"Y'all really need that to be the last of the unexpected creatures in this house," I muttered.
5
Linden
I groaned into my coffee when the doorbell rang. I was not a morning person. I worked on trees but that didn't require me to keep farmer's hours, and thank god for that.
The beautiful thing about living alone and working for myself was that no one interfered with my slow mornings. I didn't have to put up with anyone rattling around the house or chatty coworkers. If I timed it right, there were days when I didn't have to speak to anyone until after lunch. Those were the best days.
Days when the doorbell rang before nine were not the best.
The sound of firm, eager, wouldn't-be-ignored knocking had me groaning again. I had a good idea who was waiting on the other side of the door.
Jasper hadn't taken Ash up on his offer to stay at my house and that was a relief. When I'd arrived home late last night after grabbing dinner in Plymouth, I caught sight of her inside Midge's house. The lights were on, the curtains and windows flung open, and she was standing on a stepladder in the middle of the large front window, a giant sponge in hand. She hadn't changed out of that fancy dress and her hair still hung around her shoulders in waves.
For reasons I still could not explain, seeing her there twisted and tightened the muscles between my shoulders. She'd stayed. She'd stayed and she was so unbothered by the conditions, she didn't even change out of her nice clothes.
I'd sat in my truck for longer than necessary, messing around with my phone while I stole glances next door. I didn't know why or what I wanted to see but I needed to see it before I ducked inside for the night.
Now that I thought about it, I was mostly concerned with the bats. I was a nature guy but that didn't mean I wanted bats hanging around my house. Or hers. That was my real concern. The bats.
I shuffled toward the door, half asleep and fully disinterested in another visit with Miss Cleary. Maybe it was Mrs. Cleary. Not that it mattered one way or another. It didn't matter. Why would it?
With that irritating question in mind and a matching scowl on my face, I swung open the door. As expected, Jasper was on the other side. She wasn't wearing a dress today but a bright yellow skirt with lots of little pleats. It made me think of an accordion, and I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch it very much.
Instead, I flicked a glance up at her face—and all that honeyed hair spilling over her shoulders—and then down to the dish she carried.
"Good morning," she said, rather pointedly. As if I was supposed to say something before imagining the feel of her skirt between my fingers.
"Yeah," I grunted. "What's up?"
She stared at me for a second, a stiff grin on her face while her eyes flashed cool and hard. "Well, then. This will have to do," she said under her breath. "I never got a chance to thank you for your help yesterday."
I leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed my arms over my chest. "You had plenty of time to ask why the hell I was helping in the first place."
She gave a quick head bob in response. "Mmhmm. Okay." She held out the dish. "I made you a banana bread. To thank you."
The object on that plate looked nothing like any banana bread I'd ever seen. For starters, it seemed…wet. And yet, it also looked overcooked. Those things never, ever belonged in the same thought process as banana bread.
"You didn't have to do that."
"It was my pleasure," she said, pushing the dish in my direction again. "Yesterday was rather hectic. I wanted to thank you for everything. The door, the bats—"
"The attempted felony," I murmured.
She offered a playful expression that appeared completely forced, saying, "I can see how it came across that way at first glance. Now, I'd just love to hear more about your history with Midge. Why don't you invite me in?"
It was a question only in technicality. It was a direct order and this woman wasn't playing. I was half convinced she'd whip that crowbar out of her skirt and wag it at me if I didn't follow her lead.
Again, it did something to me. I was annoyed as hell and I wanted to argue with her. I also wanted to listen to her spitting that sweet, sweet fire while she forced those hollow smiles, and I wanted to close the door in her face because she made me feel far too many things at once.
"I can think of plenty of reasons why I wouldn't invite you in but…" I stepped back, gestured for her to follow.
"Such a warm, inviting host you are." She stepped inside and headed toward the kitchen, overtly eyeing the space as she went. "You opened up this wall," she said, gesturing between the kitchen and living space. "Wow. After being in Midge's house, I can really see the difference it makes."
