Archive of Our Own

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Excerpt from Harvest to Home , The Chemistry of Bread

“Bread is never natural. It is not a thing that grows out of the ground as loaves and rolls. It does not come out of the soil risen or baked.

Bread is a processed food, created from wheat ground by men and women, iodized salt, brown and white sugar, and chemical reactions. Anyone who sells you “natural and organic bread” is trying to sell you something else.

My hands have made countless connections between earth, table, wood, and fire in the repeated ritual of bread making. That is what makes homemade bread so rich and fulfilling. As you bring all the ingredients together, you are connecting yourself to the ground that gave you its ingredients and the people who made those ingredients ready for you to knead. Bread is a communal food, both in the making and consumption of it, which builds you and your relationships. In the process of creating your bread, making it puff with yeast, you are a chemical reaction in itself. The people around you adds something to you every day. You may have a consistent flavor, but you're never really the same exact person at each rising.

That said, here’s an easy recipe that will probably make your bread dependably rich and tasty every time you make it….”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

*********

Nothing ever happens at Riverdale Farms.

Most days, Betty Cooper rose before the sun, dressing herself for farm work and getting breakfast ready for her two farm hands, Farmer John and Kevin.

After breakfast, they’d talk about what supplies they were running low on, what needed repair, what issues the animals may have, and what ideas may have sprung up while they did what they did.

When their meeting adjourned, they’d head out in the field.

Kevin, a freelance carpenter, would go about building and mending things--fences, ditches, barns, and other farming structures. She only really needed him three to four times a week, and sometimes he’d come and there would be nothing, so he’d help her do her farm work, which was to feed the animals, gather the produce from the vegetable field, fix broken machinery, and tend to the processing of the goat’s milk.  Sometimes, he had bigger carpentry projects that he was contracted for and he’d parcel out his time between that and the farm.

He was always a pleasure to talk to, and they’d become as close to being the best of friends as their working relationship could get them.  Sometimes, Kevin would ask her out to some gathering in town with his other friends. She almost always went. Of course, she never really met anyone in these gatherings who might be remotely interested in her, because Kevin was gay and so were his friends.

Farmer John wasn’t straight either. She had, after all, been introduced to him by Kevin. Farmer John tended the goats--his primary concern, and the Llamas, which were always incidental to goat care. Farmer John had a real passion for his job. He was a practical man, straightforward and steady, but when he talked about the goats, it wasn’t uncommon that he would be reduced to tears, telling her how big little Cheddar had gotten, or how proud he was of Jada for jumping over the fence even if she wasn’t supposed to. And this was when he was happy for them. It was a completely different matter when something goes wrong.

When something goes awry, Farmer John was all business and efficiency. He would apply first aid, call the vet, and make the arrangements for transport, then assign someone to watch over the goats while he was gone. He would stay with the injured or sick goat for days, if he had to. And in the rare instance of a death, he would hold a proper funeral, then weep for hours in mourning.

This had worried Betty immeasurably at first, wondering if she should be watching him when he got this way, but Kevin told her this was just how Farmer John was. He needed to weep. It was therapeutic for him.

“In the 20 years I’ve known him, he has never shown a single sign of depression or tendency for suicide,” Kevin said. “If you like fixing cars, he likes weeping. This is his thing. Books and movies make him cry too, you know. It’s like he has this endless supply of drama.”

Betty knew depression and anxiety. It was an old friend of hers, so she didn’t really take Kevin’s word for it at first. She kept an eye on Farmer John for a while, but when she watched him weep, then wipe his eyes, smiling happily as the goats gathered around his feet, and then continue on work like nothing was the matter, she figured he at least had a good coping mechanism.

At the end of the day, Farmer John and Kevin would leave, and the quiet of the farm—when the bleating of the goats grew silent, the flapping of the rainbow flag on her porch stilled, and the chickens roosted to soft clucking—would settle around her like the darkness.

**************

Betty liked to watch the sunset from her hayloft. Throwing a blanket over some hay, she would lie back with some cheese, fruit, and sometimes a book, and watch the day leave.

Sometimes she brought her cellphone up there with her to look at what was online. She had a blog called Harvest to Home, paired with an instagram account where her blog photos and more were posted. People seemed interested in her farm life, so she posted about her produce and farmhouse, her flowers and herbs. They were also interested in her chickens and goats.

She also had vegans and vegetarians following her. She wasn’t vegan or vegetarian. She did eat less meat, however, because she didn’t kill her farm animals to eat. She bought her meat from surrounding farms, but she could go weeks without eating meat if she only had herself to worry about. She had a vegetable and herb garden, which served most times for her meals. She made her own bread, which hipsters seemed to love judging by their instagram comments, and she did eat eggs regularly, in every way they could be cooked.

Sometimes she thought that the reason she could do all of this--bread making, butter churning, preserve canning, cheese aging, soap and shampoo producing--was because she was alone and she didn’t have to worry about anyone else, but she tried not to think too much about that, because it was a thought that could consume her, and sometimes she was afraid that the quiet of the farm could turn sinister if she wasn’t careful.

She loved her farm. Loved that she could cultivate life from it, loved that it earned her keep, but if she let herself remember how big it was, how empty it could be, how silent her hallways were, she was afraid she’d get lost in it.

This was why she had set up the farmhouse as a bed and breakfast. Her seven bedroom home was too big for one person. It once had hopes and dreams of being filled with kids and celebrations, but when that dream failed, it became a naggy thing, constantly reminding her that it wasn’t a home for a woman alone.

It was around four years ago that she decided she would open her house up for friends and strangers alike. It wasn’t a full time occupation for her by any means--guests were few and far between, but when she did have them, she gave them her full attention. Her breakfasts were legendary, her meals hearty and delicious,  and when they were living at her place, she was a wonderful hostess, serving them bread, wine, cheese, and fresh produce. She showed them how she made her cheese and soaps. She played chauffeur for them their entire stay.

They were a break from her monotony and, loathe as she was to admit it, her loneliness. She tried not to say the L word to herself, because then it would be real.

Family visits were fleeting. There was nothing in her part of the world except the farm itself. Her sister, Polly, with her husband Jason, and twins, Sam and Caleb, came and went like a hurricane every other year. Her brother, Chic called her often, but he dropped by the farm even less than Polly did. Her sister’s sister-in-law, Cheryl, came by more often than Polly and Chic put together. She liked the whole Farm Chic experience. She came around every few months when she needed to get away from her job, running her family’s empire in the city..

Betty’s parents didn’t speak to her.

She supposed she did like being alone to some extent. She like being away from the heavy eyes of expectation. She wasn’t an underachiever by any means, but she had long realized that expectations would be the death of her if she ever let it rule her life again.

This farm life was a dream come true. She reminded herself often that this was what she always wanted, and it was the truth. Only thing was that she never thought she’d be alone doing it. She had always thought she’s have someone by her side.

********************

Betty checked her logs and saw that a guest was expected at her bed & breakfast the next day. The name he gave her was Jughead Jones and he had booked an indefinite stay.

It was a rare booking, but not the first of its kind. She’d had a few business travelers settle in her farm for a few weeks, often there by recommendation of others. Though she was 45 minutes away from the main business hub, travelers often stopped by, just to find out what the fuss was about, only to end up cancelling their town hotel reservations and spend the remainder of their stay there.  

She supposed she was good at making people feel at home. She wasn’t a recluse by nature. She liked people, and she could stand them in groups if she already knew them individually. She preferred one on one conversations, getting to know them, making them her friend, or at least comfortable acquaintances. It was certainly why her Riverdale Bed & Breakfast was so beloved.

“You’re the main attraction, sweetie,” Kevin had told her one time, sipping coffee as he sat on her porch swing. “And even knowing you’re gorgeous, it’s not the looks you have, per se. It’s this whole vibe you have of making every little thing special, from the flowers in your bathroom to the little flourishes in your food. You’re classy like Martha Stewart, rustic like Ree Drummond, and friendly like Ina Garten. You know?”

Betty had rolled her eyes at him, scoffing as she did, but then she was tying twine around a bar of soap that she made, wrapped in pink wax that was dotted with her farm monogram “RF” in silver--while dressed in a crisp white shirt dress cinched at the waist, brown boots, and a flowery scarf over her braided golden hair, So maybe she couldn’t exactly dismiss Kevin’s assessment of her, however embarrassingly self-aggrandizing it was.

As she closed her log book, she pulled her pad from its slot at her work desk and started making a list of things she may need to do in anticipation of Mr. Jones’s arrival. While she tended to keep preparations basic--freshen up the rooms, dust the house, prepare the meals--, sometimes she did a little Googling to see if she could personalize something for her guest. She didn’t go too much into it, lest she crosses some line to creepy, but if there was something general, like a birthday or anniversary, or maybe a well-documented hobby, she put a little something extra into welcoming them.

When she Googled Jughead Jones, she discovered that he was a writer and that he had published two novels, both of them crime thrillers, both of them successfully making the New York Times Bestsellers List. He was J. Jones on the cover and when, against her better judgment, she looked at his photos, she found a handsome young man with wild, luscious black hair who drove a motorcycle, smoked cigarettes, and hardly looked at the camera when his picture was being taken. Even his author photo was of him leaning back casually on his bike, ankles crossed, a live cigarette between his lips, a cheap cup of coffee on one hand, and a newspaper in another. He wasn’t paying attention to the camera at all and he was scowling at something he was reading. Some parts of the picture were blurry and Betty had a feeling that wasn’t on purpose. His hair was kind of a mess and his black shirt, worn dark jeans, and heavy black combat boots looked a little worse for wear. If this was his Picture Day outfit, he didn’t look like someone who liked attention.

One of the river rooms, she thought, knowing that he would appreciate the quiet view, the bookshelves, and the bay windows.  The sun did not rise on that side of the house, so he would appreciate darker mornings. She thought she might scent his room with vanilla, because he didn’t seem like a lavender or eucalyptus kind of guy.

She looked at his picture a bit longer and wondered if he was a little old school, based on the Ramones t-shirt he had on. She went on Amazon and saw that his books offered excerpts online. She read the first book’s excerpt quickly. There appeared to be a noir-ish tone to his writing, so he probably liked watching old movies. His website offered a playlist of songs he liked. It was an eclectic mix, but he tended to lean classic: Beatles, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Joan Jett, but he also liked bebop jazz and hip hop.

When half an hour later, she was still reading up on Jughead Jones, she realized that she had perhaps crossed creepy territory twenty minutes ago and that she needed to stop obsessing over whether she should change his drapes to a darker gray.

She opted to picking some books he might like from her collection and stacking them artfully on his bedside table, with a handwritten note welcoming him to her home and conveying her hope that he’d enjoy some of the book recommendations she had left him.

She pinned the note to his bed with a sprig of dried flowers, vanilla scented, and a can of house made fruit pastilles. She had also called Farmer John on his cell phone, asking him to buy a few packs of smokes for her. She had had guests in the past who needed cigarettes but found themselves frustrated that there wasn’t a nearby 7/11 for them to buy some. Since she already knew Jughead was a smoker, he was likely to want a pack sooner or later.

The rooms were constantly aired and the house often cleaned, so there wasn’t much else to be done, but she always made her meals fresh for her guests, even if she prepared the ingredients ahead of time.  

She set to work chopping and cutting, putting them in handy containers and grouping them in her humongous refrigerator. The pies she assembled ahead. Those were always just a matter of popping into an oven and waiting for them to cook as close to mealtime as possible. By the time dinner rolled around, she was ready to receive her guest whatever time of day he arrived.

A flutter of excitement rose from the pit of her stomach. She always got this way when she expected guests. It was the newness of people. The possibilities they brought at the mere thought of their arrival. She looked forward to the break in her life’s monotony.  

This was what excited her.

And yeah, maybe the fact that those intensely blue eyes, attractive cheekbones, and rebel vibe kind of took her breath away, added to the fun.

His overall tall, dark, and broody was attractive, but it was just fun. Because he was a person, and he probably had a girlfriend, or he could possibly even be gay, or just be completely uninterested in flirting with anybody.

This was just normal Anticipation of Guest excitement.

She grinned at her reflection on the mirror, shaking her head at herself. “Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing, Cooper.”

******************

Jughead Jones did not arrive as expected, which was a bit of a let down, but not unheard of. She’d had a few cancellations in the past, but they usually called ahead or at least the day of. Nevertheless, it wasn’t earth shattering, just mildly disappointing.

She didn’t lose any money by his non-appearance, except maybe for the cigarettes which was minimal, and she didn’t lose a day of work. Guests were never so disruptive that she had to stop everything she was doing to attend to them.  She had gotten to the point that the farm was a well-oiled machine, and there were hours between waking up and closing shop that she had to fill. She often filled them with crafting and creating, making her farmhouse modern and customized, but except for having things to talk about on her blog, they weren’t terribly necessary.  

Beautifying her house and writing about it on her blog was a hobby. It was the kind of thing she could set aside when she had to play hostess to her B&B guests.

She’ll live.

As she herded the last of the goats and Llamas into their sleeping pens and closed the barn doors around her property, she felt a raindrop on her cheek.

