The Bad Boy of Bluebonnet

  Seemed he was a cuddler after all.

  ~~ * * * ~~

  The next morning, Jericho woke up to tangled sheets and an empty bed.

  He sat up, his legs a little stiff. Okay, that was surprising. It had been a long time since a woman had worn him out so thoroughly in bed, but Emily was damned near insatiable. They’d made love at least four more times throughout the rest of the night, and he’d run out of condoms and had to use her supply. And when they ran out of those, she’d gone down on her knees and pleasured him with her mouth, simply because she didn’t want the fun to stop.

  She was pretty damn amazing, all in all.

  Jericho dressed in his wrinkled clothes, noticing that Emily’s robe was no longer on the floor. He headed down the narrow stairs of the old Victorian and heard the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen, just before he caught the scent of bacon.

  His mouth watered. Bacon. She’d fucked him until he’d passed out last night and now she was making him bacon? The woman was diabolical.

  Jericho rounded a corner to see Emily in the kitchen at the stove, dressed in her fluffy robe. Her hair was messily pulled into a clip and she was barefoot, humming as she scraped something onto a nearby plate.

  “Hey,” he said as he headed into the kitchen.

  Emily jumped, turning around. She had a skillet in one hand, a spatula in the other, and her face lit up at the sight of him. “Hey you! I was just making breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  He rubbed the back of his head, feeling a little uncomfortable. He was never good with morning-afters. Most of his hook-ups were just that, and it usually involved grabbing your things and heading out before things got awkward for either person. “You sure you want me to stick around?”

  She pointed at one of the barstools at her breakfast bar with the spatula. “Sit. Eat. I like having someone to cook for.”

  He sat, rubbing his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Thanks.”

  “You like your eggs over easy? Medium? Omelet? French toast?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Only way I’ve ever had them are scrambled with lots of ketchup on them to kill the taste.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What did your mom make you for breakfast when you were a kid?”

  He felt his mouth curving into a wry smile. “Brownies?”

  Emily’s brows pulled together as she considered that. “I guess that’s not so bad—“

  “Pot brownies.”

  Her eyes widened. She put down the skillet. “Do you mean to tell me that your mother never cooked anything for you but pot brownies?”

  “Despite having two kids, my mother was not very domestic,” he said, watching as she picked up the big cast-iron skillet again. “I guess that’s why this makes me…nervous.”

  “Nervous? How so?”

  He rubbed his jaw, feeling acutely uncomfortable. This is the part where girls normally freaked out. “Feels kinda…happy homemaker? I’m not used to getting more than a door hitting my ass on the way out.”

  Emily snorted and turned back to her cooking. “Would it make you feel better if I ran you off?”

  It might have. Jericho rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what to say. He’d just met Emily, really. Sure, they had good sex – okay, amazing sex – but weren’t they moving a little fast for the whole ‘making you breakfast’ thing?

  “I’m going to make you a chorizo omelet,” Emily said, pulling out cheese, tomatoes and something that looked like ground beef. “You’ll like it. As for feeling weird about eating my food? I’m not looking for husband number two, just so you know.”

  He relaxed a bit at that and picked up his coffee cup. Maybe they were on the same page after all.

  “Some people do crosswords,” she said, putting aside her skillet. The bacon smelled amazing, sizzling on the stove, and he had to admit his mouth watered thinking about it. His breakfasts normally came from a greasy spoon diner and were usually kind of disgusting. “Some people scrapbook. I like to feed people.”

  “Mom complex?”

  She gave him a look. “I can’t cook for someone without them thinking I want a husband, a dog, and two point five children? Look. I just like to cook. I really love to bake. It relaxes me. And when I don’t have anyone to cook for, I cook for others.” She turned and checked a clock behind her, and then hurried to the fridge. “Which reminds me…I need to make zucchini muffins today.”

  “Zucchini…muffins?”

