The Bad Boy of Bluebonnet

by Jessica Clare

  Not that the stranger noticed. He continued grinning at her and pulled out a small pad of paper. “This the Peppermint House?”

  “Do you see a lot of other red and white Victorians in town?”

  Instead of being affronted at her tone, his grin just grew even wider. “Well, you never know with people. Maybe you just have a thing for barber poles.”

  Emily blushed. “I hope you’re not parked on my lawn.”

  He started, pointing back at his bike. “Is it not okay to park it under the tree? Thought I’d save the parking spaces for customers.”

  Like she got a lot of those. She shook her head and waved a hand at the two spaces in front of the house. “Please just park there.”

  He gave her a jaunty salute and headed back to his bike. As he walked, she watched his backside. Rather tight, and so were his jeans. Emily felt a little overheated. What on earth was wrong with her? This man wasn’t her type in the slightest. He looked entirely too dangerous.

  A moment later, the motorcycle roared to life again, hurting her ears, and he moved it to one of the spaces, casually kicking the stand down. She noticed he wore a pair of cowboy boots, at odds with his biker wear and bizarre hair. As he jogged back toward the house, she had second thoughts. He was a dangerous looking man and she was a woman alone.

  That made her nervous.

  So she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any vacancies at the moment.”

  The friendly smile on his face shuttered in an instant. He studied her for a long moment, and then put his hands in his jacket pockets and rocked back on his heels casually. “Well, that’s real nice and all, but I’m the handyman. Name’s Jericho. I believe you called me?”

  Emily’s eyes widened in horror. Her gaze flicked to his appearance – shit! Hidden just under his loose jacket was a low-slung black tool belt. She looked over at his bike – on the back of the Harley was a beat-up old toolbox. Oh, damn it. Now she’d made an ass of herself. Emily swallowed hard and took a step backward, holding the door wide. “I’m sorry. Come on in.”

  “You sure you want me to?” He asked in a flat voice. “I might bite.”

  It wasn’t humanly possible for Emily’s cheeks to get redder. Maybe she’d get lucky and the old hardwood floors would cave in and the ground could swallow her up. That might be nice. “Just come on in.”

  He stepped inside and followed her lead, and Emily found herself wringing her hands as she led the man in. God, she’d insulted the handyman. She really was becoming a jerk living alone, wasn’t she?

  “What did you need fixed?” His voice was polite, if stand-offish.

  She considered the flickering lighting, but she wanted to see what he could do, first. If he was shitty at his job, he’d just set the entire house on fire. So she said, “Some of the boards under the eaves on the back porch are rotted.” Em crossed her arms over her chest. “Here, I’ll show you. I have the lumber, but it’s hard for me to reach on my own.”

  She led him to the back of the house and showed him the work she’d already done. “I replaced these,” she said, showing him the fresh lumber. Then she pointed higher, at the parts just out of reach. “I’m having more trouble with those.”

  He ran a hand along the boards. “Your husband did a good job. Nice and even. Hardly any space in between the boards.”

  “I don’t have a husband,” she said bluntly. “Like I said, I did those boards.”

  He continued staring at the boards for a moment. Then, he said slowly, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  God, she felt so awkward. Everything was so damn awkward. “I should apologize to you. Maybe we should start over.” She shoved her hand out in his direction. “Hi, I’m Emily Allard-Smith. I called for a handyman.”

  He looked over at her with a wicked grin that seemed to curve only one half of his mouth (oh heavens) and put his hand in hers. “Name’s Jericho, but you can call me J if you like. And I just so happen to be a handyman and plumber.”

  She found herself warming to that smile. He was pretty, with gorgeous eyes and a killer smile. Why did he ruin his appearance with tattoos and that awful hairdo? “It’s nice to meet you. Let me show you my eaves.”

  “Please do. I love a nice set of eaves.” He gave her hand a squeeze before pulling his away.

  Emily couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Why does that sound so incredibly dirty?”

