by Cat Johnson
MISTER NAUGHTY
a Mudville novel by
New York Times & USA Today Bestseller
CAT JOHNSON
STONE
How I went from working the fall harvest to secretly writing online dating and sex advice for the males of Mudville, I can’t figure. All I know is I blame Harper for it. Apparently dating an author has done something to my brain.
But that’s not the worst of it. Oh no. My bigger problem is that my youngest brother is sprinting to the altar, intent on a Christmas wedding with a woman he’s known for barely a year. Boone beating us to “I do” is not going to sit well with my girlfriend. It should go over about as well as the news that I’m the anonymous writer she loathes.
What will happen when I finally confess that I’m secretly Mister Naughty, the man she’s declared her arch enemy? Hell if I know, but I don’t need any advice column to tell me that if I don't fix this, and fast, my holidays this year are not going to be merry.
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ONE
Harper
Rocking beats pumped out of the bakery’s speakers, telling me Johnny Wolf, aka the Wolfman and self-proclaimed child of the eighties, was currently in the booth at the local radio station.
To the strains of a Van Halen guitar solo, Bethany slid two plates onto the small café table where Red and I sat inside Honey Buns.
“Pumpkin spice cupcakes. Your favorite,” Bethany announced in a sing-song voice.
I hadn’t ordered yet, but after the couple of years we’d known each other, Bethany knew I couldn’t resist her pumpkin spice cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.
In fact, I lamented every year when she took them off the bakery’s menu after Thanksgiving. Although, since she replaced them for Christmas with red velvet cupcakes, also one of my favorites since they too featured mounds of sweet fluffy cream cheese frosting on top, I managed to survive until pumpkin spice’s return the next autumn.
“Mmm. Thank you.” I reached for the plate as Red cleared her throat.
Glancing up, I noticed she hadn’t touched her cupcake, or her coffee for that matter. For a coffee addict with a sweet tooth, that seemed odd.
“So we have something to tell you,” Red began.
Bethany, still hovering near the table, pulled out a chair and sat. I glanced between them and noticed their matching expressions. They appeared serious. I daresay concerned. Wary, even.
Frowning, I asked, “What’s going on?”
Bethany drew in a breath, stretching the Honey Buns—We’ll leave you sticky T-shirt she wore as her chest expanded. I noticed she'd changed the blue streaks that had been in her highlighted hair to a deep wine red.
She drew in a breath. “You’re not going to like it.”
Red’s compressed lips as she watched my reaction told me she agreed with Bethany’s assessment.
I didn’t know what they had to tell me, but I did know their beating around the bush and making me feel like I was the subject of some kind of strange coffee shop intervention was annoying as hell.
They were my closest friends, so it was with love that I threatened, “Either you two tell me right this minute or else—”
“Bethany heard the old biddies talking about you,” Red spewed out on a single breath.
With that sentence as the prelude, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that came out of my friends’ mouths next. But chances were good whatever they said was going to piss me off.
The old biddies talked about everyone in Mudville. They acted as if it was their job.
They performed the task with a single-minded dedication that would be admirable, if it wasn’t gossip they were so keenly focused on.
I rolled my eyes at how nothing had changed. “And? What else is new?”
Bethany looked pained as she said, “They have a nickname for you.”
A nickname. For little old me? Well, that was new. “What is it?”
The two exchanged glances before Red finally said, “Ms. Naughty.”
A laugh burst out of me. “Ms. Naughty. Wow. That’s surprisingly creative of them.”
I supposed I couldn’t be too angry. I had my own nicknames for some of them too. And mine weren’t always so nice either. That didn’t mean that I liked them having one for me.
“And what have I done to earn this nickname? Is it because, devilish siren that I am, I’ve lured Stone into having carnal relations with me without the benefit of marriage? Carnal relations . . . Ooo. Actually, that’s a good title for a book. Hang on. I have to write that down.” I picked up my cell and typed the idea for the title into the notes app before turning my attention back to Red and Bethany.
“I pretty sure it’s because of your . . . books.” Bethany cringed, no doubt because she knew how I was going to react to that statement.
She was correct. I felt my blood pressure rise.
“Seriously? Still? Two years I’ve been in this town and they still can’t accept I write—gasp—romance novels? Worse, since the week after I arrived they’ve been sneaking around reading those books yet they still pretend they’re shocked and appalled by the genre.” I shook my head at the hypocrisy of it all.
“Shocked and appalled. That could be a good title for a book,” Red suggested.
“No,” I shook my head, dismissing her idea without a second thought as my mind whirred with a jumble of thoughts, all being stirred by a good dose of anger.
I tried to calm my thoughts enough to formulate a plan for revenge. If only because the old biddies and their nickname for me had ruined my enjoyment of my first pumpkin spice cupcake of the season. That, above all else, was unforgivable.
Eyes narrowed, I said, “This needs a suitable rebuttal.”
“Like what?” Bethany asked.
“I’m not sure yet. But I’ve got to do something. They can’t get away with calling me names and not have me do anything about it.”