  “The mayor’s wife is on a health food kick,” Emily said, tossing a few zucchini on the counter and then grabbing a nearby bowl and beating the eggs she’d cracked as if she was running a short order kitchen. “And she asked me to make some for her. Naturally I said yes. I owe her for pushing through the zoning change for my parking lot.” She smiled over at him, busy, but clearly in her element. “Do you like zucchini muffins?”

  “I…have no idea.”

  “Then stick around. I’ll give you a few.”

  He did. He stuck around through breakfast, which was easily the most incredible thing he’d ever eaten. His chorizo omelet was spicy and full of cheese, the eggs so fluffy that they seemed to float off the plate. The bacon was crisp perfection, the home fries tasty, and the coffee delicious. Emily chatted as she cooked and pushed things in and out of the oven, and Jericho found himself staying for a second cup of coffee and a few of the zucchini muffins. They were just as delicious as everything else, and the company was great. She talked about her changes to the old Victorian, and he found himself making suggestions and growing enthusiastic about the improvements she could make on the place. He’d once dreamed of flipping houses, but that dream had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Talking with Emily reminded him of it.

  When it came time for him to leave, he did so, reluctantly. “I need to get dressed. Got an appointment I need to be heading off to.”

  “Of course,” she said, and began to immediately prepare him a meal and a thermos of coffee.

  He protested. “You don’t have to do that—“

  She waved off his concerns. “It’s the least I can do since you fixed my problem for me.”

  “Oversensitivity?”

  Her face flushed a bright red. “The possums.”

  Jericho found himself grinning at her. “That, too.”

  She held the lunch out to him, and when he reached to take it, she snatched it back. “Before you get all weird on me, I just want you to know that what happened between us didn’t mean anything. Like I said, I’m not looking for another husband. We can be friends…with benefits. But I’m not looking for more, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. He didn’t know whether to be amused at Emily’s firm declarations that she didn’t want a relationship with him or a little stung by it. He decided to go with amused. “So can I see you again?”

  Her smile widened. “Absolutely.”

  And she sent him on his way with a kiss that made him regret having appointments after all.

  Over the next few weeks, Emily and Jericho became very ‘close’ friends…with lots of benefits.

  Okay, so they were screwing. That was the impolite way to put it, Emily figured, but it was apt.

  They weren’t really dating. Not really. Sure, they had dinner together and worked on projects, and she hired him to fix a leaky faucet. When he rented a DVD he’d swing by and ask if she wanted to see it, and they’d end up on her couch together.

  And sometimes on the floor together. And in the shower together.

  It was fine, really. It was all perfectly casual. No one was pressuring anyone, and that was how Emily liked it. She liked knowing that if she wanted to have some (filthy, nasty, explosive) sex, Jericho was just a phone call away. He knew if he needed a sandwich or a buddy to hang out with, Emily was there for him. Emily wasn’t sure what to call their relationship.

  ‘Fun’ was the word that came to mind, though.

  She didn’t know if they were exclusive. She doubted it. Exclusive was one of those words you tossed aroun
d when you were in a ‘real’ relationship and Emily wasn’t sure she was ready for one of those. She was exclusive purely because, well, she wasn’t interested in sleeping with anyone else. Exactly how Jericho felt, she had no idea. But she didn’t want to push things because frankly, she wasn’t too good at being settled down.

  Evidence? Her first marriage, when her husband had to choose between his young, reasonably attractive wife and a bunch of dead ghosts, and he’d chosen the ghosts. So yeah, she was perfectly happy with holding Jericho at arms’ length and then just making out like bunnies when it was convenient for their schedules.

  Making out like bunnies still had its charm.

  The Peppermint House was rather quiet lately. The biggest excitement she’d had was when one of Jericho’s friends showed up with a bunch of trapping cages to get rid of her possum problem. That had been an interesting day, but things were taken care of and she paid for new insulation to be blown since the old insulation was covered in poop.