  He mock clutched his chest and feigned putting a hand to his forehead. “Heavens to Betsy. Whatever do you mean?”

  She just rolled her eyes, amused. She liked this man’s sense of humor. “I showed you my eaves. Now show me what you can do with them.”

  “I love a challenge,” he said with a wag of his dark brows. “Let me take a look and I’ll write up an estimate for you.”

  Jericho kept her laughing with his silly quips while he inspected the work and pried up one of the old boards, examining the rot. When he was finished assessing, he headed back to his motorcycle and returned with a clipboard and pen, and wrote out an estimate for the work.

  It was cheaper than she’d expected. “Are you trying to give me a discount?”

  “Because you’re cute and single? No ma’am. Though you are both.” He gave her another wicked grin. “I’m just happy for the work, and I figure if you’re a satisfied customer, I can get more work and hopefully some word of mouth.”

  His comment about her being cute and single left her a little flustered. It wasn’t something she got called often. Because she owned the Peppermint House, she seemed to fall into that ‘matron’ or ‘mom’ category despite not being a mom. And she rarely ever got hit on, especially not by guys in mohawks. She didn’t know what to think of that. So she steered things toward a safe topic: lunch. “If you can do all this work for that price, I’ll even make you lunch.”

  “Now you’re talking,” he said. “Got a ladder?”

  They were both quiet as she led him to the back shed where she kept her tools. He plucked the ladder from the wall with effortless grace and carried it back to the porch, where her rotten eave was. Emily watched, trailing behind him awkwardly. Should she leave him to his work? Or talk to him some more? What was the polite thing to do?

  In the end, he solved the problem for her. As Jericho climbed the ladder, he called down, “So what’s on the menu?”

  “For lunch? I was thinking homemade chicken and dumplings?”

  “Never had it,” he admitted. “Any good?”

  “You’ve never had chicken and dumplings?” She stepped to the side as he pried one of the old boards off and a shower of sawdust rained down.

  “I have not. Unless you can microwave it, I probably haven’t tried it. My family wasn’t much in the way of cooking, unless it was meth.”

  She blinked.

  He looked down at her and grinned. “That was a joke, by the way.”

  Emily laughed nervously. “Very funny.”

  “Yeah, it never ceases to get a reaction,” he said with a chuckle. “Seriously, though, whatever you cook is great. Not a lot of fast food around here so I mostly do a peanut-butter jelly thing.” He patted the side of his jacket.

  “That sounds awful.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Feeds me. Can’t complain.”

  If there was one thing Emily was proud of, it was her skill in the kitchen. And for some reason, she wanted to impress this man. If she didn’t cook up a good batch of chicken and dumplings, he’d be turned off of the dish for the rest of his life. And wouldn’t that be a shame?

  “Well, I’m going to let you start on this,” she said, waving a hand. “And I’ll work on lunch.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said as he ripped one of the boards down with his bare hands.

  Mercy. That was…impressive.

  ~~ * * * ~~

  “Another bowl?” Emily asked, unable to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  “Please,” Jericho said, and held his now-empty fourth bowl of soup out to her. “That
’s some incredible shit.”

  She laughed and ladled another spoonful into his bowl. “I’m glad you like it.”

  He pointed his spoon at his bowl. “So is this you that’s amazing or is this chicken and dumplings?”

  “A little bit from column A and a little bit from column B?” She refreshed his iced tea. “I’m sorry it’s not something nice and cool to eat. I know you must be working up a sweat outside.”

  “You kidding me? This is amazing.”

  She couldn’t help but preen a little under his compliments. “I had some leftover chicken and dough so I thought I’d make some. It’s one of my favorite things to eat.”

  Jericho spooned another heaping mouthful between his lips and gave her a thumbs up. She laughed and began to wipe down her counters, thinking about what to bake next. Baking always eased her mind, and she’d promised the police department of Bluebonnet fresh muffins for a month for checking her house out at two in the morning last weekend.

