The Belle and the Beard Page 5

  If Jasper was fazed by these comments, it didn't show. She grinned at the old barometer and tide chart stationed below the clock on the wall opposite the kitchen. "What a curious bit of history. I get a house and an occasional cat."

  "You're sticking around, then. You're not just visiting. You're here to stay."

  Jasper's eyes brightened. "You seem very concerned about this."

  "I'm not concerned. I'm making conversation, just like you," I replied with a wave toward our mugs. Mine was still miserably empty. "You're the one who invited yourself over."

  "Which I did to acknowledge your help yesterday."

  "Which you've done." I shoved my hands into my pockets. They were safer there. They wouldn't wring her lovely neck there. "Clearly there's something else you want."

  She took a step forward, propped her hands on her hips. "I'm being neighborly. You should try it."

  I matched her step. "And what the fuck did you think I was doing yesterday?"

  A noise rattled in her throat, something strangled and hoarse. I loved that noise—and I had the privilege of hearing it in its purest form now that we were standing toe to toe. "You thought you were interrupting the commission of a crime."

  "You had a fucking crowbar, Jasper." I folded my arms over my chest. "What was I supposed to do? Hand you a muffin basket?"

  The gold in her eyes flashed. "A muffin is always preferrable to mansplaining."

  We stared at each other for a long moment. A few strands of her hair brushed against my forearm. It was nothing, but those sensations still rippled over my skin and down my spine. And lower.

  "Yeah, so, anyway, what is this?" I asked, tipping my chin toward the dish. "It's a lot of things but it's not banana bread."

  "It certainly is," she snapped. "I mashed those bananas myself."

  "And what else did you throw in with those bananas?"

  "The usual things. Flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla. Stuff like that."

  I gestured to the loaf's squat, dense appearance. "Some part of that went wrong."

  "I don't know what went wrong," she replied. "I followed the recipe. The grocery stores are a nightmare, of course, but—"

  "What do you mean, the grocery stores are a nightmare?"

  "They're just impossible to find," she said, touching her fingers to her temples. "I swear, I drove in the same circle for an hour just to get to the store."

  I peered at her. "Are you talking about the rotary?"

  "The traffic circle," she said.

  "The rotary."

  "It's called a traffic circle. That's the name."

  I shook my head. I wasn't arguing the New England dialect with a southerner this morning. "It took you an hour to exit?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "Maybe not a full hour."

  "But close enough?" When her only response was a blink, I continued, "And then what happened, Jasper?"

  With a defiant shake of her head that was practiced only in its purity, she said, "I mean, I think I got the right ingredients. I haven't actually visited a grocery store in years. It's just so overwhelming without the list of items you usually buy right there in the app. Do I use bread flour or cake flour? I don't know. How am I supposed to know that? And all the different types of sugars, my word. How am I supposed to know the correct one for baking? Aren't most of them interchangeable? They didn't even have the brand of bread I prefer which was truly disappointing. All I can say is I really miss the stores where I used to shop."

  "And where were those?"

  Jasper turned a piercing glare toward me. "Mid-Atlantic."

  "Right. The mid-Atlantic." I motioned for her to continue. "Then what happened? How did you commit this crime against bananas?"

  "I had to bake it in the crockpot because the oven wasn't heating up but—"

  "Let me stop you right there." I shook my head. "You baked it in a crockpot?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Crockpots aren't for baking."

  "Crockpots are for everything," she replied. "Crockpots can cook anything and you're light on the imagination if you think otherwise."

  I motioned to the loaf again. "That's a real nice argument but this begs to differ. You're sure about the flour? And the sugar? You're sure it wasn't spackle? I'm positive I tasted some spackle."

  If my brother was here, he'd tell me I was being an ass.

  He wouldn't be wrong.

  She fisted her hands. "I was trying to thank you. It's a kind gesture, you know."

  "Yeah, I caught that part. Just not sure if you're trying to kill me with your kindness."

  Her cheeks were red now, almost comically so, and I swore I could hear her molars grinding together. I was really, really sick because I was enjoying the hell out of this.

  "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it with kindness."

  I leaned a hip against the counter. When I crossed my arms over my chest, my knuckles brushed the front of her jacket. "How would you do it, then?"

  She glanced down at where the back of my hand lingered against the denim. "That shouldn't concern you."

  "Why not?"

  She dropped a hand on my chest, saying, "Because I've thanked you for your help and fulfilled all expectations of courtesy, and now I'll live happily knowing I've done my part. I'll also live happily if our paths never cross again. Help me out with that, would you?"

  After another pat to my chest, Jasper spun away from me and marched straight out of my house, the front door banging shut behind her.

  Jasper spent the next seven days making it impossible to ignore her.

  I tried. I tried like hell, but the woman was everywhere. Pacing the yard and taking measurements of god only knew what. Leaving all the windows and curtains open, all the time, and the lights on too. Emptying the garage out onto the driveway and then, apparently, shoving it all back in there.

  There was no avoiding Jasper.