  And since the possums had been removed from her attic (nine nests! nine!), things had gotten quiet. Jericho had fixed the wiring for the lighting and it no longer flickered. Between that and the possums now gone, her home felt normal.

  No ghosts…but also no tenants. Her last live in, Elise Markham, had moved in with none other than Jericho’s brother, the aptly named Rome, who was even more pierced and tatted (if it was to be believed) than her tall, sexy Jericho was. Elise seemed deliriously happy, and if it meant that Emily had a lot of nights in which she could just curl up on the couch with Jericho, then it wasn’t so bad not having any tenants at the moment.

  She’d just bake for the police and fire stations, and give the extras to Jericho and his work buddies, who had taken to showing up for lunches. She didn’t mind – the more mouths to feed, the happier she was. She loved to show off her baking skills, and the plumbers, handymen, and contractors that had started coming around were an extremely appreciative audience…as was Jericho. She still got flushed over the looks he gave her when he bit into an oatmeal raisin cookie.

  Really, life was pretty amazing at the moment. Emily was happy. She had no ghosts, a sexy man that gave her incredible orgasms, and enough money in the bank to fiddle around with more improvements for the Peppermint House. She couldn’t complain.

  Which meant shit was bound to hit the fan at some point, right?

  Emily was elbow-deep in kolache dough – the fruit strudel kind – when the doorbell rang. Maybe Jericho was coming over early? She looked at the clock. Four in the afternoon. The last time Jericho had come over this early, he’d had a cancelled appointment. They’d fallen into bed for hours. That had been an incredible day, and Emily’s cheeks felt a little flushed just thinking about it. She called out “Just a minute” and ran to the sink, washing her hands clean and wiping them on her apron. She checked her hair in the reflection of the stained glass window above the sink, but all it told her was that yes, she still had a face. With a pat to her hair, she headed out of the kitchen and into the foyer. It wasn’t Jericho, then, if no one was coming inside. Maybe it was a customer stopping through town that needed a place for the night—

  She opened the door with a welcoming smile on her face, and was stunned at the person standing there.

  Her ex.

  “Hey, baby,” Braden Smith gave her a disarmingly white smile. “Good to see you.”

  As she stood there like a dumbstruck idiot, Braden leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then pushed his way inside. “House looks good. You’ve been working hard.”

  “I…Braden, what are you doing here?” She followed him as he began to stroll through the house – her house – as if he were assessing it as a potential property. “I didn’t know you were in town. You didn’t call or anything—“

  “I figured I’d stop by, help you out.” He gave her another megawatt smile. “Don’t you worry anymore, baby. I’m here with my team, and we’re going to investigate things for you.”

  “Investigate…?” Something clicked in her mind and she ran back to the front door, opening it up to gaze outside. Sure enough, several black vans with splashy SPOOKY SQUAD logos were parked on the fire lane. Several people in matching black shirts were unloading equipment.

  Emily moaned. This was her worst nightmare come to life.

  “So, any activity lately?” Braden asked, heading into her kitchen as if he still lived in the damn place. “Or did burning the sage work?”

  “Burning sage? What? No, I didn’t do anything with sage. I don’t have ghosts. Braden, what are you doing here with all these people?” Emily shut the door and followed him as he wandered through the house with some sort of gadget in hand.

  “We’re going to need to stage the area,” he said, as if she wasn’t speaking. “I’m going to have some of the guys come in and move some of the furniture into the living room. Do you have any really old fashioned pieces? Maybe a big grandfather clock? Those always look good in a set.”

  “This isn’t a set! This is my house,” Emily said. “And it’s not haunted!”

  “Baby, baby, come on.” Braden finally turned to her and put an arm around her shoulders, giving her an affectionate squeeze. “I know you don’t want to be on TV, but I’m telling you, we’re professionals and we’re here to help.” He paused. “Plus, we had a cancellation in our schedule so coming here works out perfectly.”

  “I don’t want to be on TV.” She didn’t want to be infamous. Not in the slightest. And she sure didn’t want more ghost-hunting nuts stopping by her now-quiet house at every hour.