  They’d found nothing, surprise surprise. She was starting to think her ghosts were just messing with her. She got out her muffin tins and began to pull ingredients out on the counter.

  Jericho waved his spoon at her. “So what’s with all the Martha Stewart stuff? You one of those anti-feminists?”

  Emily made a face at him. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t enjoy baking without being an anti-feminist? Assumptions much?”

  “Kinda like when people assume others are criminals just because they drive a Harley.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “Touché.”

  But he only winked at her. “I’m teasing you. We started off on the wrong foot but we’re cool now.”

  With a small smile, Emily shook her head and pulled a carton of fresh blueberries out of her fridge. “I like to bake. It soothes me. Some people knit, some people scrapbook, I bake for everyone in town. And today, I owe the police department muffins.”

  “Why’s that? You got a sweetheart there?”

  “For a handyman, you sure do ask a lot of questions about if I’m dating or not,” she said lightly, her heart thrumming a bit.

  The look he gave her was heated and made her body flush with pleasure. “I’m trying to suss you out.”

  “How so?”

  “See if a girl like you would go out with a guy like me.”

  Emily’s heart stopped for a second, then began to crash in her breast. “You asking?”

  “I am.” Jericho gave her another one of those lazy smiles, but his eyes were keen. Shielded. She suspected that he was waiting for her to say no.

  Maybe he didn’t realize just how lonely she was? Emily dumped her blueberries in a colander and began to rinse them in the sink. “Where are we going?”

  “You pick. My treat.”

  “Can it be low key? Jeans and t-shirt sort of thing?” She would be horribly uncomfortable if they went somewhere fancy.

  The look he gave her was relieved. “My favorite kind of date.”

  “Movie? There’s a little theater a few towns over that has the new releases.”

  “I think I can handle that. Tomorrow night, maybe? I’ll finish up your eaves today, and it’ll give you some time to miss me.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

  Emily Allard-Smith, local lonely divorcee, had a date.

  ~~ * * * ~~

  It was kinda stupid to be nervous for a date with a soccer mom, Jericho figured. Yet, he was.

  Not that Emily was a soccer mom. She wasn’t even a mom. But she was the type – cardigan sweater, neat blonde ponytail, baking wholesome cookies in the kitchen of her big fancy house.

  Emily wasn’t his type in the slightest. Jericho tended to go for girls that had a slightly rougher life. Chicks with tats and piercings that could swig a beer (or a shot of whiskey) as casually as breathing.

  But there was something about Emily he liked. Oh sure, he hadn’t exactly cared for her snotty attitude when he’d first arrived – but she’d manned up and apologized, and had been friendly and helpful while he’d worked. She was a funny conversationalist, didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, and had a lovely, pouty pink mouth that he couldn’t stop staring at.

  Nice ass, too.

  And she made a mean lunch. Jesus, his mouth watered just thinking about it again. The woman could cook. Not that it was why he wanted to go out with her. There was something in her eyes that called to him. It was a soft sadness, like her sense of fun had been ripped from her far too early.

  He wanted to be the one to make that spark reignite. She was far too pretty to look so tired and careworn.

  Maybe this was a mistake, though. Jericho raked a hand through his now-floppy hair and straightened his leather jacket. He hadn’t dressed up. Kinda figured that she either liked him or she didn’t. He’d ditched the mohawk, though. No sense in scaring a girl off.

  He rang the doorbell and waited, glancing over at her cute little Bed and Breakfast sign. Her tiny parking lot was empty other than his bike. Not a bustling business, that was for sure. Still, there were better places to set up a bed and breakfast than this town. She must have had a sentimental reason for owning the place.

  A moment later, the big wooden door opened. Emily stood there in, just as he’d guessed, a black cardigan and jeans. Her blonde hair was down from its serviceable ponytail and bounced about her shoulders in loose curls. Her eyes looked incredibly blue and that pouty mouth was a soft glossy pink.