She looked up and saw the dark clouds in the evening sky.  She closed her eyes and felt more droplets on her face, cold and sharp against her skin. She stayed that way until the rain poured from the sky and she ran to take shelter.  Smiling to herself, she got under her porch and watched the rain fall on her farm, dripping herself dry.  

*********************

The night felt a little bit cooler for the rain, which hadn’t stopped since early evening. There were already reports of flash flood warnings on TV in the surrounding areas, but nothing catastrophic. It was a little windy outside, causing the rain to pelt her windows sideways.

To wash off the last of her disappointment, she had bathed in her tub, soaking in her favorite scented bath soaps with music in the background and a book to read. She loved these moments of relaxation, serving also as a means of quiet meditation.

When she got out of her tub, she felt clean, refreshed, and she smelled amazing.

She slipped into a comfortable pair of sleep leggings and an overly loose top to match. It was an old thing, worn in places, but it was comfortable and perfect for the chilly night. She let loose her long hair, letting it dry on its own.  She made herself some tea and sat on the living room couch in front of her old, craigslist bought flat-screen television. It was just good enough for streaming shows and movies from Netflix and Amazon, and new enough that it can get regular TV channels hooked up to it, but she didn’t watch too much television. She had a television installed for her guests who might appreciate movie nights and binge watching.  

She selected Galaxy Quest on Netflix, because she felt like she needed a bit of laughter tonight. She was just stifling a laugh at how Alan Rickman’s character, Sir Alexander Dane, was staring miserably at his gross and wriggling alien dinner when her doorbell chimed through the house.

She looked at her clock. It was just a bit past nine in the evening and it was still pouring outside, so she was a bit concerned about who it could possibly be.

The doorbell chimed again and setting her cup of tea down, she hurried to the door and looked through the peephole.

She saw a man soaked to the skin, his dark wet hair plastered to his face and head. He ran a hand through his wet hair and droplets shot out around him like fairy dust. His leather jacket made him look a little big and intimidating, but there was nothing but exhaustion marking the planes of his excruciatingly handsome face.

Oh, my ovaries.

Her own thoughts made her cheeks burn.

This had to be the author, and he was turning to the windows now, probably checking to see if someone was inside the house.

She swung the door open.  “Jughead Jones?”

He turned to face her, his shoulders sagging with relief. When he saw her, he looked surprised, blinking for several seconds as he stood there, staring at her.

She arched an eyebrow. “You are Jughead Jones, aren’t you? I’m Betty Cooper, your hostess and the person you’ve been emailing with.”

“Sorry,” he finally said, looking away and obviously embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m Jughead Jones. Good to finally meet you...  I wasn’t expecting--well, you’re younger than I expected.”

She pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. People who came to her farm expected a nice old lady in a pinafore and apron.  She had only just hit twenty eight a few months ago so she hadn’t quite left her twenties yet. She looked younger than an average Bed & Breakfast owner and manager, that was for sure. Her mid-century name didn’t help, either.

“Come inside before you catch your death of cold,” she said, putting forth a more familiar, country ma’am tone. It was just the sort of thing grandmothers said, she supposed, but it was all part of making her guests feel comfortable.

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. “I will, but do you have some kind of garage I can put my bike in? It’s a little banged up and I was hoping I can take a look at it…”

“Of course! Wheel it over to the building right here on the left--that’s my garage. I’ll open the doors for you right away.”

She hurried back inside, grabbing a towel from her linen closet, and going to the side of the house, through the mudroom, and through the door leading to the garage.

She hurried around her pickup truck, which was parked there, but the garage was large enough to accommodate big farm trucks and equipment. When they broke, she brought them in here and she fixed them herself.  

Her tools were lined neatly up on the walls, drawers, and shelves. It was a well-organized work shop, ready when she needed it.

Rushing to the big barn doors, she slid one side open.  Jughead was right there, and he wheeled his bike in, taking it and himself out of the rain.  

The wheel in the front was flat and she looked at him sympathetically, handing the towel to him.

He looked at her a bit warily before shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the bike. He took the towel from her and thanked her softly.

She told herself to stop checking him out, since his wet shirt was sticking to the planes of his body. He was slender, with a rather tantalizing hint of definition on his chest and abs, but his arms and shoulders looked damn good, and the sleeve of tattoos going down his right arm was doing things to her body temperature.

Tearing her eyes away as he ran the towel through his hair, she turned her gaze to his bike. “When did this happen?” she asked.

He jerked his head back. “About two miles away. I figured I’d just wheel it all the way here instead of waiting in the rain for a tow.  Longest two miles of my life.”

She gave him a half smile as she began to examine the wheel. “Hell of a night to get a flat on a motorcycle. You could’ve called me and I could’ve gone and got you.”

“I didn’t want to--” he faltered slightly. “I figured I can handle it without bothering anyone.”

She wondered if he was just that kind of person who didn’t like asking for help, or if he just thought he would be asking a middle-aged to geriatric Bed & Breakfast hostess to get up from bed and creak her way to his location on her bad back.

“It wouldn’t have been a bother. I want to be there for my guests. Looks like there’s a nail in there,” she said, examining a knot in the rubber. “You okay? You didn’t take a spill, did you?”

He shook his head. “I wobbled and slowed down, but it was a gradual thing. I was able to pull up the side of the road.”

“It doesn’t look so bad,” she said, looking at the wheel again. “If you’re good with a patch up, we should be able to do that and you can get to where you’re headed after your stay here. If you’re going to a big city, I suggest you have the tire ordered up there so that by the time you get to them, you’ll have your wheel and all they have to do is replace it.”

“Can’t I get it replaced around here?” he asked.

She shrugged. “You can, but around here it takes at least two to three weeks for parts to arrive.”

He shrugged right back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She realized then that he was staying for at least three weeks, if not more.  She straightened and smiled. “Well, then I’ll order the parts for you first thing.”

He arched an eyebrow and she couldn’t help but note that his eyes were even bluer than in the pictures. “ You’re ordering the parts.”

She was amused by his skepticism. “Yes. I’ll fix your bike. Unless you already have a mechanic around here…”

“Um, no. I’m very new to these parts,” he muttered.

She looked at the bags strapped to the back of his bike. “Are these your things?”

“I got them,” he said, slinging the towel over his shoulder and unstrapping his things. He tucked the backpack’s strap over his shoulder and carried the duffle bag by its handles.

“I’ll get your jacket,” she said, picking it off the bike’s seat. It was heavy with the rain. “I can hang it by the wood burner in the living room. Should help dry it properly.” She led him up the stairs to the mudroom, where he took a moment to wipe the bottom of his boots so that he wouldn’t trail so much water into the house.

She hurried to the living room and hung up his jacket, then hurried right back to him just as he was done wiping down his bags with his towel.

“Do you have anything dry to wear? I have some clothes I can lend you.”

“My bags are waterproof,” he replied. “I should have something.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not in a while.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder reassuringly. “I have a hearty, beefy soup on the pot. I just need to reheat it, and some fresh bread. Baked it this morning. I can make you a sausage omelette, too. With mushrooms in it. Easiest thing.”

“Yes,” he said, relief in his tone.

She wanted to ask him if he was saying yes to the soup or the omelette, but she figured she had already said the omelette was easy, so she’ll heat the soup and make the omelette, and he could decide then.

“You can come right down after you’re dry and changed,” she said. “Kitchen’s back there, but  first let me walk you up to your room. I call it the River Room because it has a nice view of Sweetwater River. You have a writing desk, some books and a shelf. You also have a bay window you can sit on comfortably, and while we generally don’t smoke in the house, I guess you can throw open a window if it’s late and you don’t feel like stepping out of the house.”

He gave a frustrated sigh. “Right. Smokes.” He dug into his pocket and fished out a soggy pack.  “Shit.”

“Fret not. I bought you a few packs. We don’t have a convenience store for miles around so I had one of my guys get you a few packs just to tide you over. I’ll give them to you when you come down for dinner.”

Again, he seemed surprised, then he sighed with relief. “Thanks. Seriously, this evening’s looking up.”

She was pleased by that. She took pride in giving her guests the best experience and she knew it was the little things she did for them, like the convenient pack of cigarettes and the books on their bedside table.

When they got to his room, she opened the door for him and he walked right in, putting his duffle bag and backpack down on the floor.  He took a deep breath and seemed happy with the vanilla smell, then he went over to the bedstand, picking up the first book on the stack.

“Walter Mosley’s Charcoal Joe,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to read this for a while now.”

She cocked a smile. “You seemed like a Walter Mosley kind of guy. You might like the others, too. I’ve read them all. I make sure of that when I make recommendations. Those are mostly crime novels, but I snuck in a couple of YA novels in there, too. I figured you might like The Lie Tree for its crime vibe and The Serpent King for its dark coming of age themes . ”

He looked mildly stunned. “How did you know I liked YA?”

She felt her face grow warm, hoping that she didn’t come off as completely psycho. “Erm, your author Facebook page photo. You, um, have Stephen Chbosky’s words tattooed on your arm.”

His blue gaze flickered unconsciously to his arm for a second. “We accept the love we think we deserve,” he said, quoting his tattoo.

She nodded. “Anyway, full disclosure: I do a bit of research on all my guests. I want everyone to feel at home, so… don’t get creeped out. I swear, I didn’t dig too deep.”

“No, this is great,” he said, gesturing to the entirety of the room. “I’m already looking forward to staying here.”

“Excellent,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ll be in the kitchen downstairs, but holler if you need me, alright?”

He nodded. “Alright. Um, Ms--erm, Mrs. Cooper?”

She blew a breath through her lips. “Good lord, please call me Betty. Mrs. Cooper is my mother and the only thing I’m married to around here is this farm.”

His face went red and he looked ready to jump out of his skin from embarrassment. “Right. Betty. I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted to get here earlier but I got sidetracked on my way here. I’ll definitely pay you for the day you lost.”

She chuckled. “Right, because I’ve fully booked all six of my empty rooms.”

His brows knotted in confusion.

“I didn’t exactly lose anything by your late arrival,” she explained, gently. “It’s all good, Mr. Jones. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Tomorrow’s a new day and that’s always a good thing.

His brows smoothed over, but his eyebrow arched again, a smile threatened to break from his lips. “Mr. Jones is the name of a song by Counting Crows. I’m just plain Jughead.”

She didn’t think he was plain at all, but she refrained from saying that. She didn’t make a habit of flirting with guests. “Come down whenever you’re ready, Jughead.”

When he nodded, she turned and shut the door behind her.

*******

Jughead blew a breath softly between his lips, staring at the door warily for a moment before he sat at the desk chair and started to remove his boots.  

He had not expected Betty Cooper to look the way she did. When he booked this Bed & Breakfast as his writing getaway, he had been told that it was a quiet, out of the way place, with an accommodating owner/hostess who cooked divine spreads, offered great conversation, and made her guests feel right at home.

He had been expecting a more matronly figure, gray haired perhaps, stately, maybe, the way those baby boomer, Hampton-living, ladies carried themselves. She had, after all, been described by his editor as a cross between Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman fame. None of those ladies were leggy, in their twenties, smelled like sweet lilacs, and was gorgeous as hell. And none of them had that long blonde hair.

“You and your blondes, Jughead,” he muttered under his breath.

Not that he’s dated many. He didn’t go dating every attractive woman he met, and the two he’d dated seriously weren’t blonde at all, but almost all his fantasy women were blondes. Hitchcock blondes, platinum blondes, strawberry blonde, and yes, golden blonde.

In all fairness, Betty seemed to be well read and can change a flat tire on a Harley. That pretty much sealed the deal on his little crush. And if everything they said about her cooking was true, he was pretty sure he’d be halfway in love with her before midnight.

His room had its own bathroom, which was something he was truly grateful for. He found that he had a supply of those signature soaps, shampoo, and lotion he kept seeing all over the house, but the toothpaste was regular brand. He was a little surprised that wasn’t homemade, but he supposed a smart lady like Betty would choose extensively researched dental products over her own homegrown efforts.

He refreshed himself a bit over the bathroom sink, then he stripped himself of his wet clothing.

He changed into dry underwear, a fresh pair of jeans,  and a plain white shirt. He towel dried his hair and tucked the necklace his father had given him under his shirt. He figured he’d go barefoot because she walked around barefooted herself.

He checked his phone and found that his best friend, Archie Andrews, had texted him from his New York penthouse.

How are the boonies? Asking for a friend.

That friend was Archie’s wife, Veronica.

Jughead typed his response.

Boonies are good. Veronica would like it here.

And that was the truth. Though in the middle of nowhere, this house was magazine shoot ready. It’s what Veronica would breathlessly call farmhouse chic, with its artfully distressed furniture, rustic decor, and modern flourishes, it seemed that Betty had an eye for class. The woman had mad interior design skills.

Tucking the phone into his pocket, he made his way down the flight of stairs. He could already smell the food cooking from the kitchen. He passed the living room and saw that the movie Galaxy Quest was playing.

He paused for a moment, and sighed. It was one of his favorite movies.

