “Do you keep food in the fourth drawer for me?” A hint of a smile touches my lips. “If I say no?” “I won’t believe you.” “Why ask if you’re not going to believe what I say?” “Such a pain in the butt,” she murmurs sleepily, pressing her head further into my palm like a kitten begging for affection. My smile blossoms, but I just continue stroking her hair, silky against my fingertips. We stay like that until she falls asleep.

When I leave the house twenty minutes later, Juniper is still asleep in my bed. It’s weird, that knowledge. I haven’t had a woman in my bed in years. And even though her presence there wasn’t sexual, it still feels intimate, somehow; my bed is a space where no one else goes. But she’s there. Her tears and probably snot are on my pillow, which probably smells like citrus. I’m going to wash it, though. I’m definitely going to wash it. Eventually. At some point.

I need to find answers, not wallow in my hot roommate’s bed. As tempting as that sounds.

In the end, I abandon all of those possibilities and lie on my bed instead, motionless, staring at the ceiling and listening to music. I have to remind myself every ten minutes or so that rest is productive, and that I’m allowed to sit here and do nothing but process information.