I didn't respond.
Most of the houses on this street were built in the 1920s. The floor plans were all the same, save for a few quirks and variations. It made for a string of tidy bungalows lined up one after another.
Over time, many of those houses had been renovated or razed, new construction taking the place of old. Only my house and Midge's remained from the original string—and they were mirror images of each other.
"My word. Do you have a decorator?" Jasper asked as she turned in a circle. "This design is to die for."
I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Were you expecting ugly old recliners and some Godfather posters?"
She set the dish down on the countertop and studied the cabinetry. "You're assuming I made assumptions about you? That's an exciting turn of events."
"Then why do you assume I hired a decorator?"
She busied herself opening and closing drawers like she owned the place, which was a fine reminder this lady was a real fucking handful.
"Because it's difficult to make everything look like"—she yanked a long serrated knife from the drawer and waved it around with the same flippant attitude she had with the crowbar—"this. You know. Put together. Grown-up. Magazine quality."
I shifted away from Jasper and the knife-wagging, and scanned the living area with its marine blue walls. Sure, I'd had the assistance of my sister's best friends—both of whom happened to be architects—when I wanted to knock out a couple of walls and install several big banks of windows. They'd offered some pointers for making it all come together. None of this qualified as magazine quality.
Not that I minded the praise, seeing as I had put a fuckton of time into hunting down the right pieces and working on this space until it was exactly what I wanted. But this woman was buttering me up for something. That, or she routinely switched between two grossly different personalities: the sweet peach pie and the blistering hot pepper.
"I'd just love a cup of coffee." She nodded toward the mug I'd abandoned on the kitchen table.
"I bet you would," I murmured.
When I made no move to fetch that coffee for her, Jasper said, "Well, you just sit right down and I'll serve up this banana bread."
Knife still in hand, Jasper glanced between the wet bread and the upper cabinets as if she couldn't decide what to explore next.
What was with this woman and casually wielding weapons?
I pulled another glass mug from the cupboard and slid it across the counter. "Here." Then I grabbed the cold brew from the fridge. "Help yourself."
"I can see why Midge liked you." She hit me with another one of those smiles that just didn't seem connected to any real emotion, saying, "No nonsense with you. Right to the point."
I plucked the knife from her hand because I really did not want to deal with anyone slicing off a fingertip or nicking a jugular. But doing this meant we were crowded between the kitchen table and a corner of cabinets. I could see all the golden flecks in her eyes at this range.
"Milk's in the fridge, if you want it."
She chuckled and—for no good reason—I dropped my gaze to the hollow of her throat. Beneath the jean jacket she was wearing a gauzy white shirt, making her neck the only bit of exposed skin on her. The only bit of vulnerability. Everything else was fake sm
iles and forced laughs and comments that slapped so hard you didn't realize it until five minutes after the fact. But that pale, flawless skin was true.
"You and Midge must've gotten on famously." She topped off her mug with a heavy splash of milk. "Such a scrappy old bird, she was."
I sliced the banana bread because what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't stare at her neck much longer and I sure as hell wasn't interested in reminiscing. Not when her skirt was translucent in the morning light and she was working damn hard at playing nice after showing me her teeth yesterday.
I dropped slices of the banana bread—which was cement on the outside and mud in the middle—on two plates and nudged one toward Jasper. I made no move toward mine.
"We hardly got a moment for proper introductions yesterday. With all that commotion," she added, twirling past me to return the coffee and milk to the refrigerator then thinking better of it and setting them both on the counter. "Tell me, what do you do? You said something about trees, I believe."
"Arborist," I grunted out.
I tried to keep my focus on the plate, even if I didn't touch it. I didn't want to stare at her or that skirt but there weren't many other options. I might've blown out a wall but this kitchen was still small and she still smelled…lovely. There was no specific fruit or flower to pin down but rather a soft, gentle scent that was…lovely. That was all I could say about it. Lovely.