Get a grip, Jughead.

He followed the sounds of plates and cutlery chiming from the next room.

Betty was standing over a hot skillet, folding over the cake of eggs.

She smiled brightly when she saw him. “Just in time! This is almost done.”

A place had been set for him on the rustic kitchen table. There was a bowl of steaming hot soup set on his plate and a bread basket set on the side. A small bowl of butter sat beside it.

“You going back to watching Galaxy Quest?” he asked, taking his seat.

She took a moment to process his question, then she chuckled softly. “I’ve seen it more than a dozen times, so I really don’t need to see it again. I’ll sit with you.”

Of course she’d seen it more than a dozen times.

When she set the omelette down, she sprinkled the top of it with some chives. She took some hot water from a tea kettle and poured it into a mug, submerging a tea infuser into the hot liquid. She took a seat at the table.

“I hope that aside from the flat tire, you didn’t run into too much trouble getting here,” she said, gesturing that he should start eating.

He was famished, and the soup smelled fantastic. He took a spoon and a slice of the warm bread, shrugging. “I ran a few errands on the way here, that’s why I was late in coming, but apart from that, it was an easy trip.”  

She nodded. “Good to know.”

He tried the soup and it was like comfort, flavor, and all beefy goodness. “Jesus, this soup is fucking amazing. Pardon my french, but it’s so good.”

She smiled shyly. “You’re just hungry. Now the bread--”

He tried the bread and it was fresh and perfect. “You made this yourself?”

“Most of everything here is homemade, but I am proud of my bread. I love making them,” she said. “And it’s communal. You can share a loaf of bread on the table, sure, but the making of it--it takes a village. All the ingredients to make that bread came from someone’s hard work, and then when you put it all together, it comes into its own when it rises from the yeast. It’s chemistry and art coming together.”

He watched her talk about bread like it was the world in her hands.

“Sorry,” she said, her cheeks growing pink. “I guess I just really like making things in general.”

“Don’t apologize. I think it’s great.”

The omelette was delicious as well and he told her that if all her meals were this good, he would be 400 pounds by the end of the week.

She smiled and sipped her tea. “So are you here on business the next town over?”

He looked at her questioningly. “Business? Is that how I come off?”

“Well, people only ever come here for business in town. I’m not exactly a tourist destination.”

He debated telling her that her farm should be. It was idyllic and she was an attraction in itself, but he supposed that could make things immeasurably awkward. “I’m not a tourist and I’m not here on business. I basically came here to write. The book I’m writing is set in a farm off the beaten path. I have no concept of farm life and I needed a place to get away. Your farm came up by word of mouth and I thought it would be perfect if I can do my research and writing all at the same time.”

Her brilliant green eyes brightened.  “Your book--you mean your next one. You’ve published two of them, yes?”

He shrugged. He still couldn’t believe he wrote books for a living and that his job was basically to loiter in some farm, trying his hardest not to make an ass of himself in the presence of its beautiful hostess. “Yeah. I was lucky.”

She smirked. “I ordered your books from Amazon yesterday.  Epistrophe and Goodbye, Sugar Pie Blues are still holding strong on the NYT Bestsellers extended list. They haven’t reduced the price.”

He smirked, shrugging. “I can’t control that, but I could’ve given you a copy of each for free.”

“But that won’t help you at all,” she pointed out as-a-matter-of-factly.  “Couldn’t help but notice the jazzy names, though. Was that you or your editor?”

“Both. I was inspired by Thelonius Monk’s Epistrophy and Charles Mingus’s Goodbye, Pork Pie Hat. They’re compelling works of music that translate well to crime novels, so I wrote the first book, Epistrophe, with an E, that way. It was my editor who thought it would be a good idea to name the novel in homage to the song. I went and just did it for the second book.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I never would’ve made an entire book based on bebop, especially since both songs are purely instrumental.” She reached for some of the bread and spread some butter over her piece. “Which is why you’re the writer and I’m the farmer.”

“I don’t know,” he said, cutting a large piece of the omelette. “We’re both creative people. We make crazy connections in our own mediums.” He nodded at something behind her. “At what point, when you were looking at that broken piece of folding door, did you know that you could make something beautiful out of it?”

She looked over her shoulder and saw that he was talking about two slats of a folding cabinet door. They were fitted into the corner of the kitchen and she had attached shelves onto them. She had painted and treated the wood, bringing out its distressed look in an appealing way. Above the highest shelf were mirrors set in the same right angle, beneath the mirrors was a ceramic pitcher, and a washing bowl. The second and third shelves contained blocks of her packaged soaps and bottles of her signature lotions.

She shrugged. “Saw them at the antique fair and bought them. I just knew I can make something out of it.”

He nodded, smirking. She had made his point for him.

“When you put it that way, I suppose I get it,” she said, simply. “Your books will probably arrive in a week. I’ll read them and we could discuss it at meal time.”

She didn’t sound like she had any doubts that they would. He couldn’t say otherwise, because it wasn’t as if he had any plans other than staying here and writing, especially if his motorcycle was out of commission.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “I can drive you to wherever you want to go, by the way. I’ll be your chauffeur for your entire stay. If you need to go anywhere, just let me know. The keys to the house are in your bedside drawer so feel free to come and go as you please. My laundry room is right beside the mudroom. You can do your own laundry or you can leave your clothes outside your door in a bag that I’ve provided you--you should find it by your hamper--and I’ll do your laundry for you.”

Jughead thought that it had to be the most awkward thing to know that Betty Cooper would be sticking his wet underwear in a washing machine. “I think I’ll do my own, thanks.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. For food, you can always just grab something from the refrigerator and pantry between meals. I’ve got everything well organized in here so that you can find things easily.”

He did observe how things were in open baskets and trays, arranged in beautiful racks and shelves. Most things in jars were labeled, and the fruits and vegetables were so fresh they were gleaming.

“All from your farm?” he asked.

She nodded. “The vegetables are. I have a few fruit trees here or there, but I have to get most of them from other nearby orchards.”

“God, you can practically live off the grid out here,” he sighed. “Sounds amazing.”

And it did. The thought that he can actually remove himself from the rest of the world sounded so terribly appealing. He just might move here permanently.

“Does it?” she asked, looking amused. “People say that, but when it’s real, they get cabin fever. And I don’t know if it’s totally realistic. I’m lucky enough that my property runs through the cable company’s fiber optic route. Some places around here have to do without internet. So that’s one thing I can’t do without. I mean, I can make my own toothpaste, for instance, but why the hell would I? With toothpaste, I'd like to stick to the hi-tech stuff, thanks. I like to keep all my teeth. So I order that stuff online.”

He chuckled. “Fair. Amazon delivers, thank God. Also, you’ve got movie streaming, probably local channels, and you apparently don’t sew your own clothes. So maybe not entirely off the grid, but sufficient enough that you don’t have to keep, you know, putting up with the shit that comes with interacting with a bunch of people all at once.”

She tilted her gaze at him, and his eyes were drawn to the golden hair cascading slowly down her shoulder. “Do you prefer to be left alone?”

“Sometimes. Most times. But by groups. Not one-on-one. I’m good like this. It’s parties that kill me.”

She nodded. “I understand. I have no problem being at parties in general, but I have to be ready for them. You can’t spring one on me. I would pick vegging out on the couch watching movies over a party any day, but I’ll go to a party if I have to do it for friends. Only one per week, though. Max. I will riot if you make me go to a party two days in a row. I need an entire week to recover from one.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re a social butterfly compared to me. But you get my drift. We’re not that different. People exhaust us.”

“Yes!” she gasped, then her cheeks turned red again. “Guests I can deal with constantly. I like having guests over. It’s one of my favorite things, because I do like knowing people enough to make them happy.”

He wondered if that made her a people pleaser, but that seemed like an unkind assessment of her. Maybe she used to be one, but now she just liked spreading that feeling of warmth and welcome, because she was a hostess for a B&B after all. She excelled at it, anyway. No hotel would have had the desire to recommend books to him the way she did, books that he might actually enjoy. No hotel would have promised to fix his flat tire.

“What time do I have to be down for breakfast?” he asked.

She cocked a smile. “That’s completely up to you. If you’re an early riser, let me know, but I usually have breakfast ready for my farmhands by the time they get here at 6. When I have guests, I prepare breakfast for them at the hour they prefer. I do have to know ahead what time that is, though.”

“I am not a morning person.”

“9:30?”

“ Ten,” he corrected. “Ten thirty.”

“Brunch, then,” she said, smiling gently. “No problem, Jughead. Know, however, that coffee will always be there first thing. If you wake up earlier, you’ll get your caffeine fix.”

She stood suddenly and went to the refrigerator. He realized that he had finished everything on the table. She brought something out of the refrigerator, and when she uncovered it, he saw that it was a cherry pie.

“Dessert?” she asked. “It’s not exactly as fresh as this morning, but I baked this pie just yesterday.”

He loved this place. “Still sounds awesome.”

She sliced a piece and put it on a plate, then she snuck it, plate and all, into the oven.

“Should be a couple of minutes, but it’ll be nice and warm.” She did not put the rest of the pie away.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, awed.

“The B&B?”

“Everything, I guess.”

A hint of a smile ghosted on her face and he wondered if her eyes always looked this vulnerable. “I moved to this farm when I was twenty. I loved it instantly. At the time, the only crop it had was corn. The animals were for eating and there were horses. Lots of horses. But they were too much money. They were the ones that went first, then a couple of failed crops later, we--I had to rethink the entire concept of this farm. I can’t even remember how I went from corn to goat’s milk.” She paused and sighed. “All these soaps and shampoos and lotions, that’s my product. I make them here, package them, and sell them to boutiques in New York. They sell really well. Same for the cheese, except I sell them to fancy restaurants. I refuse to mass produce them, because then I can’t control the quality. The B&B was a means to fill the house. It’s too huge for me to live alone in the whole entire year.” She threw her head back and closed her eyes. “God, it’s been eight years! Time flies when you’re having--well, stuff to do, I guess.”

He did note that she didn’t say “fun.” He supposed she thought that was disingenuous. Who had “fun” for eight years? Still, it was hard to imagine that a twenty year old would move into a house and farm like this all by herself.

“Did your parents buy this place for you?”

She chuckled and looked down at her hands. “My husband inherited it.”

He thought she had said earlier that she wasn’t married. He actually specifically threw that line of Ms. vs. Mrs. to find out if she was. Maybe they had separated.

God. She married him at twenty.

“I know. It’s weird,” she said, cocking a grin. “I met him at eighteen and married him at twenty. But things don’t always work out the way you plan.”

Hope.

“Sorry.”

She shrugged. “I’ve moved on. I think. When your husband dies on you after just two years and you realize that you are officially a twenty two year old widow, it puts a lot of things in perspective.”

Jesus. Now I feel like an asshole.

Before he could think on it, he put a hand over her arm. She was warm to the touch and she looked up at him, startled.

“I am so sorry, Betty,” he said, meaning it.

“It’s--it’s alright. Like I said, I moved on. It’s been six years after all. He changed my life. I am so grateful for that. This is the life I want and I never would have known that if I hadn’t met and married him. But thank you.”

His guilt gave him a mental slap to the back of the head. “I’ll be here a while, so maybe I can help you out in the farm. If it’s just to lift things, I think even an idiot like me can manage that.”

“You’re very kind, but are you sure you want to help?” A glint of mischief put the light back in her eyes. “The farm wakes up at 5:30. That’s 5 whole hours before you wake up.”

He took a deep breath and couldn’t really think of a response.

She laughed, getting up again to go to a cupboard to get something. It was his cigarettes. Half a dozen packs of Marlboros. His brand, of course.

“How much do I owe you for those?”

“On the house. Consider it a thank you gift for choosing my B&B.It’s as much for me as it is for you.”

Her face reddened right after she said it, but then she began to busy herself putting away his plates. When he tried to help, she shooed him away, telling him he could kick back and relax. Expertly, she put the warmed cherry pie in front of him, so that he had little choice but to eat it while she cleaned up around him.

She chattered lightly about the places he may want to venture to outside the farm. Everything was at least thirty minutes away, but it hardly mattered to him at the moment. He didn’t have any immediate plans of leaving the farm.

The pie was delicious and he finished it quickly. He brought the plate to the sink and started washing it along with the other dishes without asking her. She shot him a gently chastising look, but he shot a look right back. “You told me to feel at home and this is what I do at home.”

She rolled her eyes but patted his arm lightly. “Fine. But most days, I use a dishwasher. Let’s be completely clear. I try to do my part for the environment but as a matter of practicality, dishwashing and laundry need to be done by machine.”

When all the dishes and cutlery were on the drying rack and Betty had wiped every surface clean, she told him one last time that the house was at his disposal.

“I’m heading off to bed,” she said.

“So you really aren’t finishing Galaxy Quest?” he teased mildly.

She smiled. “I was only doing it to pass the time. Now the time has passed.”

When Betty left, he opened a pack of the cigarettes she got him and stepped out on the porch to smoke.

