The Bad Boy of Bluebonnet (Bluebonnet #4.5)(3)
Author: Jessica Clare

Emily’s mouth twisted into a slight smile. She knew that would make Luanne run off, and just in time before Emily had to make an entirely new batch of muffins. “Of course. See you later.”

Scraping wallpaper wasn’t the most satisfying of tasks, but there was something almost orgasmic about lifting one corner and finding that it peeled up a foot of ugly grayish floral paper. Emily’s fingertips tugged gently at the paper, and she held her breath as the piece lengthened and continued to lift from the wall. If she didn’t mess this up, this would be the biggest chunk she’d removed yet—

A muffler roared somewhere outside of her bathroom window, jarring her. Emily’s fingers slipped; she ripped the paper just before it got to a particularly ugly section. Damn it! She turned and tried to peer out the window – it was thick, stained glass (and very pretty) but you couldn’t see out of anything except maybe the yellow panels, which were a bit faded. Someone had pulled up something very loud on her lawn, not ten feet from the bathroom.

Irritated, Emily swiped at her brow and ran for the front door. She was sweaty and dirty, and she needed a shower. Of course, she needed a bathroom with a working shower first. There were several in the guest quarters of the house, but she didn’t use those because she liked to keep them clean in case of drop-ins.

Maybe this person – however rude – was a drop in. She could use the company. Elise was dating someone and was spending a lot of time away. Emily didn’t mind the money she was missing out on, but she could have used the company.

Emily headed toward the front of the house, paint scraper in hand, and opened the front door just as the person on the other side was reaching for the doorbell.

The man blinked, pulled back a little, and grinned at the sight of her.

Emily just stared.

Bluebonnet, Texas was a small town. Last time she’d checked, there were no more than two thousand people living in the area. That meant a long drive toward anything resembling a city, and that meant that most of the people that came through were locals, or family members of locals.

This man did not look like a local.

For one, he was wearing leather. A patch-covered leather jacket hung on his broad shoulders. He was also tall – almost as tall as Hank, Luanne’s lanky boyfriend. Tattoos covered his neck, there was a stud under his lip, and his black hair was stiffened into a mohawk.

He was also gorgeous, if you liked the type.

She frowned at the sight of him, though. A man alone arriving at her house never signified anything good. Men never stayed at a bed and breakfast alone – she always got couples. Add in the tattoos, the bike, the mohawk…and her hackles went up. Plus, the motorcycle was sitting on the spot under a tree she’d been trying so hard to grow grass in. Combine this with no sleep and she was a bit pissy, to say the least.

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.”