"Forgive me," she said with another one of those self-deprecating laughs. They annoyed me enough to forget all about the lovely. "What does the work of an arborist look like? I can't recall ever meeting one before."
"Trees. It looks like trees." When she shifted to face me, her nose scrunched up and her brow wrinkled, I added, "Tending to trees and woody plants. Maintaining ecological communities. Diagnosing and treating disease. Or fungi. Removing trees when they pose a danger to people, places, or other healthy trees. Removing those species that are becoming overabundant or invasive." I shrugged. "Like I said, trees."
She bobbed her head several times and pointed toward the woods visible through the wall of windows along the back side of the house. "I gather you have plenty of work around here."
"Plenty," I echoed. I thought about telling her more, explaining the work of tree wardens in this area and the ongoing fights against devastating disease and misguided residential plantings, but I didn't carry on conversations at this hour. Hell, it was a blessing I was fully dressed.
"That's always the good kind of trouble to have on your hands." She lifted the mug to her lips, watching me as she sipped.
I was supposed to ask something about her now. That was how this worked. She expressed an interest in me and I was due to return the favor.
I could manage that just fine—I didn't mind people too much once I was awake for the day—but I didn't want to do it with Jasper. It didn't spring from any deep desire to be rude or hinge on the fact Midge had never once mentioned this lady. No, I didn't want to do this with her because she confused the absolute hell out of me.
She interrupted my morning with her plastic cheerfulness but I couldn't stop thinking about her skin.
She brought me a biohazard of a banana bread and she smelled like heaven.
She stubbornly insisted on sleeping in a teardown bat cave but made me want to wrap her skirt around my fists.
It was too damn confusing and I didn't want any of those contradictions in my life. None of it. Not even the pieces that'd kept me tossing and turning all night, half convinced I needed to march over there and drag her out of that house, half convinced I'd lost my damn marbles if I thought ripping a woman out of her bed and taking her home with me was a worthwhile idea.
I didn't want to feel like that. I didn't want to feel any of it.
I gulped down a mouthful of coffee. "You're not from around here."
"You're right about that."
Please, god, don't make me ask her another question.
As the silence stretched on, I realized I was now staring at the mark on her cheek. It was medium brown, like a pale freckle, but had the shape and size of a shelled walnut. I wanted to touch it even more than her skirt.
Somehow, I managed, "Down south?"
"Caught that, did you?" She grinned at me over the rim of her mug. It seemed like she was intentionally holding it up to her face to keep me from eyeing the mark on her cheek but she'd forgotten it was a clear glass mug. "I lose my accent whenever I'm away from home for long. It's a wonder I still have any of it."
"And where is home?"
She glanced down, her brows lowered. "I grew up in Georgia. Haven't lived there in ages though. Just visits."
She reached for the coffee, refilled hers halfway, and then held the bottle toward me in question. I pushed my mug closer. "Leave some room for milk."
Jasper nodded, sending her wavy hair swaying against the collar of her jacket as she topped me off.
"Where do you live now?"
She peeked up at me as she poured the milk and I felt it low in my belly.
What the literal fuck was wrong with me?
Once she had the milk capped, she clinked her mug against mine. "As far as where I live, well." She fixed a severe smile on her face. "I live next door."
That was when I bobbled my mug and sent coffee splashing down my shirt. That was bad enough but Jasper was there with a dish towel, patting me down. Her hands were everywhere and all I could do was stand there while we kept talking over each other.
Her hand dropped to my waist. "Let me just—"
I tried to snatch the towel from her. "It's fine and—"
"Hold still and I'll—"
"Really, you don't have to—"
She yanked the towel back. "Maybe you should change out of this—"
"That's not where—"
She reached for the roll of paper towels. "Don't move, there's a puddle—"
"You don't have to try and fix everything."
"Actually, I do."
"I'll just change. It's fine. Don't—" I took a step back, held up my hands. "Stop. Stay here. Let me handle this."