  Even when I tried my damnedest to pretend there wasn't a flamethrower of a woman next door, I couldn't ignore the hammering.

  Hammering fucking everything. Everything. And I had no clue what she was pounding but she did it day and night for three days straight.

  The real kicker was the curb. Without fail, every time I left in the morning or returned in the evening, Jasper was dragging something out to the curb. Trash bags—so many trash bags—boxes, wrecked furniture, rolled-up carpet, all kinds of shit.

  I couldn't look away from it if I tried. I couldn't close my eyes and pray I managed to steer my truck into the driveway without incident. I had to go in with eyes wide-open and force myself to stare through Jasper.

  As if that was even possible.

  As if I hadn't formed a mental catalog of her dresses and high heels and the coordinating cardigans she wore as summer gave way to the crisp bite of autumn. As if I didn't growl at the sight of her, waves hanging loose over her shoulders. As if I didn't lie awake at night, wondering whether it was time to take this situation in hand.

  Every time I spotted her in the yard or at the curb, there was a split second where I was finished playing by her rules. Just fucking finished.

  That split second hit me as I drove down the street this afternoon and found Jasper lugging a huge, water-stained box out from the house. It was so big she disappeared behind it, leaving only her arms and legs visible.

  The closer I came, the longer that second stretched. It continued on like a long thrum of hunger deep in my belly and it didn't stop when I pulled into my driveway.

  I watched as she followed the comma curve of the walkway, moving with more grace than anyone who couldn't see ahead of them had any business. She almost made it too but that box was doomed. The bottom fell out in a sodden rush, leaving a heap of wet, damp-browned papers at her feet.

  She kept her hands fixed on the sides of the box as she lowered it, her lips folded in a line that spoke of her intense displeasure. As if a box had any business failing her. Then she closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky, and let her shoulders drop. I
was certain I could hear her sigh all the way over here.

  Before I could stop myself, I was out of my truck and crossing into her yard.

  Before I could stop myself, I was shouting, "Mind telling me what the hell you're doing?"

  6

  Jasper

  I knew he was watching. I knew he saw today's disaster and filed it away with all the other disasters he'd watched from his front-row seat next door.

  There was no escaping the man. Everywhere I turned, he was there. Lurking in his windows, lingering in his yard, staring from inside his truck. I couldn't breathe without a scowling audience.

  It was all he could do, the scowling. As if he was forever sucking a lemon while looming in my shadows.

  Then— "Mind telling me what the hell you're doing?"

  I kept my eyes shut a moment longer. My dress and shoes were soggy and the box's contents smelled vaguely fungal but I needed a minute.

  Just a minute to absorb the sun's warmth and pretend I wasn't covered in damp basement trash. One quick little minute to myself before going another round with the ever-present hot neighbor.

  The ever-present hot neighbor who could've had me on his kitchen table last week if he'd asked nicely. Or not so nicely.

  I turned my face from the sun to stare at Linden Santillian in all his tree-doctoring glory. Plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, jeans that fit just right, ball cap shadowing his hazel eyes. The cap made it difficult to tell for certain but his eyes seemed bright today, almost feral.

  Where I was from, wolves were bad news. They decimated chicken coops and spooked horses. They were the reason, or so I was told, my uncle stored a handgun in the cupholder of his truck.

  Yet the odd thing about wolves and all the bad news they brought along with them was they didn't exist. Not really, not after decades of hunting, not where I was from.

  But this man right here, he was all wolf.

  Everything about him was large and dark, like a new moon in human form.

  And the most overlooked quality of wolves—and moons—was their beauty. There was no law prohibiting predators from being both beautiful and deadly. This man was both—in the best ways. He'd destroy you, he'd wreck you, he'd tear you apart and watch you bleed, and he'd smile about it.

  Wolves were nothing like foxes or coyotes or mountain lions or any of the creatures known to stalk farms and rural spreads.

  Wolves weren't sly or cunning, and they weren't exactly brazen either. They were bold in a simplistic sort of way. They went after what they wanted—and that was that.

  When coming face-to-face with a wolf, you had to square up and stare them straight in the eye. Running scared was to feel fangs sinking into your skin.

  I wasn't going to run.

  I set the remains of the box down, dusted off my hands, and straightened the ribbon belt at my waist. I wasn't afraid of this wolf, even if I knew he'd go for the throat if I gave him the chance.

  He blinked at me with those eyes, wordlessly repeating his question. He didn't have to do anything but stand there to command my attention and he knew it.

  "Did you say something?" I asked. "I couldn't be sure. I heard some grumbly sounds but not actual words. Was that you? With the grumbly sounds? Are you making those noises?"

  "You"—he shook both hands at me—"that"—and the disemboweled box—"what-what-what the bloody hell are you doing?"

  I glanced at the mess in front of me. "Does it truly require explanation or do you simply enjoy having everything narrated for you?"

  "Yeah, it requires some fucking explanation, Jasper. Why are you hauling this stuff yourself?"

  "Because I can." And I was in no position to hire out for every little job.

