Page 11 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“I—”

“You’re a student!” he cuts me off.

I look stubbornly up at him. All hope is not lost yet, though admittedly my dignity has left the premises. “I’m old enough—”

“I don’t care. I don’t even care if you’re sixty with a beer gut,” he says firmly. “You. Are. A. Student.” His mouth snaps shut, and in the illumination of the porch light I can see his jaw muscles flexing, his nostrils flared as he breathes, his head turning this way and that as though to check if anyone has seen us.

“I just—” I begin, my voice small. “I just—I wanted—”

“Youthought?Youwanted? It’s not just about you, Juniper,” he says, exasperated. “I could get expelled if someone saw this. They could kick me out of the university. Heck, I could go to jail. You aren’t even legal, are you?”

He doesn’t even know how old I am? My vision goes blurry as hot tears fill my eyes; I swipe them away furiously, just in time to see Aiden squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep, steadying breath.

“I’m not angry at you, okay? I’m not mad.” He pauses. “I’m proud of you for that English grade. You worked hard, and it shows. But I don’t ever want to see you at this apartment again,” he says finally, “and you are never to pull another stunt like this. Got it?”

I nod, scrambling to my feet. I have to go; I have to get out of here before he sees me cry. I stumble away, away, away, finally turning on my heel and running.

I think he calls after me as I flee, but I don’t turn back.

4

IN WHICH JUNIPER DECIDES MURDER MIGHT BE THE BEST OPTION

Aiden Milano.

Aiden.

Milano.

The man who taught me to love literature and then broke my little teenage heart, and he’s standing here in front of me.

My new roommate.

He’s not twenty-three anymore—he must be about thirty-five, I think. He’s giving off major sexy professor vibes, wearing a tweed blazer over a dark-red sweater, khaki pants, and some sort of brown dress shoes. He even has the leather messenger bag. His brown hair is longer than it was when I knew him, shorter on the sides than on top.

The writer in me wants to come up with all sorts of evocative descriptions for the masterpiece that is his face—the sharp angle of his jaw, the penetrating eyes, the slightly crooked nose—but the red-blooded woman part of my brain can only manage a wordless, slack-jawed stare.

Yep. He’s still my type, and he’s still a heartbreaker.

To be fair, he was absolutely right to break my heart. I was seventeen—he was correct, that’s not even legal in the state of Idaho—and he was my twenty-three-year-old college tutor. I was headstrong and a little bit broken, and I latched onto someone older and more mature. I’m just grateful he was the kind of guy who never would have taken advantage of my feelings.

I never saw him again after that Christmas Eve, either, which allowed me to lick my wounds in peace. His pedagogy class ended, and I finished out my senior year fairly well, despite a brief but sudden move to a foster home part way through January. I got accepted to an in-state college, and it was thanks to Aiden’s English tutoring that I decided to become a writer after graduating.

Although that’s not going so hot now. I’m starting to think it might be worth it to let SpookyPants McWhodunnit have her chance in the sun, because my romance-writing days are feeling limited at the moment. I don’t know how to write mystery novels, but I can read a bunch of them to get a feel for plot beats and whatnot. That’s a good place to start. I’ll certainly give it my best. I’m willing to do my research, too.

Yes,I think as I go back into the coffee shop to get my stuff.I can do that.

My table in the corner is exactly how I left it. I still have one and a half scones left, so I grab them and wrap them in a napkin. Then I finish my last swig of hot chocolate and place the mug in the dirty dish receptacle.

The wind whips my hair around my face as I step out of Grind and Brew again, strands of bubblegum pink flying into my field of vision. I don’t have enough length for a ponytail right now, so I tuck what I can behind my ears and hurry to my car. Aiden has managed to get the bumper back in place somehow—did he go in my trunk and get the super glue?—and now he stands next to Sunshine, watching me as I bustle to the rear passenger door. I clutch my scones self-consciously, wrapping them more tightly in the napkin. Then I grab my bag from the backseat and carefully put the scones in, making sure to set them on top so they don’t get squashed. I nod, satisfied, and then put the bag back where I got it.

When I turn around, I’m surprised to find Aiden still looking at me. There’s an expression on his face that I don’t particularly like as his eyes jump back and forth between me and the bag I just put in the backseat—something curious and analyzing about the tilt of his head and the focus of his gaze.

Do I have food on my face? A hot chocolate mustache? Did he think the scone thing was weird? Or maybe I have asconemustache?

Whatever. I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater and call it good. “You have a key for me?” I say, holding out my hand to him.

He doesn’t say anything; instead he just gives me a slow nod, still looking at me in that weird way, before reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a single key, and dropping it into my waiting palm.

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