The rain had finally subsided into a soft drizzle, so now it was unbelievably quiet. There might have been the sound of a distant cluck from the chicken coop, and maybe the soft bleating of the goats from afar, but the peace surrounding him was slightly unnerving.

He could get used to it, however. It’s what he came here for. That escape from the white noise.

It was while he was leaning against a porch beam that he remembered what she said about her B&B. It was as much for her as it was for him--or rather, her guests.

Considering what he would be paying daily to live here and him being the only guest, it didn’t seem like she was making a profit from it. In their email exchanges about her prices, she had sent him a price menu, with fixed daily, weekly, and monthly rates, based on single, couple, and family occupancy. Her rates had been cheap, considering all meals and amenities were included. It was like living with your mother with cheap and controlled rent. If he ever wanted to move out here, he could just as easily start boarding in her home.

And perhaps that was the point. She wanted people to stay with her. She didn’t want to be alone in this house if she could help it.

The B&B was as much for her as it was for guests.

He wouldn’t dare feel pity for her. That was not what she wanted and it was not something he wanted to offer, but he could completely understand what she felt. It was the kinship of shared experiences.

He hadn’t lost a wife to death, but he’d known loneliness in his life. When he had been homeless, abandoned by his family, he had lived in a movie projection booth during warm months and the school janitor’s closet in the cold. When that became unavailable to him, he had lived with his best friends, first Archie, and then Veronica, her family eventually fostering him, and when he graduated high school and turned 18, he worked hard to stay off the streets and put a roof over his head. When his father got out of jail five years ago, he rebuilt his relationship with his father.

It was a hard road and it was still a work in progress, but he appreciated his father making amends, however late it was. He appreciated that his father was sober for five years. He was grateful that his father was, for all his faults and flaws, a pretty decent human being and that he did, truly, love his son.

All the way out here in Riverdale Farms, Jughead was an hour away from his dad’s house--the house Jughead bought for him.  It was the reason, after all, that he arrived late here. He had spent most of the day with his father, and it had been a good day.

He hadn’t expected it to end so perfectly, though. He hadn’t expected Betty.

Jughead finished his cigarette and wondered where he was going to put it out. He looked around and found an ashtray on the porch coffee table.

He wondered if she had put out the ashtrays specifically for him.

Probably.

He went back inside, locked up, and retired to his bedroom.  He found the note on his bed welcoming him to the farm, with mention of the books she had set on his bedside table. He popped a pastille in his mouth and turned the card over. At the back of it was the WiFi network and password. He turned back to the front and examined the note more closely.

Her handwriting was neat and flowy, and she signed it “B” like a heart. The card was exquisitely tasteful. Satin colored paper, embedded RF monogram, and at the bottom were two  links. One was Riverdalefarms.com and the other was Tumble.com/hometoharvest.

She had a blog, which piqued his interest.

He dug out his phone and opened a browser. He typed in her blog url and started to read.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Country Fried Pairing

“If there ever was a breakfast that warms the soul and sends it soaring for the rest of the day, it would be fried chicken and waffles. The crunchy, salty, greasy chunks of protein wrapped in that tasty, outer layer of skin, is always the perfect partner of the belgian waffle. It’s a matter of texture, so perfectly paired. They both have to be crunchy on the outside but soft and yummy on the inside. Chicken is savory, while waffles are sweet. The contrast is almost stark, but together they play a beautiful harmony on your taste buds. Slather both in my special maple-butter syrup and it’s a breakfast worthy of any southern table.”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

When Betty rose at the crack of dawn to tend to her farm, her first order of the day was to text Kevin and tell him that her house guest had arrived.

Kevin loved meeting her house guests, and she surmised that he was as thrilled about possibilities as she was with the break in their monotony. It always warmed her, too, to know that she wasn’t alone in the house while guests were there.

As she served breakfast to Farmer John and Kevin, she prepared the ingredients for her fried chicken and waffles brunch. She would batter and fry the chicken later, closer to Jughead’s wakeup hour, but she was grouping her waffle ingredients together already. When it came time to make them, she’d simply throw everything in a bowl, mix, fluff, then make them on her waffle iron.

When breakfast for the farmhands were done, they went out into the field.

Betty made her rounds with the chickens and her rows of vegetables.  It was quick work, since there wasn’t much to do for both except to gather, so she made her way to her little soap factory, where Kevin was waiting for her at the barn doors.

“Don’t you have work to do, Kevin?” she teased.  

Kevin scoffed. “Like hell I do. Tell me about your house guest!”

She grinned and slid her barn doors open. The smell of soap wafted out in powerful waves, so she stayed out of her workhouse for a few minutes, airing out the mixed scents.  

“He’s a writer,” she said. “A novelist, specifically. And he’s published two books.”

“An intellectual!” gushed Kevin. “So far so good. Does he make a lot of money?”

Betty chuckled. “I haven’t checked his bank account, Kev. Next question.”

“How old?”

“Twenty nine, if my calculations are correct. His birthday’s posted on Google. You’re growing soft on me. Where are your hard-hitting questions?”

Kevin narrowed his eyes at her, smirking. “What does he look like?”

She pretended to think about it. “Tall.”

He made a face. “That bad, huh?”

Betty stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “What about ‘tall’ makes you think he’s the opposite of attractive?”

“If all you can say about his looks is that he’s tall, then he must be fugly.”

She rolled her eyes.  “You’re incorrigible. What happened to ‘What’s he like?’ ‘Did he make interesting conversation?’ ‘What are his favorite movies?’”

“How is it that a straight woman like you can be gayer than me?”

She gave him a mildly scolding look.

It was Kevin’s turn to roll his eyes. “Okay, fine. What’s he like?”

“He drives a motorcycle. A Harley Davidson, Dyna.”

Kevin gasped. “Ooh, interesting!”

“He smokes and he likes to read books.  He likes jazz and he’s kind of self-deprecating and wary. He’s polite and kind, but he has a bit of a potty mouth, and he listens. He’s a listener. I have a feeling he’s probably a funny guy, but like I said, he’s wary. Maybe has some trust issues. I think he’s still a little afraid to offend.”

She refrained from telling Kevin that she told Jughead Jones more about herself than she’s ever told any guest, but that was way too incriminating. She didn’t need Kevin thinking that she had taken too much of a shining to a guest. That was just too much potential for embarrassment.

He frowned. “So he’s basically perfect if he weren’t such a toad.”

She wanted to laugh at all the ways Kevin was calling Jughead ugly, the most hilarious thing being, of course, was that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody was drop dead attractive. At least to her, but then she had a thing for that rugged, rebel type.

Trev had been the rugged, rebel type. He was all the good things, wrapped in an amazing human being, but his rebellious streak manifested in horses. Those beautiful creatures that he wanted to breed and care for. He was also very rugged. The rancher-slash-cowboy look of his, with the checkered tops hugging his slender body, dusty jeans, and the occasional cowboy hat. No wonder she was so gone on him.

She still missed him. Still often wished he hadn’t been taken from her so soon, but it also pained her to realize that she’s forgotten how it felt to be in his arms, forgotten how his lips felt on hers, forgotten even how his eyes had stared fondly at her face whenever she smiled at him from over the fence. She wished so often that she could hold on to those memories like a picture she could frame and summon at will. Forgetting felt like a betrayal, because if it had been the other way around, she would have liked her hugs and kisses to be remembered, at least, if not entirely missed.

“Hello! Earth to Betty!” Kevin cried, heading over to one of the workstations. There were buckets of herbs that still needed chopping and Kevin always enjoyed helping out with that. She joined him there and putting their gloves on, they each took a chopping board and started working in their batches of herbs.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I was just thinking of Trev.”

Kevin smiled, but didn’t comment on it. “What’s he here for? Business or leisure?”

“Bit of both,” she replied. “He said he wanted to try writing here in these quiet surroundings, which is a nice way of indicating that nothing distracting ever happens around here.”

Kevin did not disagree.

“He’s also doing research for his book,” she continued. “He wanted to know how it was to live in a farm.”

Kevin scowled. “Well, he should be awake then.”

“It’s his first day,” she said, sighing. “He had a rough night and honestly, I’d like my guest to just lie back and enjoy being here without being judged, thanks.”

“Rough night?”

Betty told him the story of how he arrived and what kept him. She also told him about Jughead’s seeming appreciation of her B&B and the personalization she’d put effort into.

Jughead hadn’t told her why he was practically a day late, but that was none of her business.

They worked on making the soaps all morning, mixing vats of her compound and pouring the mixture into her signature molds. It was barely nine thirty when she was startled to find Jughead standing by her barn doors looking fresh and ready for the day. He had a mug in his hand and she could only assume he had found her pot of coffee in her kitchen. She was very glad to see that he had been comfortable enough to find it and serve himself.

He wore a different pair of jeans, and his top consisted of a blue flannel blouse, pushed up at the sleeves and open at front. His tattoos from his elbow down were evident and sent another involuntary shudder through her. What was it about her and tattoos? He had a white tank underneath his flannel and on his head was a crown beanie. Odd but strangely becoming.

He looked devastatingly good.

“Good morning!” she cried cheerfully. “You’re up early!” She wiped her hands on a rag and slung her long blonde braid over her back to get down carefully from her ladder.

She bunched the long skirt she had on to climb down but was surprised to suddenly find Jughead there, offering his hand up for assistance.

“Oh!” she gasped, a bit too flustered to shoo him off. She took his offered hand. It was warm, strong, and sturdy. “Th-thanks!”

Her brown cowgirl boots made a racket on the metal steps and she wondered momentarily when she suddenly got so ungraceful.

She reached the bottom of her steps with an embarrassed sigh, smoothing out the white sweetheart’s shirt she had on. “Sorry, I’m usually not this much of a klutz,” she muttered, simultaneously sorry to have to let his hand go.

He looked at her with that ghost of a smile that she never could quite catch. “You’re fine.”

Someone cleared their throat and Betty remembered she hadn’t introduced Kevin yet.

He seemed mildly impatient, his eyebrow arched and surreptitiously checking Jughead out. She valiantly tried to prevent a grin from breaking her face.

“I’ve been meaning to introduce you to my farmhands,” she said, lightly touching his arm and gesturing to the side towards Kevin. “This is Kevin. He’s been a good friend to me and this farm since its inception. He’s a carpenter by trade—one of the best in the tristate area, and when he doesn’t have big construction projects, he works here. Kevin, this is our guest, Jughead Jones.”

Jughead turned and extended a hand easily. “Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

Kevin shook it, his gaze never leaving Jughead’s face. “A pleasure, Jughead. My, my. You are tall.”

Betty widened her eyes at Kevin warningly but schooled her face back to neutral once Jughead stepped back to regard them both.

“Yeah. If you need anything taken down from high places, I’m your guy.”

Kevin grinned. “Betty always has stuff like that to do. She’s totally useless around here.”

She slapped Kevin’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “No, you’re useless. Honestly.”

They had this constant running joke about who was more useless, which was ridiculous because they always had something to do on the farm.

They chuckled at each other, but Betty could see that Kevin was mildly furious at how she hadn’t told him that Jughead had Leonardo diCaprio good looks, circa 1990. She grinned back at him, smugly.

“So Betty tells me you’ve written and published two books and that now you’re writing another one,” Kevin said. “I’ve never met anyone who can live off his writing before.”

She rolled her eyes at him but made sure Jughead didn’t see.

“I couldn’t believe it, either,” Jughead muttered, his face flaming. “Kinda feels like I just fuck around for about a year, drinking copious amounts of coffee, while I try to get a book out of my brain.”

There was that potty mouth that she found so strangely appealing. “Well, it seems to work. Let’s not change the formula. I won’t be the farm you wrote your flop in.”

That made him cock a smile. “What I consider a flop and what my publisher considers a flop are two different things.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” Kevin said. “So you can totally live off publishing one book a year?”

Betty shot Kevin a scolding look. That question sounded rude, but Jughead didn’t appear to mind it so much.

“I don’t publish a book a year. It’s a book every one and a half to two years. So if I don’t spend anything beyond room and board, and the occasional food truck craving, for a couple of years, then yeah, maybe,” he replied, chuckling. “I have dailies in newspapers and magazines. That’s what I consider my steady income.”

“That is totally fascinating,” Kevin remarked. “So you have to write all day, everyday, and not just for your book.”

Jughead nodded. “Pretty much.”

Kevin threw out a few more publishing questions until his curiosity seemed satisfied. Finally, he said, “Betty, do you need me to take over while you make breakfast?”

She was about to thank Kevin because yes, she had to make breakfast for Jughead, but Jughead shook his head.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt. I was supposed to wake up at 10:30. I got up earlier to watch you guys tend the farm.”

She tilted her gaze up at him fondly. “Well, you had to have gotten up earlier for that! This stuff isn’t farm work, exactly.”

“Oh.”

She chuckled gently. “But you’ll have plenty of opportunities to catch up some other time. Let me introduce you to Farmer John.”

Kevin gasped. “Oh, please, Betty. Can I go? You know I love it when you introduce Farmer John to new people!”

She cast him a mildly chastising look. “Kevin! It’s not nice to make fun.”