  He motioned toward the wet, fungal midden. "Obviously not."

  "That was the box's malfunction, not mine," I shot back.

  "You should not have been moving that box in the first place."

  "Unravel that one with me, if you please. First, you're hot and bothered because I wasn't here to handle these things sooner. Then you're mad I came—and stayed. And now you have feelings because I'm taking care of the place? Do I have that right?"

  His hands resting on his hips again, he turned a frown up the street. After a pause, he said, "Are there more?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Are. There. More." When I didn't respond, he added, "Boxes, Jasper. Are there more boxes you need to be moved?

  "Yes, however, I—"

  "They're in the basement?"

  I glared at him. "I'm not interested in your assistance."

  "I'm not interested in watching another moldy carton disintegrate. Holler at me all you want," he said as he took off toward the house. "But that's all you're going to do."

  "What business is it of yours?" I called, trailing behind him.

  He thundered down the cellar stairs, each booted footstep smacking the treads like he meant for them to splinter in his wake.

  In truth, I was slightly concerned those old stairs would not take kindly to the full force of Linden Santillian. And then what would we do, trapped in this watery grave of a basement? He'd yell, I'd yell, there would be a reason for me to put my hands all over his chest yet again.

  Perfect. If perfect was a hell equally as dysfunctional as the one I'd left more than a week ago.

  "I would advise you to respond when I ask a question," I said.

  "I didn't figure you for a lawyer."

  "I'm not."

  He scanned the basement. "That's the old, busted water heater."

  I followed his gaze to the rusty cylinder of my nightmares. "You're correct."

  "Why am I correct? Why hasn't it been replaced yet?"

  I shook my head. "That's not your concern."

  He smiled, his teeth shining at me in the dim subterranean light. "I'm being neighborly."

  Oh, he was a wolf all right.

  My palms heated as I crossed my arms over my chest to keep from rubbing them on my skirt. "The plumbing needs more involved work than replacing the water heater alone. Something about clay pipes. I don't know. It also seems the electrical system isn't in tip-top condition either, and requires updating before anything else can be installed."

  He paced between the tank and the electrical panel with its old knob and tube wiring, silent save for his footsteps against the concrete. "And—and you're still here. You're still staying here."

  Of course I was still here. I had nowhere else to go, and a small issue like the absence of hot water was hardly the worst thing I'd ever encountered. I had a free trial membership to a local gym for showers—one not located off those infernal traffic circles—and boiled water for anything else I needed while I cleaned this place up.

  "That's plain to see, Linden."

  "Fuck me," he muttered, flipping off his hat and running a thick hand through his hair. With that thought behind him, he turned to inspect the items I'd gathered at the base of the stairs for disposal.

  As far as I could tell, Midge had made it her mission to keep every copy of The Boston Globe printed in the past forty years. The flood destroyed nearly all of them. I couldn't find a reason to save the others.

  "This is it? This is what you're putting out on the curb?" he asked.

  "Why do you think you can carry them out any more successfully than I can?"

  "I don't think I can." He reached down, scooping up two of the oversized boxes off the floor. "I know I can."

  He climbed the stairs easily, as if the boxes weighed nothing, leaving me gaping after him. "I've absolutely had it with men," I grumbled to the empty cellar.

  I picked through the pile, finding a small box with a relatively dry bottom, and marched up to the main floor. Linden was already outside, the boxes set side by side on the grassy wedge between the street and the sidewalk.

  "This is extremely unnecessary," I called to him. "I am capable of doing it myself."

  "Sure you are," he replied, passing me on his return route. "This is what it looks like when ev
erything goes to plan."

  He was out of earshot, probably hefting three boxes this time, when I whispered, "If you only knew how much this isn't the plan."

  He reappeared a moment later and deposited this trip's load without incident. He met my eyes as he prowled back toward the house, an accusation simmering there as if to say, You can't do this. You can't do anything. You shouldn't even try.

  By the time he'd returned, my anger was percolating. "Why do you find it so offensive that I—what?—clean out my house? What exactly is your problem?"

  Linden didn't respond.

  It was like he hadn't heard me or he'd decided that listening to me wasn't worth his time.

  There was nothing—not a single blessed thing—I hated more than my voice being rendered mute and worthless.

  I stepped into his path. "I advised you to answer my questions."

  He stared down at me. "I didn't answer because I don't have anything to say that you'd want to hear."

  Stepping around me, he walked into the house. My heart was thumping against my breastbone and my stomach had taken on that shaky, shivery quality I'd worked like hell to leave back home in Georgia. My good sense had taken a back seat to my very bad sense, the one that thrived on confrontation, gambles, and games of chicken.

  I followed him. I had to. I couldn't leave those comments unaddressed. I'd decided a long, long time ago I wasn't letting anyone stomp all over me anymore and this man didn't get to change my rules because he lived next door.

  I barreled down the stairs and parked myself behind Linden. "I'll ask you one more time. What is your problem?"

  He glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyeroll undisguised. "Are we still doing this?"