Page 48 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

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.”

“That’s true,” he says. “Just look at me.”

I nod. “Gorgeous, but absolutely insufferable.”

That spark of amusement in his eyes flashes brighter as a little smirk tugs at his lips. “Insufferable?” He leans over the table further and then says, in a whisper so low I almost miss it, “That’s not what you thought thirteen years ago when you tried to kiss me.”

My cheeks heat. “Yeah, well, you’ve gotten more obnoxious.”

Another cocky quirk of those lips. “And more gorgeous.”

“No.”

“Admit it.”

“Never,” I fire back, but I lean in, too, pulled to him by something magnetic.

“Come on,” he says, his voice coaxing, his lips still pulled into that smirk.

I shake my head. “I will not.”

“Why?” he says, looking more smug than ever. “Embarrassed?”

“Fine.” The word pops out unbidden, escaping into the space between us. “Yes. You’re more gorgeous now. The blazers and the longer hair and the—the—” 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.

Somany 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 are parted, his gaze hungry as it lingers on me.

“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 hoarse as he goes on, “I don’t even like you.”

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 sexy face plastered to it.

“I don’t even like you,” he repeats faintly. And then, like he’s coming out of a trance himself, he blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut. When they open and focus on me once more, that tension is gone; all that’s left is him staring at me in horror, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide.

He jumps back, stumbling over his chair as he scrambles away. Then, sounding shocked, he says, “You—you—”

“No,” I say severely. I point at him, straightening up and taking a few steps back from the table. “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.

“Let’s chalk that up to a fluke and pretend it never happened,” I say, keeping my voice light. Then I grab my bowl of half-eaten food and take it over to the sink. “Deal?”

“Definitely,” he says from behind me. I’m tempted to look at him, to see if he looks as normal as he sounds, but there’s no good reason to do that. So I keep my eyes firmly on my bowl, hyperfocusing as I scrub it clean.

“Also,” I say, “I think we should go talk to Rocco sometime soon.”

“Rocco?” Aiden says. When I finally glance at him, he’s leaning back against the countertop, dirty bowl next to him, arms folded over his chest as he waits for me to finish. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only thing I can think of,” I admit. I give my bowl one last rinse and stick it in the dishwasher. Then I move out of the way, and Aiden and I trade places—me leaning against the counter, him in front of the sink. “I can’t think of any other step we could take. The sheriff isn’t helpful because he can’t find a body, and Sandra’s mom thinks she’s on a road trip. But I know she’s dead, and I think she died because she was going to tell me something about my parents. Maybe I’m wrong,” I say. “Maybe she tripped and fell, or maybe something else happened. But Rocco might be able to tell me about his brother, and I’m going to go crazy if I don’t dosomething.”

For one long moment, Aiden is silent. I watch from behind as he washes his dish, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Then he shuts the water off, and I hear a sigh.

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