“I don’t make fun! To his face. I’ll make it up to him, I promise.”

She rolled her eyes but said, “Come on.”

She unhooked a cowboy hat from the coat hanger by the barn doors and tucked it on her head as she led the way to where the goat pens were.

“So Farmer John…?” Jughead prompted.

“He takes care of my goats,” she said. “They are what keeps this entire farm going. We take their milk and turn it into bath products and my signature cheeses. Farmer John is a godsend.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Kevin cried.

“I couldn’t do without Kevin, of course. I love him passionately.”

“That’s better!” Kevin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he stomped.

She exchanged amused glances with Jughead.

“Farmer John is 100% dedicated to the goats. Kevin helps me with the rest of the farm. When I need extra hands, Kevin rounds up the extra help. They’re mostly LGBT youth, too. But I welcome all kids and people.”

“This farm is a magnet for gay people,” Kevin explains. “We all love how fabulous Betty is. Apart from being the Martha Stewart of Riverdale, she looks like Scarlett Johansson.”

She felt her face warm. “Kevin! Don’t be such a queen!”

“She has a big heart and she loves people for who they are! There, is that better?”

Her face still flaming, she nodded. “Better. Honest to God, Kev.”

Jughead smirked, his eyes never leaving her face. “I see it.”

Kevin narrowed his eyes, but an evil smile was blossoming from his lips. “Right? I told you, Betty.”

“God,” she muttered, embarrassed. She was going to hear it from Kevin, for sure. She didn’t like being teased about her guests. Sure, Jughead was attractive and quite frankly her type, but he was a guest , which basically meant he was passing through and would be gone and done after a foreseeable period of time. She did not want to be caught in some stupid situation where she would get lonelier after a guest leaves. Guests were supposed to invigorate her and tide her over until the next guest came around. “How would you feel if I teased you about looking like Matt Damon?”

“By all means, tease away!”

That didn’t go as planned, but whatever. She sighed in frustration and climbed the rung of the goat fence. She took her hat and waved it overhead to Farmer John in the distance.

Farmer John looked up and waved back, starting to walk towards them.

Farmer John looked exactly what a farmer should look like. Overalls, a plaid blouse, rotund in the middle, close cropped beard, and balding at the top.

“Hi there, Farmer John! I wanted to introduce you to our guest,” she said cheerfully when he got within earshot.

“Is this him?” Farmer John said in his mild tone. He extended a hand and Jughead took it.

“Jughead Jones,” he said.

Farmer John arched an eyebrow. “Good to meet you, Jughead. I’m Farmer John. You’re a handsome young man, aren’t you? Our Betty here is single.”

And so it begins, she thought, wanting so much to melt through the ground. “Farmer John, how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not old enough to make that schtick charming.” She turns to Jughead. “He does this to all my male guests. One time, he said the same thing to a seventy year old man.”

“He was single and cute,” Farmer John said defensively. “Age doesn’t matter, you know!”

“It does when he’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

Kevin scoffed. “And honestly, it would’ve taken a gallon of viagra--”

“ Kevin!” she cried, mortified. “Jesus Christ!” This was tremendously awkward.

“Like who could afford that ish?! If his heart doesn’t give out first.”

“Oh. My. God.” She covered her cherry red face. “Why do I even put up with you all!”

Jughead chuckled, sipping his coffee, but he said nothing, seemingly content with watching and listening to all this.

She looked at him. “You seem to find this awful behavior hilarious.”

“I’m just observing,” he said, leaning casually on the fence and looking up at her.

She gave a loud sigh and hopped off her ledge. “Farmer John,” she began, pointedly. “How are our goats doing?”

“Wonderfully,” he gushed. “They were so happy this morning when they realized I’d mixed fresh celery in their feed. It’s such a treat for them when you give them the surplus from your farm, Betty, dear. Mama Gina and Mama Maybel are coming along fine. They’ll be giving birth soon, so I’ve got my birth plan all written out…” True to form, Farmer John started to cry and sob. “I’m so proud of them, Betty! They are going to bring healthy new kids into this world! They were practically just kids themselves a few months ago, and now look at them!”

Betty fished a packet of tissues from her pocket and offered him some. She always had some handy because of Farmer John.

“Thank you, dear,” Farmer John whispered, taking a tissue and wiping his eyes with it. “You understand, of course. Unlike some people.” He shot a daggered, tear-filled look at Kevin. “He thinks I’m a drama queen. Always making fun of me.”

“Kevin,” Betty crooned in a scolding tone.

“You know the bad guy always gets the best lines,” Kevin said with a mischievous grin.

Farmer John lifted his nose. “Well, I deserve more respect from the likes of you. Those goats make the best milk because they’re happy, and you know that milk is the life of this farm.” He made circles in the air with his fingers. “Which funds the salary of your sorry ass! I’ll be going back to my babies now. It was nice to meet you, Jughead.”  He stomped off just as another sob rose from his throat.

“Is he going to be alright?” Jughead asked, real concern on his face.

“Ooh, that was new! That milk being the life of the farm thing! I knew he was going to go off the rails!” Kevin gasped. “I love it!”

“He’s fine,” Betty replied. “He’s very passionate and an excellent goatherd. I would triple his salary if he threatens to leave.”

Kevin scowled. “What! I’ve never heard you say that about me.”

“Kevin,” she said in her sweetest tone. She put a hand on his arm and batted her eyelashes at him. “You will never leave me.”  

“You blonde bitch,” he huffed, dramatically. “That may be true, but would it kill you to lie to me?”

She stifled a smile. “I’m going inside to make Jughead’s waffles. Would you like to sit with us for Second Breakfastses?”

“Best not. This beautiful body doesn’t get this way by itself. Eating your food is sure to get me another 45 minutes of pain in the gym, ma chere. You go on and I’ll finish up in the soap factory.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” she said in a sing song tone as he walked away.

He waved over his shoulder as he went.

She put her hat back on her head and turned to Jughead.

He was watching her intently, and his piercing blue eyes sent a pleasant shudder down her spine.

“Your farm is not like the others,” he said.

“Oh,” she began, walking. “It is. We just have more interesting characters. That’s not even all of them. Farmer John and Kevin are my regulars, but every once in awhile we have need of specialists and they can get pretty wacky. But give it a week or so. At this point, everyone’s excited by the new guy. You can probably say we’re all putting our best foot forward. It will settle down, I promise.”

He smirked, striding in step with her. “So let’s talk about a couple of things here. Do you always make Lord of the Rings references and did you just say you were making waffles?”

She grinned. “I am a fan of Peter Jackson’s LOTR and yes, I am making Belgian waffles. And country fried chicken.”

He clutched his heart dramatically. “Fried chicken for breakfast? Say it again. Slowly, this time.”

She laughed, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks at his faux sexy tone.

“You know,” he added after a brief pause. “Only true fans call it LOTR.”

That, she knew, and really, when one lives in a farm where hardly anything terribly interesting happens, one read thick tomes about adventuring Hobbits and maybe watched the movies that were made about them as soon as they became available for streaming. “Um, I live in a farm in the middle of nowhere. Of course I geek out on stuff like that.”

He cocked a grin. “Of course? Well, yeah, of course!”

There was a glint in his eyes, as if he liked what she said, and the fact that she was so there for it was sending alarm bells through her brain. The emergency brakes on her feelings needed to be applied before the rest of her started to run with it, but she couldn’t resist a bit of fun banter.  

“Best foot forward, remember?” she quipped.

He chuckled and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “If it makes any difference, you don’t have to go crazy on the best foot forward thing with me. I’m pretty low maintenance. Easy to please.”

“Oh, are you?” she quipped, tilting a shoulder before she could catch herself, and then she was mortified with herself two seconds later. Flirting with the guests was a total no-no.

He didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with it, however. He smirked, turned, and started walking backwards in front of her. “Or maybe it’s just you who doesn’t have to try so hard, as I am already so duly impressed.” He winked.

I’m dead.

She gave him a dimpled smile as he fell back behind her, biting her lower lip in an effort to contain the burgeoning crush she was developing.

She walked up the steps to her house, intent to knock his socks of with her fried chicken and waffles.

**************************

He wondered if describing her skin as sun-kissed didn’t make him a complete hack.

Not that he would write that shit down where evidence could be submitted. But he liked to check himself, because self-awareness was what prevented douchebaggery, and if there was anything he feared more than loneliness, it was turning into a douchebag and not knowing it.

It was a surprisingly easy slide for many published authors he knew and he didn’t want to be one of them.

In this idyllic farm setting, however, he didn’t have much fear about becoming the dreaded D-bag. There were enough people here who seemed primed to call him out on shit like that, if their overall down-to-earth attitudes didn’t head it off in the first place.

No, that wasn’t the problem in Riverdale Farms. The trick was to control his raging crush on its hostess and to not turn into a disgusting sap who was seriously thinking of giving his leading character a blonde and sassy love interest.

That was his struggle now, made more difficult by watching said hostess from his vantage point on the front porch. She was a busy figure floating about, going back and forth between her farmhands.

The cowboy hat had stayed, much to his secret delight, and that braid on her shoulder was kind of driving him crazy. He wanted to loosen it and let her hair fall free.

He could, of course, just remove himself from the sweet influence of Betty by heading back to his room, but there lied the conundrum.

As comfortable as his bedroom was, he needed to smoke and drink coffee as he wrote. He had decided to settle himself on one of the porch chairs, feet up and ankles crossed on the trellis. He had his computer on his lap and the ambient noise of “not farm work” was supposedly perfect for his focus.

After Betty’s fantastic southern breakfast, complete with biscuits, butter-maple syrup, eggs, and sausages (all of which he ate), he figured going outside was his best bet at dodging a carb-induced coma.

Only now he couldn’t stop watching her. She was fascinating, because she was like some hidden treasure that he had stumbled upon purely by happenstance.

He felt that if she were out in the world, in the middle of the city, she wouldn’t even breathe in his direction. She would be miles ahead of him, and he would perhaps be stalking her on Twitter and Tumble.

All the way out here, she was his hostess; she was Googling him; she was making sure he had every comfort.

There was something very unreal about this picture.

He had read her blog last night. Not all of it, but many of her entries. She was a breathlessly inspiring writer. Like she wrote the way a muse would, letting her words cultivate creativity.  He was never a crafty, DIY kind of guy, but reading her blog made him want to buy an entire antique fair and stylishly distress every wooden piece he could find. And the recipes--his mouth watered before he even got to the ingredients. It was no wonder her guests had nothing but good things to say about her B&B. She was a domestic goddess.

The barn doors of her soap factory slid open and the sound shook Jughead out of his reverie. Betty ambled out hauling a couple of baskets along with her. They looked heavy.

Jughead got up, setting his laptop aside to go and help her.

“Oh, don’t,” she said as he came over and took both baskets from her. “You’re guest!”

They were heavy, so he shot her a chastising look. “I am filled with fried chicken and waffle fuel. It won’t kill me to do some heavy lifting.”

She sighed, smiling. “Well, thank you. I usually ask Kevin to help but he’s elbow deep in curds.”

“And we can’t have his elbows otherwise occupied,” he said, carrying the baskets across the grounds as they walked up to the porch steps. “These going inside the house?”

“No, out here on the porch is fine. This is where I usually package my soaps, unless I’m disturbing you by being here.”

“I should be so lucky,” he drawled. “I’ll stop smoking.”

“Please don’t on account of me,” she said, settling on the seat across him.

He smirked, but didn’t argue. He didn’t like blowing smoke in anyone’s face, least of all hers. He really should be quitting, anyway.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll be quiet. I find doing this therapeutic. I never tire of it.”

He shrugged and picked his laptop back up. He swung his legs back up on the railing and focused on the words on his screen.

True to her word, Betty worked wordlessly, picking up a minty green bar of soap and folding them onto a swath of monogrammed wax paper. Her fingers worked with expert precision, making folds and crimps that packaged the bar of soap snuggly into the paper. She then looped some soft twine around the wrapped bar, tied it, snipped it, then she secured a pre-assembled gift-tag like label where the twine met.

It looked twice as expensive as any bar of soap he’d ever used.

She put it aside then did it again. She was so good at this that he was mesmerized by it.  

She smiled, and it wasn’t even a big smile. It was close lipped and tilted, but it dazzled him. “I’m sorry, am I distracting you?”

Yes. Yes you are.

“Not in a bad way,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s soothing, what you’re doing. The repetitive motion is pretty precise.”

“I’ve done this thousands of times. I don’t even think about it anymore.” She started with a bar again and kept talking as she did it. “But I like it because it’s the result of the hard work of this farm. Farmer John and Kevin get shares. It’s their product, too.”

“I remember you telling me that business is good.”

“Very.”

“So did the soap come before the B&B?” She hadn’t been clear about that the first night they sat down to talk, though he could probably guess.