“To be fair, you call them names too,” Red pointed out.
In spite of the admitted truth of that, I turned to stare at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. Definitely yours,” she rushed to say.
I tipped my head. “Thank you. Besides, Binoculars Brimley more than earned her name.”
“She definitely did.” Red nodded.
“One hundred percent,” Bethany chimed in.
Moderately satisfied with their agreement, I reached for my cupcake again as I still searched for appropriate retribution to the biddies’ new assault on my character and my livelihood.
“So, what else is new with everyone?” Bethany asked, over-cheerfully.
I sent her a sideways glance in response to her thinly veiled effort to change the subject and make me forget I was angry. “Same old stuff for me. Just busy writing my next naughty book. What about you two?”
When Red didn’t offer up anything, Bethany leaned forward. “Well, I’m working on a menu for a Honey Buns booth at the Winter Wonderland the Rotary is setting up at the tree lot at Morgan’s farm market. My booth at Autumn Fest is always such a hit, we decided to try it for the Christmas season. They get tons of traffic from people stopping by to pick up a tree.”
“Excellent idea,” Red agreed. “I can picture people loving someplace to grab a hot cocoa and a gingerbread cookie while they search for their Christmas tree.”
“That’s what we figured.” Bethany nodded.
Since I wasn’t contributing all that much to the conversation at the moment, there was another pause before Red said, “I’ve been list
ing some items from the shop on the Mudville forum. You know, it’s that online community bulletin board. I actually sold a few things off there, so that’s been nice.”
In any given day I spent literally hours online, but I’d forgotten about the Mudville forum. “I signed up on there when I first moved here. I logged in a few times but there wasn’t much happening so I never went back.”
Red nodded. “It was pretty new back then and there wasn’t much action. But posts have markedly picked up.”
“I try to check it out at least a couple of times a week. There are posts about community events. People announce garage sales. And, like Red said, there are always things for sale. I’ve even seen threads pop up with people asking for advice.”
Advice. The word sparked a flash of brilliance. The perfect plan for payback hit me like a lightning bolt.
“Hmm . . .” I stared blindly out the window at Main Street as the pieces started to form a complete picture in my mind of how I could respond to my haters.
“Uh, oh,” Red mumbled.
I found both Red and Bethany watching me and asked, “What?”
“You’re planning something,” Red accused.
“And I have a feeling the old biddies aren’t going to like it,” Bethany added.
I smiled, the kind of exuberant Grinch-worthy smile that only the most deliciously evil plan elicited. “You’re both right.”
Picking up my cupcake, I took a huge flavor-filled bite.
Pumpkin spice—and revenge—had never tasted so sweet.
TWO
Stone
There was nothing more peaceful after a hard morning of chores than kicking back in solitude.
Just a man and his chickens.
Or rather chicken, singular, since the rest were outside scratching in the dirt and grass. Only one remained in the coop, diligently concentrating on her egg-laying duty inside the nesting box.
I leaned my back against the wall, bent one knee and planted a boot on the bale of straw where I sat.
Propping the iPad on my thigh, I scrolled idly through the Mudville community bulletin board.
I was surrounded by blissful silence except for the soft coos of the hen. In heaven . . . until I stumbled upon one post that ruined that peace.
Bronxboy: I swapped out the bulb that came with the heat lamp for my chicken coop for an LED. Chickens are happy and I get to save on electric costs. Win-win.
I couldn’t frown hard enough at what I’d just read. I generally tried to not comment on the forum but when I saw something this ridiculous, I had to intervene.
Shaking my head, I started poking out a two-fingered reply.
Anonymous: Bronx Boy, you do realize that unlike the bulb the heat lamp came with when you purchased it, an LED bulb won’t provide any warmth at all for your chicken coop, right? If you just want light to extend the laying season then fine, use an LED, but if you’re thinking you can keep your coop warm this winter with an LED, your IQ equals that of your chickens.
I stared at my comment and then thought better of that last part about his IQ. My main goal was to save the poor chickens that had the misfortune of belonging to this idiot from a dangerously cold winter. Not to insult him.
Deleting the last half of that sentence, I replaced it with you’re wrong and posted my comment.
Satisfied I’d done my civic duty, I scrolled on.
One post caught my eye. It was obviously from a fellow supporter of the Mudville High School Football team, the Hogs. As an alumnus and past member of the team myself, I had to read it.
GoHogs!: So I told my girlfriend I was going to the hunting cabin with the guys for the weekend of the big squirrel hunt and she said fine. But now she’s acting all ticked off. Chicks. Am I right?
I actually laughed out loud at this guy’s ignorance. He must be young, judging by how little he knew about women.
Shaking my head, I let out a sigh and hit the screen to comment.
Anonymous: Dude! Never believe a woman when she says everything is fine. It’s a trick. She expects you to know something is wrong even if she pretends it isn’t. Then when you don’t figure it out, because we’re not flipping mind readers, she gets extra ticked off. You hear that word fine again, go on high alert. Assume she means the opposite and then kiss her ass if you ever want to get laid again.