  “You look beautiful,” he said softly.

  As he watched, her cheeks colored prettily. “Hello to you, too.” Her gaze went up. “You changed your hair!”

  “It look bad?” He raked a hand through it again. It kept sliding into his face and was damn annoying.

  “Not at all. I like it,” she blurted, and then gave him another shy look. “Did you want to come in?”

  “I can if you like. Or are you ready to go?” He gestured at his bike. “I brought a helmet for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. Okay, sure.” She reached over and grabbed her phone off of a nearby table, swung the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’, and shut the door. “Ready.”

  They walked toward his bike in silence, and then he offered her his extra helmet. She examined it for a moment before putting it on her head. “Is it weird that I’ve never ridden a motorcycle?”

  “Nah,” he said easily. She didn’t look like the type, so he wasn’t surprised. “Need help getting on?”

  She tightened the straps under her chin dutifully. “I just sit behind you, right?”

  “That’s right. Make sure you hold on tight, and don’t put your leg against the muffler unless you wanna get burned.”

  “Gotcha.” She gave him a firm nod and he swung a leg over then gestured for her to hop on behind him. She did, and immediately her arms went around his waist tightly, her breasts pressing against his back. “This good?”

  “That’s perfect.” And it was. Her smaller form fit against him perfectly, and he began to imagine her pressed up against him in all kinds of scenarios: in bed, in the shower together, in the kitchen with her small, strong hands moving to his belt…

  He shook his head to clear it of the image. Not something he needed to think about five minutes into a first date. Never mind that it had already been in his mind since the moment she’d held her hand out to him and smiled.

  Jericho tilted his head back toward her. “You on comfortably?”

  Her hands gave a small squeeze against his stomach. “I’m good.”

  He pulled on his helmet, started the bike, and it roared to life. The engine thrummed with a mighty purr and then they were off. Jericho loved his damn bike and he probably wasn’t the most careful driver – he tended to weave between slower cars when he was on his own. But with Emily clutching at his jacket, he tried to make things as smooth as possible so she’d enjoy herself.

  It felt like no time had passed when he pulled into the movie theater parking lot and parked his bike on the sidewalk. He looked over his
shoulder at Emily and nodded, and she climbed off the back. Her cheeks were flushed, her curls disheveled. “That was fun.”

  He smiled. “Glad you liked it.”

  “I did, though I’m surprised.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She took off the helmet and shook out her hair, then gave him a mischievous look. “Because it’s a Harley and you drove like my grandpa.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. This woman with her sweet, wholesome exterior never ceased to amaze him. “I’ll show you something on the way home, then.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she said in a lofty voice.

  They left their helmets on the bike and headed into the movie theater. They’d just missed the show time on the most recent summer tent-pole flick. The next thing playing was a romantic comedy, which he said was fine. But she’d laughed and commented on his sour face and suggested a thriller instead, even though the movie had been out for weeks and didn’t start for a good forty-five minutes.

  “It’ll give us time to talk,” she said with a smile. “And to pig out on popcorn.”

  Yeah, he definitely liked this woman.

  Jericho bought the tickets, and Emily insisted on buying the food. They got two bags of popcorn (he noticed Emily liked extra butter on hers), some sour candy, two drinks, and headed into the theater to wait for the movie.

  It was empty, a commercial slide flashing on the screen. Emily picked seats in the back, and they settled in with their food and drinks.

  Just when he was thinking this date might be going pretty damn well so far, she held a hand to her mouth and yawned.

  “Uh oh,” he said. “You bored already? That isn’t a good sign.” Inwardly, he was cussing. Maybe she’d gone on a date with him because he scared her and right now she wasn’t being threatened enough? Maybe underneath that wholesome exterior she was an adrenaline junkie? He didn’t know much about her.

  But Emily’s eyes widened and she shook her head quickly. “Oh, my gosh. No. I’m so sorry! I just…” she grimaced. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. That’s all.”