She shook her head. “Nope. The B&B came first. I love this house and I’ve been making it beautiful since the day I moved in, but it’s huge, especially after Trev--” she paused “--my husband died. So I set up a B&B just so it wouldn’t be empty all the time. But I didn’t have a regular influx of guests and it takes money to run a seven bedroom home. Even if the house and property are paid for, I had to find other ways to make money. So I sold off the horses, cattle, and pigs. I was not a horse breeder like Trev. And I knew nothing about raising animals for food. I went with what I knew: design and DIY. I always liked making things, and soaps were my favorite, so I thought that since I had a farm, I would care for goats and make the soaps. I saw the opportunity for cheese, too so I did that as well. I couldn’t care for animals to slaughter, but if I didn’t have to kill them, I was good.” She paused. “I realize that’s a little hypocritical since we eat and serve meat on this farm, but it isn’t the business I want to be in. If I couldn’t bring myself to kill for that product, then I’d be bankrupt.”

He grinned. “You don’t have to justify meat eating to me. I’m a burger guy. It’s my favorite food, bar none.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Is it? I love making a good burger. It’s simple and you can hardly screw it up.”

“You’ll be surprised at how many do.”

“You see, a burger is personal, right? Barring the fundamentals, people say there’s no right or wrong way. I completely disagree. The wrong way is telling people what they’d like to eat. The right way is figuring who you’re serving the food to, and that’s particularly true for the food we grew up with--a burger, mac ‘n’ cheese, peanut butter and jelly, a grilled cheese sandwich...”

He bit his lip to contain the smile breaking from it. This was the sort of thing she wrote on her blog. She grabbed on to the emotional underpinnings of things, exposing the bonds people formed with things and food. It was amazing. “What kind of burger do you think I’d like?”

“Oh, you’re traditional through and through,” she points out without hesitation. “Basic soft bun with a crunchy middle, three-quarters of an inch thick beef patty, medium cooked, no fancy flavors, just the beef, maybe some cheese--I may have some wiggle room there for what type I’d let you have. Maybe some mustard. Maybe some slivers of onion--depends on your mood. No other veggies. Basic thick cut fries on the side. Ketchup and mayo optional.”

His mouth hung open as he laughed. “Holy shit, it’s like voodoo! How did you figure all that out?”

She tossed him a look like please. “Leather jacket? Old music? Crime novels? C’mon.”

“Here I thought I had my moody, mysterious vibe down pat. I guess I’ve been living a lie.”

She chuckled. “You can keep your secrets all you want, but when it comes to the food you like and the comfort you prefer, I will do what voodoo I have to do to figure you out. Just call me Mama Betty, the Blonde Witch of Riverdale.”

“There is something utterly bewitching about you.”

Her cheeks turned pink, her eyes shifting to the work of her hands. “I do make magical Belgian Waffles,” she joked.

Jughead was pretty sure it wasn’t the waffles, but he wasn’t going to argue. He was by no means good at this flirting business. He liked talking . He liked having conversations. He’d never had a girlfriend that he had to “pick up.” They were never charmed at the first meeting. He was commonly friend-zoned first, then he grew on them, in varying degrees. But he was never a ladies man. So all of this flirting he was doing was coming from some unknown place, some corner in his psyche that he never knew existed until Betty, with some magical, mystical key, had unlocked.

She went back to her soap and he had to tell himself to at least fucking try to do some writing while she was there, because if he couldn’t, he would have to hole up in his room and get inspiration from the view of the river.

He went back to his laptop and decided he would describe his new character as sun-kissed, and fuck it if that was a hack’s way of describing skin. It was a block and he just had to get it out of his system. He could scrap it later.  

The words followed from there. It streamed and got into a cadence, easy and familiar, like fingers folding and crimping just right to get to a perfect rectangle of packaging, like deft loops and twists that secured the twine and kept it safe and beautiful.

*******

In the three days that Jughead had so far stayed at Riverdale Farms, he still hasn’t managed to get up early enough to see “actual” farm work.  

He couldn’t argue with the fact that writing was getting done, however.  The routine, so far, was that he’d spend a couple or so hours enjoying the company of the hostess, watching her cook, manufacture her soap, process her cheese, and then he’d settle on the porch with her and write several thousand words.

He would take smoking breaks, settling on the other side of the porch or outside of it, depending on where the wind carried the smoke.

She never started conversation with him, perhaps because she thought she would be imposing if she did, so he always started the conversation for them. He wished she wouldn’t treat him so much like a guest anymore.

Sometimes he’d turn over moments in his head, when she’d tilt a shoulder or when her so-called sun-kissed skin would turn pink at the things he said. He took way too much delight in how his words could affect her, but he always ended that thought with a self-deprecating laugh.

Grow the fuck up.

On the third night, Archie Andrews called him on facetime.

When Jughead accepted the facetime, he was met with the scowling face of his best friend.

“What the fuck, dude? Nothing for three days straight since that last text? You’re on a farm, not a goddamn monastery!”

Jughead snorted. Archie was top bare. He almost always was. Like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Archie Andrews was proud of his washboard abs and perfect pecs. “Put a shirt on, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ronnie likes it when I walk around shirtless.”

“Did not need to know that.”

On cue, Veronica appeared over Archie’s shoulder. “Hi Jug. We miss you.”

“Like hell you do. We’ve had two week stretches that we didn’t see each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “But you at least call every other day, me or Arch. What gives? You’ve never gone three days straight without a single peep.”

It was true. He always found some way to communicate with either Archie or Veronica. It was those years they took him in when he was homeless, when no one else would, and they were to him his siblings more than his own sister was.

“Sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been writing.”

She scowled. “That means nothing. You’ve gone on writing binges and you still always manage to talk to us. What the fuck is going on?”

He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was Betty. Maybe it was farm life. There was just such a sense of living off the earth around here that it almost felt like using his cellphone to reach out all the way in Manhattan meant that he had to burst the blissful bubble.

“Nothing is going on,” Jughead said. “Maybe that’s the point. I got nothing to report.” That was a lie, but he got a sick satisfaction making Archie and Veronica work for it.

“Jug,” Archie said, taking over the phone’s entire screen to direct his gaze. “You once texted me for hours and hours to describe how boring and horrible it was at Jury Duty.”

So maybe he really wasn’t as mysterious and moody as he thought he was. Apparently, everyone he knew, knew him.

He sighed. He wasn’t going to win this battle. “Fine. So this place my editor sent me to--”

“Still can’t believe you didn’t go to Belize,” Veronica interrupted in the background.

Archie shushed her gently. “Go on, man.”

Jughead did. “This farm is in the middle of nowhere but it’s amazing. The house looks like it came right off the pages of a magazine. Magical things come out of its kitchen. I swear I’ve never been fed so well my entire life. The place is kept in order by two gay farmhands and the hostess…” his voice trailed off, trying to find the right words. “She’s something else.”

Archie’s jaw dropped. “A girl? You fucking ditched us for a girl?”

Jughead frowned. “Woman, okay? She is a woman.”

Veronica gasped, pushing Archie aside. “Seriously, Jug? That’s why you haven’t been talking to us?” She looked delighted, however, unlike Archie who was making flailing gestures behind her.

“She’s not the entire reason,” Jughead said, defensively. “It’s this whole place. I just feel like the peace and quiet has lulled and settled me. Like I’m high on the couch and I just don’t want to get up and do anything. But I have done a lot of writing. I didn’t mean to ditch you guys, but it’s not like you don’t have each other to occupy your time.”

“Dude!” Archie cried. “That’s not the point. Who am I going to talk about Game of Thrones with? Not this lady.”

“Like I have time to watch your geeky show that flashes a million boobs a minute for its fans.”

“It’s gritty nudity, okay?” Jughead said, grinning at his own stupid argument. “I get your point, Arch, and I’m sorry I haven’t been contacting you or Ronnie. I will do better next time. Just--I’ve been great. This is the best thing I’ve done in a long time, so I’m just enjoying it.”

Ronnie’s hand pushed Archie’s face out of the way. “Aw, Jug, of course you’re entitled to have this, uninterrupted. It’s just us being needy. You know we’re clingy. I don’t think we’ve lived a day without you since high school.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but he got where Ronnie was coming from.  He was a constant in their lives, and they worried about him, and watched out for him often. It was probably like parents and kids--when the kids didn’t need their parents anymore, the parents got antsy.

“I promise I’m fine,” he said. “And I’ll stay in touch better while I’m here.”

“Good,” she replied. Her face broke out in a smile. “So is she cute?”

Jughead didn’t need to ask about whom she was referring to. “God Ronnie, she’s fucking gorgeous.”

Veronica squealed for whatever reason.

“Betcha she’s blonde,” Archie chimed in.

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Arch.”

“Well, is she?” Veronica asked.

“Yes, but if she weren’t--”

“Leggy? Nice ass?” Archie went on.

Jughead was getting the tiniest bit annoyed at how predictable he was turning out to be. “What the fuck, man? Did you shrink yourself to microscopic size and crawl into my brain to get all this information?”

“I’ve known you since we were five, bro. No amount of you dating brunettes will convince me that you’ve let go of the dream of that Hitchcock blonde. Is she the one making magic from the kitchen?”

Jughead pursed his lips mutinously.

Archie screamed with laughter. “You are toast, man.”

“She reads,” Jughead pointed out emphatically. “You know I like a girl who reads.”

“I am so tempted to drive over there and meet this magical creature,” Veronica said.

That made his stomach churn in alarm. “Don’t you dare, Ronnie! You know I need to keep my writing spaces sacred. It needs to be my place until I let you in.  We’ve talked about this.”

She rolled her eyes and blew a breath through the corner of her lips. “Fine. Yeah, we’ve talked about this. God, Jug. Sometimes you could be so weird.”

“I wear the same beanie on a constant basis for no apparent reason. What do you think?”

“So, are you in love?”

“What? No,” Jughead said hastily. “It’s just a crush, Ronnie. She gives me butterflies in my stomach and shit, but it’s all harmless fun. I admire her, but I’m probably going to keep it platonic.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ronnie.”

“I’m just saying. Fun does not mean celibate. Archie’s right. It’s a farm, not a monastery.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Jughead said, meaning it.

“Hey, so long as you both understand what you’re getting into, it’s all good, right?”

Jughead had a feeling she wasn’t the type to do casual, because God knows he didn’t do casual. His worse relationships, at the very least, came from a place of intent, even if it was just on an intellectual level, hardly scratching the surface of emotional. The perks of that, of course, was that he’d never had a bad breakup and he was in good terms with all his exes--well, most of them, at least. Unfortunately, that also meant he hasn’t really known romantic love. It didn’t bother him, though. It wasn’t a priority. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to put himself out there that way. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“Nah,” Jughead said. “This is not about that. She’s a great host and she’s extremely fascinating. I can sit and talk with her all day.”

Veronica’s eyebrow arched, but she said nothing. She merely nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Let us know how you’re doing in a couple of days, okay?”

“Sure thing. Thanks for checking in, guys.”

“Anytime, dude,” Archie said.

They said their final goodbyes and ended the call.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Raspberry Refresh

“On a hot summer day, consider a delicious alternative to Lemonade. A nice cold Raspberry Iced Tea is refreshing and flavorful.  It has a relatively simple set of ingredients, but if you want to take it to the next level, it requires patience and a careful selection of ingredients. The infusion of flavor is a process, applying heat, time, and cold.

When you do something different, you find yourself investing in efforts you never had to think of before.  Where lemonade is just about squeezing the juice out of a lemon, a fresh and sweet Raspberry Ice Tea is more involved, from the raspberries you’ll use, to the kind of tea you’ll infuse the drink with. You heat it up, then you cool it down, then you make it ice cold for that refreshing burst.

Virgin or spiked, you’ll want it to be thirst quenching. Here’s how I make them….”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

Betty greeted the morning like she always did, with a smile on her lips and a bounce in her step. At least, that’s what she aspired to.

Her mother bred her to be perfect from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning to the moment she laid her head in bed at night, but there was no breeding out the desire to sleep longer, or the tendency to be cranky right out of bed.

When Betty had to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, first she had to curse her alarm clock, then she had to hit snooze on it. She’d sleep through the 9 minutes the snooze gave her and then wake up again, cursing even more. This time, however, she would actually push herself off bed, moan her way to the bathroom, and splash her face with cold water until she was fully awake.

Only then could she manage that hint of smile and perhaps the tiniest of hops.

She would brush her hair, tie it into a braid, and open her closets as she stood in front of it in her underwear.

There wasn’t a pastel cardigan in sight and that fact still warmed her heart. When she got out from beneath her mother’s thumb, she realized how her wardrobe was reflective of her mother’s relentless control. So when she began to think outside of her mother’s regime, her wardrobe was one of first things that began to change, and among that, her pastel cardigans went first. Her tastes in clothing began to come into its own from there.

Her colors still leaned light, but beside the more practical outfits that any farm girl should have, there were spaghetti strap dresses and bold flower prints that showed skin, denims and other bold fabrics with feminine flounces that showed cleavage, and over-sized sweaters and short skirts that showed leg.

She grabbed a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and socks for her work boots. When she was fully dressed, she looked into her mirror and found herself smoothing a finger over her eyebrow.

Her eyes hovered over the lip gloss on her dresser.