  “We can blur this pretty little face of yours,” he said, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger like he used to when they were married. The tenderness – and the sheer gall of it – confused her.

  She pushed his hand away. “Braden, you’re not answering me. What are you doing here?”

  He gave her a confused look. “Didn’t you want my help? You called me.”

  “I called you weeks ago,” she reminded him. “And you were too busy to help me.”

  “And now I’m not,” he said, beaming at her. “You look good, Emily. Real good.”

  “I don’t have ghosts, Braden. I’m fine. Really.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I’m here and I’ll take care of things.”

  Yes, but where were you when I needed you all those times before? She wanted to shout, but said nothing. Arguing with Braden was useless. When they were married, they liked to joke that he had ‘selective’ hearing – he only heard what he’d wanted to. Now that they were divorced, it wasn’t quite so cute. In fact, it was pretty infuriating. Helpless, Emily trailed behind Braden as he continued to hold up his little meter.

  “I’m getting a low grade EMF reading in the living room,” he told her. “Is this where the recent activity has been?”

  “No,” she said for what felt like the dozenth time. “Braden, please—“

  Someone knocked at the front door, saving Emily from another pointless argument. With one last exasperated look at her ex, she headed to the front door, sure that a fleet of Spooky Squad tech guys were going to flood their way into her house.

  But before she could reach the door, it opened, and in walked Jericho, his head newly shaved on the sides and his mohawk floppy and pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. He liked to wear his mohawk, but he knew that Emily didn’t like running her fingers through all the wax that it required to stiffen it, so when he was coming over with the intent to have sex, his hair tended to be soft and loose.

  As it was right now.

  And the sight of it filled her with as much arousal as it did dread, because her stupid ex was here mucking up the works.

  “Jericho,” Emily said, heading forward to his side. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Thought I’d drop by today and see how you were,” he said, pulling her against him as if about to kiss her. His mouth pressed against the side of her face, tickling her with a ligh
t kiss at her temple. “You busy? Am I bothering you?”

  “You’re never a bother,” she said softly, not leaving his arms. Not yet. “I just don’t know that—“

  “The EMF is higher in this room,” Braden said, walking back into the foyer and pointing the meter-reader-thingie toward her stairwell. “Maybe it’s something upstairs. I—” He paused and looked at Jericho and Emily, wrapped up in each other’s embrace. He blinked, a hint of a frown on his handsome features. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Braden Smith of Spooky Squad,” he said, recovering and sticking his hand out toward Jericho.

  “This is my…friend Jericho,” Emily butted in quickly, stepping out of Jericho’s arms. “He comes over to help me with the house sometimes.”

  “I’ll bet,” Braden said casually.

  Damn it, why did Braden make her feel dirty about her friendship with Jericho? It was none of Braden’s business who she was sleeping with. He’d left her because he didn’t want to give up his stupid television show. He didn’t have any right to judge her life.

  “I thought I’d check on that leaky faucet on the second floor,” Jericho said to Emily, ignoring Braden. “Maybe stick around for lunch if you’d have me.”

  “Of course I would,” she said, trying to keep the blush off of her face. Normally lunch turned into sex, but she doubted that was going to happen with her ex hovering. She’d half expected Jericho to run off at the sight of Braden, but to her surprise, he was sticking around. As his hand went on her shoulder again and he gave her another squeeze, she wondered exactly what that meant.

  Was he staking his claim on her in front of Braden? Or did he just not care if her ex was around to see them make out?

  Either way, it was a little awkward for her. Okay, a lot.

  ~~ * * * ~~

  Upstairs and alone with a dripping faucet, Jericho seethed. It shouldn’t have fucking bothered him to see Emily’s ex, but it did. After all, he and Emily weren’t officially dating, right? They were just screwing. She’d told Jericho repeatedly that she wasn’t looking for Husband Number Two, and that had suited him just fine.