I reread my reply before posting, checking for errant auto-corrects and spelling and grammar.
That’s what dating a professional author will do to a guy. I loved Harper but damned if her correcting my grammar isn’t the quickest boner killer ever.
It happened only once and I never let it happen again. Now I was so careful about choosing my words you’d think I was a damn college professor rather than a farmer.
Finding nothing obviously wrong—at least to me, though Harper might have other opinions—I posted my comment.
I was about to keep scrolling to see what other idiocy I could find—and correct—when I heard the crunch of boots outside.
Shit. I looked around for somewhere to hide the iPad. There weren’t a whole lot of choices inside the chicken coop. I could slide it behind the bale, but with my luck, whoever was coming could be here to grab some straw. Then I’d be exposed.
My gaze landed on the nesting box, and the salt and pepper colored Brahma sitting inside.
“Sorry, girl.” With that apology, I shoved the iPad under her and the straw she nestled in and spun to face the door just in time to see my brother Cashel walk in.
“Here you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. What in blazes are you doing in the chicken coop?”
“Just checking for eggs,” I lied.
The truth was, our coop was nicer than some people’s houses. Bright and airy because of all the windows. High enough that even at six feet tall I could stand up inside.
And during the day when the chickens were all out grazing, it was the perfect place for me to hide from my brothers and my work for half an hour or so. The bales of straw stacked along the wall made a good enough seat. And the WiFi from the house reached here so the iPad could connect to the internet.
When Harper had given me her old iPad because she’d gotten a newer, bigger, better one, I’d thanked her and then tossed it aside, figuring I’d probably never use it.
So fine. I’d been wrong about that. I could admit it to myself, but no way in hell was I going to admit it to my girlfriend. Just like I didn’t want my brothers to know about my hiding spot or my new obsession with the Mudville forum.
Speaking of annoying brothers—I moved toward the coop’s door where mine still hovered with the dog at his heels. “Why were you looking for me? What’s up?”
“Boone called a family meeting.”
I frowned. “Since when does Boone call family meetings?”
Boone was the youngest of us, if we didn’t count Bart, the foster kid we’d taken in recently.
Compared to Cash and me, Boone was far less invested in the Morgan family business. He’d get his chores done as quickly as possible, but after that, he’d rather pick up odd jobs in town than stick around and help do anything extra on the farm or at the market.
Hell, he’d even taken a job as a damn nanny. Although we all knew that had less to do with his trying to get away from the farm and more to do with the hottie who’d hired him to watch her three-year-old nephew.
Cash shrugged at my question. “Who cares who asked for it? A family meeting means Mom will have baked something and she’ll have a fresh pot of coffee on. We get to sit around in the kitchen doing nothing for a bit without Dad scowling at us like we’re lazy.”
I bobbed my head at that truth—which was one of the reasons for my hiding spot in the first place.
Well, that, and so my brothers wouldn’t see me playing around on the little pink iPad Mini that used to belong to my girlfriend.
Okay, so the color was actually called Rose Gold, according to Harper.
Whatever. It looked pink to me and it would to my bro
thers too. There was no doubt in my mind about that.
After one last glance back at my chicken-camouflaged hiding spot, I turned and said, “All right. Let’s go.”
Side-by-side, Cash and I walked toward the house.
The few leaves that had already fallen crunched beneath our work boots, reminding me that we were already in autumn, and winter was just around the corner.
That thought reminded me of the idiot trying to keep his chickens warm with an LED, which made me want to check the forum and see if city boy had responded. And that reminded me I had better remember later to retrieve the iPad from where I’d hidden it under the chicken.
By the time I’d finished all that thinking, we were at the door of the house and Cash was halfway inside, just steps behind Romeo, who’d trotted in and headed directly for his food and water bowls on the floor.
Following, I saw we were the last to arrive. Mom and Dad sat at the table where there was, as Cash predicted, what looked like apple turnovers.
The aroma of fresh brewed coffee sent me in the opposite direction, toward the coffee pot on the counter where Boone leaned.
“You called a family meeting?” I sent him a sideways glance as I reached for a mug in the cabinet.
While Boone stretched to grab another mug from the high shelf in response to Cash’s outstretched hand, which I’d ignored, he nodded. “Yeah. Why? I’m not allowed to call a family meeting?”
I lifted one shoulder and didn’t comment. I’d leave it to Mom and Dad to decide if whatever Boone had to say was worth halting all work on the farm.
Moving toward the table, I leaned over to claim a turnover before Cash got to them. Fresh baked goods moved fast in our house.
While I was there, I pressed a quick kiss to the top of my mother’s head. “Thanks for baking, Mom.”
“Sure, sweetie.” She smiled. “I can give Harper the recipe, if you want.”
I stifled a laugh. “Uh, yeah. Sure. If you want.”
I kept my real comment to myself. That my mother was delusional if she thought Harper was going to make homemade apple turnovers.