By the time he wakes up, your lip gloss will be long gone.

She frowned, shaking her head at her own absurdity. She grabbed the lip gloss and put it on, stubbornly telling herself that this wasn’t for Jughead Jones, this was for herself, so yes, if it was long gone before he woke, then too bad for him. Or her.

Or whatever. It didn’t matter.

Lip gloss properly applied, she marched out of her bedroom, tiptoed past Jughead’s, and proceeded to head for the stairs. She was just turning the corner when a door opened along the hallway and she stopped, startled.

“Betty?” came Jughead’s voice as he peeked out, first in one direction, then the other. When he saw her at the stairs, he smirked. “Morning.”

She was caught a little bit off guard. “M-Morning. You’re up early.”

He pressed his lips together. “Kind of about time. I came here for research and I keep oversleeping the research. Besides, if I don’t start working my butt off, I’m going to start packing in pounds with all the good food you’re feeding me.”

She finally recovered from her surprise and she smiled, realizing that she was glad to have his company this early in the morning. “Well, come on down, then.”

He stepped out in a fresh pair of jeans, a black shirt, and his boots. She remembered that these were his clothes when he first arrived at the farm, except that now, they were freshly laundered and dry. The shirt fit him well, loose enough to look comfortable, but just the right size to cling to some of his definition.

She was definitely awake now.

“Let’s get some coffee going,” she said, pushing her sleeves up as she walked through the kitchen. She started to prep the grinder, and just when she turned to grab the jar with the coffee beans, Jughead was there with the jar in his hands.

She blinked, astonished.

“I’ve watched you do this after lunch over the last few days,” he said. “I can make the coffee. I know you have other things to do.”

She was mildly impressed. “You’ve watched me do this.”

“Research,” he said. He side stepped her to get to the grinder and she watched him put in the right amount of beans, grind it the right amount of time, and thereafter doing each and every step of the process in exactly the same way.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than wait for me to screw up?” he teased, getting up close as he reached up behind her to get the bottle of vinegar.

She felt her face warm at his closeness but didn’t flinch at his words. “I wasn’t--”

He smirked, moving away from her to go back to the coffee making.

She sighed, wishing that it hadn’t felt so cold where he had left a void. “Fine. And for the record, it was more curiosity than anything else.”

“How am I doing?” he asked.

“Pretty good so far,” she said, giving him a tight lipped smile.

“Thank you. That’s high praise in my book.”

She chuckled, finally turning away to attend to breakfast. She pulled out some eggs, butter, a lemon, canadian bacon, spices, some parsley, and some frozen English muffins.

“Made these the other night,” she said, gesturing to the muffins. “Thought I might make something nice out of it today.”

Jughead looked confused. “You made these at night ?”

She nodded as she started to crack some eggs, separating the whites from the yolks. “Sometimes, I couldn’t sleep, so I make things when that happens.”

He chuckled. “English muffins? Well, that’s one way of doing things. Next time you couldn’t sleep, come to my room.”

She didn’t quite know what to say about that, busying herself with popping some bread in the toaster.

His face turned instantly red. “God, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just saying I’m a night owl, so I’d be awake and we can keep each other company…” He paled this time. “That didn’t sound better, did it?”

Finally, she gave a soft giggle. “It’s alright. I get what you mean.”

“Right,” he said. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”  

He poured her a cup and brought out the cream and sugar for her. She arched an eyebrow but all he did was grin. She made her coffee just the way she liked it and savored it for several seconds.

She realized that Jughead was watching her, probably waiting for her reaction. She smiled. “It’s really good, Jug.”  She blushed at her own casual nicknaming of him. She hoped he didn’t read too much into it.

He pumped a fist. “Yes. Points for Jones.”

She rolled her eyes, mostly relieved that he didn’t call her out for the nickname.

“Anything else I should be doing right now?”

She thought for a second she should resist. She never made guests do work, but he seemed eager to help and he was awake, so he might as well be useful. “If you can grab a pan from the cabinet below and melt about a cup of butter, that would be great.”

“I can do that.”

Betty was going to make a nice hollandaise to go with some eggs benedict, Canadian bacon, and English Muffins.

She gave careful instructions to Jughead as she worked her side of the kitchen, squeezing some lemon into her separated yolks, and whisking them vigorously. Jughead helped pour the butter in with the eggs as she whisked them to the right, viscous consistency. He seemed fascinated by it all, the changing composition of the eggs. When the hollandaise was seasoned to taste, she asked Jughead to pop the muffins in the oven as she cooked the canadian bacon and the eggs benedict.

She kept bustling, but she told Jughead to sit while she served him with some butter and toast with homemade jam.

“I swear, I was looking at you the entire time. When did you make toast?” he said, gasping.

She tried not to latch on too much at him looking at her “the entire time”. “I’ve got mad kitchen ninja skills. Don’t you know that already?”

As he sat, mystified, she went on to slicing up some fruit and herbs for a morning fruit salad, lemon, honey, and the tiniest pinch of salt.

She finished the salad just as the muffins dinged. She took the muffins out of the oven and started plating her food. She took four plates and assembled three eggs benedict on each plate. With the muffin, Canadian bacon, and eggs assembled, she drizzled her hollandaise on top, styled it with a generous smudge of strawberry jam and parsley (also a nice side flavor to the dish).

The plates looked beautiful and she was satisfied. She assembled more eggs benedict on a serving plate, in case anyone needed second and third helpings, which was almost always the case, particularly with Jughead, who had an unusually big appetite.

She was setting the plate down in front of Jughead just as the back door swung open, with Kevin and Farmer John walking through.

“Just in time, gentlemen,” she said, grinning.

“Holy… this is crazy amazing,” Jughead said. “This is at least $20 a plate in the city.”

“Why do you think we come here so early, silly,” Kevin said, taking his seat and loosening the table napkin. “Thank you, honey, this looks utterly divine.” he said to Betty.

Farmer John settled in and cast her a smile. “Thank you, sweetheart, as always.”

Betty shrugged, reddening and looking back at them bashfully as she took her seat. “Aw, you’re welcome, guys. Jughead helped a lot this time.”

Jughead shot her a withering look. “Barely. Just enough to keep me out of trouble.”

They started eating and the farmhands gave her the usual compliments, but as was common with Jughead, he would show her how much he enjoyed his food, with his eyes, and the droop of his shoulders, and how he seemed to savor every bite. He’d take second and third helpings, and Kevin was long done before he was, just watching Jughead pack it in.

“How do you stay so fit?” Kevin asked, mystified by how much food Jughead was shoving in his face.

Frankly, Betty wanted to know, as well.

Jughead grinned through a mouth full of fruit. “Honestly, I’m not this sedate in the city. The last few days have been the laziest I’ve ever been. I do work out. I’m not a special snowflake that can eat everything and not gain weight.”

Kevin leaned over, clearly intrigued. “So what is it that you do, exactly?”

Betty had to keep from rolling her eyes. Farmer John was already quietly shaking his head.

Jughead, thankfully, did not seem to think anything was amiss. “I go to a boxing gym.”

Betty’s knife slipped on her plate and she had to steel herself from visions of Jughead shirtless and punching a bag, dripping with sweat. She met eyes with Kevin, and she knew Kevin was already there .

“You box?” Kevin asked, mildly.

Jughead shrugged. “Barely. I follow their training workouts, mostly. Back in the day, when I was in college, I took jobs here and there and one of them was at this gym, where--um, a friend of my dad’s from his, erm, motorcycle club trained to fight professionally. He got me the job there, first in maintenance, and then I guess they saw how tall I was, so they started paying me to spar with their fighters for training.”

“So do you still spar for money?” Kevin asked.

“I still spar, but not for money anymore. These days I just do it for the free gym membership. I haven’t had to pay for a gym in years,” Jughead replied with a smirk. “It’s the street hustler in me, I guess. I’m not going to pay hundreds of dollars to go to some obnoxious, fancy fitness club.”

It was no wonder, she realized, he had such great arms and shoulders.

Kevin sighed and leaned his chin in his fists. “So you actually get sweaty with a half-naked guy whilst pounding on one another?”

“Kevin!” Betty cried, banging her hand on the table. She knew this would happen. It didn’t take much around here to get everyone’s mind in the gutter.

Kevin shook his head, a wistful, faraway look on his face. “You know what other sport is like that? Mixed martial arts. Those grappling moves and full mounts . I swear, it is the gayest straight sport ever!”

“Lawd,” Farmer John gasped disapprovingly.

Jughead smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Depositing something in your spank bank, Kevin?”

“Jughead Jones!” Betty cried, her hands flying to her reddening cheeks. “And you, Kevin Keller, are the worst!”

“Oh, don’t get your uptight little panties in a twist,” Kevin huffed. “It isn’t costing Jughead a thing giving me details! You’re bi, aren’t you, Jughead? It’s why you’re not like the other straight folk.”

Betty scowled, for real. “I am not uptight!”

Jughead did not stop smirking.  “I’m afraid I’m closer to boringly straight than anything else, Kevin, but I’m waiting for Betty to give details on how not uptight she is.”

A pang of anxiety shot through Betty, realizing in no small way that she had had a grand total two other sexual encounters in her widowed years. Two. The first was with an immensely attractive Italian who spoke no English. The second was with a quirky and brilliant videogame engineer from one of her in-laws swanky penthouse parties. Waking up in the beds of both lovers and sneaking out of their homes, she had been wracked with so much guilt and shame both times that she always vowed never to do such a thing again.

Now, each time she felt some sexual urge to jump into the sack with some guy she just met, she found herself remembering snippets from her mother’s judgemental words, her supposed undying love for her dead husband, and just her own truth, in general. She had always known herself to be a long-term relationships kind of woman, so any kind of casual encounter felt like she had lost her head. Like she had done something that her body had ordered her to do, regardless of what her heart felt. It was torture, and she didn’t want to be subjected to that again. It just seemed like casual sex was not worth the mental pain and suffering she would inevitably subject herself to.

She recognized that so long as all parties were responsible, there was nothing wrong with one-night affairs, but the misogyny of her parents were more internalized in her than she’d like, and it was still a constant battle to get out of that mentality.

“Farmer John,” she began, flustered. “Is there anything going on with the goats? How are the mamas, doing?”

She figured goats were nice and utterly non-sexual.

“Real smooth, Betty,” Kevin said, aside.

Farmer John shot Kevin a scolding look. “We have foxes, and while they couldn’t handle the bigger goats, I’m afraid they will hurt the babies when they come.”

Great.

Of all the issues they could have, it had to be animal control.

Kevin clapped his hands excitedly.

Betty cast him a withering look. “Now don’t get too excited.”

“What’s so exciting about foxes?” Jughead asked.

Farmer John sighed. “Nothing. Kevin’s excited about the one we always call for these things to get rid of them.”

“I may just call someone else this year, you know,” Betty drawled.

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Please. No one discounts for you like Reggie does. And if you go out on a date with him, he’ll do it for free!”

She frowned. “My going rate’s a little higher than that, Kev. Go ask my pimp.”

Jughead stifled a laugh, but he popped a strawberry in his mouth and his demeanor shifted, arching an eyebrow. “This Reggie guy sounds like a creep.”

“Thank you, dear,” Farmer John said. “I’ve always said so.”

“But Reggie is so goddamn hot,” Kevin gushed, his voice lowering seductively. “And you know that he just plays that whole ‘I’m God’s gift to women’ schtick for laughs. He knows you secretly think it’s funny.”

Betty had to chuckle at that. “So he’s funny, sure, but it is possible for me to find someone of the opposite sex funny and not need to smash him brainless.”

Jughead choked on his coffee.

“ There’s the not uptight Betty I know and love!” Kevin declared.

She shook her head and sighed. “Farmer John, please make an appointment for Reggie to come here. Let me know so I can brace myself.”

“Will do, Betty.”

“Wait a minute,” Kevin said, holding his hands up. “I just realized something. Jughead is awake!”

“Ten points for Hufflepuff,” Jughead said.

“Hufflepuff!” Kevin cried, incredulous.

“There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff,” Betty said appeasingly. “ I’m probably a Hufflepuff.”

“You’re probably part Ravenclaw,” Jughead pointed out. “And you know what the sorting hat says: You get to choose.”

She was way too pleased that he knew Harry Potter.  “Jughead is awake to observe us while we do our farm work.”

Jughead shrugged. “Thought I might help out a little, too. Work off the ten pounds I feel like I’ve already gained.”

“Fabulous!” Farmer John said. “I call dibs. He needs to help me carry the feed, stack some hay, and hold the goats and llamas while I brush them.”

“You brush your goats and llamas?”

“Every day.”

Kevin put his hands to his hips. “Hey, I’m digging trenches today. That’s harder work than your stupid goat brushing.”

Jughead looked to Betty and she realized he was waiting for her to assign him.

“I don’t want you to work too hard.”

“I can handle it,” Jughead said. “I can help Farmer John with the feed and probably put a dent in the hay stacking. Then I can help Kev with the trenches.”