I stalked into my bedroom, whipped off my shirt, and shoved my fingers through my hair. If I stayed in here long enough, she'd eventually leave. Right?
Unless she came looking for me.
She'd definitely come looking for me.
Maybe I wanted her to come looking for me.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" I grumbled.
"What was that?" Jasper called.
I scrubbed my hands down my face. "Nothing."
She wasn't leaving. Even when she did leave, she'd be right next door. She wasn't going anywhere.
Fuck me.
Still smelling of coffee, I pulled on a new shirt and returned to the kitchen—where I found Jasper kneeling on the floor. Her hair fell in a curtain around her face as she mopped up the coffee and all I could do was stop and stare.
It wasn't the position. It was not. It had nothing to do with the sight of her on her knees, head bowed, skirt fanned out like daffodil petals. It was that she was here, in my space and scrubbing the floors like they were a personal keepsake of hers, and I wanted her to stay equally as much as I wanted her to go. And I hated that more than being forced to speak before noon.
"All set," she said, pushing to her feet.
I stared. How could I not? She was a gorgeous pain in the ass.
I reached for my mug to keep my hands busy. It was mostly empty and I required two to three full cups of coffee to get going in the morning but there was no way I was doing the kitchen tango with Jasper again. "Thanks."
"I must thank you properly for your assistance yesterday. I had no intention of needing it but you rose to the occasion nonetheless. I'm sure Midge admired that about you."
We shared a glance over the banana bread. Neither of us made a move toward it.
"Midge had a lot of opinions about a lot of things," I said. "It seems you managed well enough over there last night."
She sighed
as she tossed the paper towels in the trash. "I managed just fine. Believe me, I've worked with worse."
I didn't see how that could be true but I wasn't going to argue with her. No more than I already was. "I take it the bats have moved along?"
"Bats, yes, though a cat scared a decade off me last night," she said, a breathless laugh in her words. "Appeared out of nowhere."
Now, that—that wasn't fake. I wasn't convinced it was real but it wasn't another empty smile or canned comeback. "Little black cat with a white triangle on his chest? Looks like he's wearing a tuxedo?"
She shook her head as she lifted her mug. "It was dark. I didn't get a good look."
"If it was a black cat, it was probably Sinatra."
"Is he yours?" she asked between sips.
"No, he lives in the forest." I tipped my head toward the back windows. "Midge named him Sinatra for the tux. Apparently his eyes look a little blue in the right light too."
Since I couldn't look at her face or her neck or her skirt, I dropped my attention to the banana bread in front of me and broke off the most edible corner I could find. Edible was too optimistic a term. It tasted like burnt cardboard with a strange, hot-garbage-esque finish.
"Mmhmm. Does he make a habit of inviting himself indoors? Because I need to prepare myself for that."
"Not usually, no. I've only seen him in the yard. Sometimes he'll come sit on the deck. Months will go by without seeing him. Once it was almost a year."
"And you're sure it's the same cat?"
"I'm not sure about anything but Midge was convinced. She knew his markings. I think she left food for him on the back steps but then she kept getting raccoons hanging out on her porch. At least that's what she told me when I moved in here. That was the first thing she said to me. 'Don't feed the cat because he only sends his raccoon friends to eat.'"
Jasper drummed her fingers on the mug. "How old is this cat?"
"No one knows."
"No one knows?" she repeated, a twang of irritation in her voice.
There was definitely something wrong with me because I enjoyed the shit out of that. "He's been around since before I moved in five years ago. Midge mentioned seeing him on and off for years before that. She figured he liked hanging around here because this place hadn't been occupied for fifteen or twenty years so there were plenty of mice." I shifted to drop the knife into the basin of the sink. I didn't need Jasper grabbing that thing again. "Surprised you've never heard about him, seeing as you were so close with Midge. She had a ton of stories about that damn cat."
The Belle and the Beard Page 4
