Page 2 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

But Matilda is looking at me expectantly, so I just smile and try not to feel sad about how different we are now, about how much better we jive virtually than in person.

It’s something I’ve known about us for a long time. We became friends because we were college roommates, but we have very little in common.

You can’t have everything in life, I guess, and maybe some friendships are just better long-distance.

“Oh,” Matilda says, sitting up straighter. She smooths one hand over her sleek, dark hair, and I follow her gaze to the entrance of the coffee shop. The little bell over the door jingles as I’m hit by a blast of crisp autumn air from outside. I’ve never met the man who steps through the doors, but I’ve seen him all over her social media pages—her perpetual-suit-wearing boyfriend, Ned. He’s younger than us by several years—surprising, considering Matilda’s preference for older men. However, he comes from old money—notsurprising, considering Matilda’s preference for Louis Vuitton purses and breath mints that strip the taste buds off your tongue.

“There they are,” she breathes, and suddenly I’m hit with the desire to sink down in my chair, hiding myself from view. It’s an obnoxious impulse, because it’s borne primarily from the disparity between my outfit and Matilda’s. She’s in a crisp blouse and pressed slacks, while I have on yellow overalls. If Ned’s friend is anything like Ned, he’s probably also a suit-wearing, Rolex-buying corporate type who likes blouses and slacks—

But that thought dies a swift death in my mind thesecondNed’s friend steps through the door. It dies, holds its own funeral, and then decays gruesomely, oozing and rotting and dialing myickfactor up to eleven out of ten.

Because I recognize that man. Blond, five-foot-eleven, brown eyes, a bad habit of forgetting to put the toilet seat down after he pees.

“Roland?” I breathe, my jaw hanging all the way off my skull as his eyes find mine.

Roland stares at me.

I stare at him.

And then, as one, we react, erupting into chaos.

“Ew!” I say, jumping out of my seat. “Ew, ew, ew—”

“Gross,” I hear him groan. “Oh, gross—”

“Gah,” I say, spitting the breath mint out of my mouth like it’s cyanide. “I was going tokissyou—”

“Gross, Juniper, I put oncolognefor this—”

“No!” I say, covering my ears and stomping one foot. “Do not tell me that! I don’t want to know anything—”

“You put on makeup?!” he cuts me off, his face screwed up with disgust as he eyes me. “Gross, June—gross.You wanted me to think you werepretty—”

“No. Don’t talk to me,” I say, flapping my hand at him. “Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me—” But I break off when I remember Matilda’s description of Roland as a man who could bench press me, and my stomach twists unpleasantly all over again. “Ew,” I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. “No, no, no, no—”

People are staring at us; Matilda and Ned look completely scandalized. We’re absolutely making a scene in this fancy-pants cafe that smells like expensive cinnamon pumpkins, and Idonot care.

Because the man Matilda set me up with? It’s none other than Roland Bean.

My. Little. Brother.

“Dude, that’s my sister,” I hear a disgusted Roland saying to Ned. “Oh, gross, you said she washot—”

My eyes pop open just in time to see Roland wave his hand, spin on his heel, and walk right out the front door again, his legs carrying him faster than I’ve ever seen him move.

“Oh. My. Goodness. Your brother,” Matilda whispers into the absolute silence as I slump back into my chair and chug my water like it can get rid of the bad taste in my mouth.

Only the bad taste is in my brain, not my mouth, and the water can’t do anything about it. It’s just going to make me have to pee. I’m going to have to use the restroom, at which point I will probably fall in the toilet because Roland never puts the seat down, andew ew ew—

“Yourbrother,” Matilda says again, her wide-eyed gaze looking at me and then at the front door and then back to me again.

“I’ve shown you pictures of him,” I wail to her. “I know I have. Youhaveto have seen him before—”

“Not in person!” she protests, putting her hands up. “And it was just the one picture that Ned showed me, and it was from when they were roommates—”

“You said his name was Daniel!” I say. Except, I realize, I’m the only person who calls my brother by his first name. His friends all call him by some version of his middle name—Dan or Danny or Daniel. Why didn’t it occur to me that Roland might be the guy Ned was bringing?

Because no one expects to be set up with their little brother. That’s why.

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