Betty tried her very best to stop imagining Jughead Jones exerting himself to perspiration. Again. “Fine. Sounds like a plan, but I’ll check up on you. I don’t want my guest to pass out from heat and exhaustion. It’s going to be eighty-five degrees out.”

“That won’t happen,” Jughead assured her. “Sun’s out, guns out.” He flexed his arm goofily, fist sticking out in a comical pose.

She muffled a laugh, chastising herself for finding that funnier than it should’ve been.

Kevin eyed her suspiciously but said nothing and all she could do was look away shyly.

The men helped clear out the table and Betty manned the sink, washing and putting plates, pots, and cutlery away in the dishwasher. Kevin kindly set aside the leftovers in proper containers while Farmer John dragged Jughead out to start with the feed.

“Don’t work too hard, Jughead!” Betty cried after him.

He gave her a wave goodbye as he followed Farmer John out.

Betty tried to ignore Kevin who was looking at her pointedly.

“Spit it out, Kevin,” she said, scrubbing a pot with a sponge with unnecessary vigor.

“So, you like him,” Kevin said. It wasn’t a question.

Betty cast him a glare over her shoulder. She didn’t know what annoyed her more, the fact that he was going out of his way to state the obvious or the fact that she couldn’t hide her feelings from him at all.

“It’s just a crush. Get a grip,” she muttered. “And can you blame me?”

Kevin sighed. “Truth. That intellectual bad boy vibe he has going for him is just right up your alley. And he knows the Hogwarts Houses. He’s a Ravenclaw, for sure, but that biker vibe he has going is so Slytherin. So, are you gonna shag him, as they say in merry old England?”

She almost dropped a plate. “Jesus, Kevin!”

“What?”

“He’s a guest!”

“So?”

“I have the reputation of the B&B to think about! I don’t want people thinking that its hostess gives full service!”

Kevin threw back his head and laughed. “I didn’t even think of that! Oh, boy! House of ill repute. Won’t that be exquisite?”

“No, it’s obscene!”

“Oh, please. It’s 2017. Who talks about these things, still?”

“This is Riverdale. People will grab on to a story like that because nobody has anything to do around here. It’s bad enough that some people already think of me as a lonely widow. It’s humiliating when complete strangers either proposition me or try to pair me off.” She sighed and started rinsing off the pots. “And not even that, really… He’s going to come and go, Kev. That is not the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

Kevin sighed, as well. He came over and gave Betty a hug. “I just want you to be happy, hon.”

“I know. And I am happy. All of this makes me happy.” She turned and smiled at him, patting his sleeve with a soapy hand.

“Alright. I’ll shut up about it, but he is very nice to look at,” Kevin said, grinning

“That he is.”  She kissed his cheek. “Now go dig those trenches.”

“Slave driver.”  Kevin kissed her cheek back and let her go, making for the door.

Betty filled up the dishwasher and set it to wash, then she sat on the bench, leaning her elbows back on the kitchen table. Across from her, on the island, were Jughead’s pack of cigarettes. She sighed as she looked at it, remembering the way he held a sliver between his fingers in those pictures she saw on the internet.

Intellectual bad boy, indeed.  

Jughead wasn’t just nice to look at. He was nice to talk to, too. And if she tried her best to stop thinking about him without his shirt on, then maybe she could get out of this in one piece.

*****

Jughead had his shirt off. The trenches were harder work than any of them thought and the weather did not make it easier.

Kevin had his shirt off, too, but she barely noticed that.

Jughead’s body wasn’t obnoxiously sculpted, because he was naturally lanky. Bulk might  not have fit him, but he had definition, nicely cut in his slim frame. Just enough to make him stupidly nice to look at, like the way those farm boys looked hauling around bales of hay, lean and lined.

His tattoos were in full display and the extent of the sleeve tattoo on his right arm became evident. It was a mixture of several different tattoos, all seemingly connected together by one big piece of art. It went up to his shoulder and snaked just a bit towards his chest in the form of a Chinese lung dragon. He had another tattoo on his left breast, and it was of a raven resting on a branch against the light of the moon. But the one that most caught her eye was the latin tattoo inscribed beneath his navel: Audax sed Fidelis. Bold but faithful.

Lord help me, she thought in mild panic. She seriously considered turning around and running away, but he had already seen her walking, and it would be too weird if she did a 180.

So gritting her teeth, she powered through and plastered a pleasant smile on her face.

He waved, sticking his shovel into the ground and leaning on its handle. He was breathing heavily, and he was sweating.

Her grip on her basket tightened painfully as she concentrated on what she came out here to do.

“I brought refreshments,” she said, sitting on a nearby stack of baled hay and setting her basket down.

“You’re an angel,” Jughead said, climbing out of his trench and collapsing at her feet beside her. He leaned back against the hay, knees up, and craned his neck to look up at her.

She couldn’t help but stare down at his beautiful blue eyes and smile at him. “Fresh, cold raspberry iced tea. I’ll spike it if you like. I brought tequila.”

He chuckled. “Virgin is fine.”

She could not , for the life of her, prevent a blush from rising in her cheeks at that. She just hoped he would attribute it to the heat of the sun. She pulled out a carafe and poured him a glass full of tea, fresh raspberries and cubes of ice floating to the top. She plucked a leaf of mint from her bunch and garnished the tea with it.

“No mason jars?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

She rolled her eyes. “I thought I’d spare this farm from one or two cliches.”

“Please tell me there’s alcohol in there!” Kevin cried from another trench.

“Kevin,” Betty cooed. “At ten thirty in the morning?” She threw Jughead a wink and he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Kevin frowned. “It’s five o’clock in the afternoon somewhere.”

“I think that’s the first lesson you ever taught me,” she muttered, pulling out her bottle of tequila and waving it at Kevin.  

Kevin sighed with relief. “Were I straight, I would throw you over my shoulder and run away with you. Thank you!” He lumbered out of the trench and sat by her on the hay.

She poured him her iced tea and mixed a capful of tequila in his mug. He waved his hand in a circling motion and she sighed, pouring in a bit more.

“Honey, please,” Kevin said, exasperated. “We’re almost done, so it’s practically time to celebrate.”

“Jeez, alright.” She poured in a significant amount more.

Kevin took a hefty gulp of his drink and let out a whoop. “Now that’s what I call a refreshment! Where’s Farmer John at? He should be drinking with us.”

“I was going to him next.”

Kevin shook his head. “Uh-uh. Sit, my queen. I’ll go get him.” He hurried off, leaving Betty to wonder if her friend hadn’t left her with Jughead, in his state of hotness, on purpose.

“Did you want to smoke?” she asked Jughead, who suddenly appeared to avert his eyes from her, as if he had been caught staring.

“Left my pack in the house,” he muttered, drinking from his glass.

“Well, let’s see what else I have in my basket of wonders,” she said, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he left on her kitchen counter.

He looked so relieved, then he looked at her with pure, unbridled adoration. “You are amazing, you know that?” He took the pack from her and shook out a sliver. He took it with his lips and began patting his jeans for what was probably his lighter. “You wouldn’t hap--”

She flipped his lighter open and a flame rose from its flint.

He gave her the most unholy look as he took her hands in his to steady her and light his cig.

All she could do not to lose it was concentrate on slowing the hammering of her heart.

Smoke puffed from his lips, and with his cigarette properly lit, she snapped his lighter shut and extended it to him. He grinned but shook his head. “After the digging. I don’t want to ruin it.” He gave her the pack as well.

He began to get up and she put a hand on his bare shoulder to keep him from leaving.

“You don’t have to move on my account,” she said gently, willing her hand to move from the warmth of his skin.

The muscles on his shoulder tensed for a second. She removed her hand and he settled back down on his seat.

“I don’t want to blow smoke in your face,” he said, though mostly to explain. “If I’m getting cancer, I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind the smoke. I’m a farmer, remember? Salt of the earth and all that.”

He smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, honestly curious.

He nodded in the direction of the house and the soap factory. “I have a great respect for farmers and what they do, but you can’t tell me that a farmer’s daughter designed the interior of that house and thought of making signature soap and cheese while tending to the farm animals.”

She drummed her fingers against her knee. “My parents were not farmers.”

Jughead nodded. “Nothing wrong if they were, but yeah, I figured.”

She tilted a tight-lipped smile. “I grew up in New York City. My mother was a TV anchor and my father designed and engineered cars for General Motors, working his way to the top. When I got into Syracuse on an Interior Design scholarship, they were pretty sure I was on my way to becoming the toast of New York high society. But I met Trev and they didn’t approve of him. At all.”

“Why not?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “The reason they gave everyone was that he was a distraction and that his college course, Agriculture and Farming, wasn’t exactly going to land him any high-powered jobs in New York. That was bad enough.” She took a deep breath and went on. “But I think they were particularly difficult because Trev was black. They never outrightly brought that up, because God knows--there’s nothing worse than being racist except being called one, right? They tried to keep their prejudices in the down low, even with me, but then Trev died and they were so indifferent to his death. They acted as if I’d finally gotten rid of my baggage and I could move on with my life. If they only knew how my life stopped that day Trev died, then maybe they’d understand why I was so angry with them and why I cut them out of my life.”

Jughead’s gaze softened with compassion. “I’m sorry, Betts.”

She shrugged. “I don’t speak to them anymore. My sister and brother still do, and my parents have no objections to their lifestyles. Polly married the heir to the Blossom maple syrup fortune and Chic’s rising in the ranks of the FBI.”

Jughead blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”

She nodded, supposing that he was surprised about the Blossom connection and the FBI one as well. “Seriously.”

But then he said, “ You’re their definition of black sheep? That’s absolutely messed up. I look at you and you’re the definition of successful.”

She blinked then chuckled, realizing that he was reacting to the family dynamic, not the connections. “I’ve long since figured out it’s my parents who are crazy and that there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” he said, pressing a hand on her knee.

She smiled down at him gratefully. “And so everyone has told me. I am halfway to believing it.”

“Let me tell you about the biggest screw up that ever lived.”

“Are you going to tell me you were a screw up? Because I won’t believe you.”

He chuckled, sticking his cigarette between his lips and leaning his head back against the hay. He looked so gorgeous doing this that she had to check herself from sighing at the luscious strands of black hair that were tumbling becomingly over his face and forehead.

“I won’t bore you with the details,” he said through the cigarette.

She scoffed. “Please. You are the most exciting thing in these parts the last few months if not the entire year.”

He took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out some smoke. “I’m going to lower those expectations right this minute.”

“I doubt you’ll succeed.”

He smirked, meeting her skeptical gaze with his amused one. “I was in a gang the moment I turned 13. My dad was the leader of it and did all sorts of shady shit. My mom took me and my sister with her to get away from his influence when I was 15, and stupid me, I resented the shit out of her. I mean, even like that, dad was my hero, so I told her dad needed my help and that I needed to get back to him. She wasn’t sympathetic to my cause—told me that if I did that, I could forget any thought of going back to her. I called her bluff and went back to dad and it was only then I realized mom left his sorry ass because he was a drunk and was going to jail. So there I was,16 and homeless because my mom refused to take me back, living where I can find shelter. I was a screw up.”

“You were 16. Young and confused,” she said gently. She was mildly horrified that his mother didn’t hunt him down later on and take him back, but she didn’t want to judge his mom. “But look at you now--a successful published writer! I take it you dodged the claws of the gang somehow.”

He shrugged. “The gang wanted to take me in, which would’ve been the end of me, I think. My best friend Archie convinced me to stay out of the gang and got his dad to take me into their home. That worked for a few months until social services got wind of it. They transferred me to a foster family, which happened to be the Lodges, of Hiram Lodge fame. They had a daughter, Veronica, who is still my best friend to this day--she and Archie met, fell in love, and now my two best friends are married. Somehow, in all of that, I landed a scholarship in NYU’s writing program, and here I am.”

She tilted her head at him. “Not a screw up at all. I’m sorry you were homeless, though.” She didn’t know why she had latched on to that. Maybe because she always believed people should have some sort of safe haven.

“Yeah, me too, but it took that to make me realize who my true friends were, and it wasn’t the gang. This dragon? It used to be a snake. I was still running with the Southside Serpents a bit when I got it. I had to pay a lot to get another artist to turn the snake into this.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He cocked a smile. “Yeah, it is. Do you have any tattoos?”

She grinned, but she did blush. “Maybe.”

He wagged his eyebrows up and down. “Is it on your lower back?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “No! Definitely not there. It’s in latin,” she confessed, blushing.

“Oh, yeah? I like a good latin inscription myself.” And of course, the way he said it heavily implicated that this was something they had in common, like the proof was in both their skins.

She looked over her shoulder, hoping to God Kevin wouldn’t see what she was about to do. When the coast seemed to be clear, she lifted her blouse up to show him her midsection. The tattoo was draw right along her ribs, just right underneath her left breast. He could see some of her bra now, but she didn’t care. The inscription said Uno die tempus, set against a backdrop of a web of tree branches in the spring, like looking up from a forest floor and seeing the first evidence of life after winter.

“One day at a time,” he reads quietly. “Did you get that after your husband died?”

She nodded, smiling sadly. “I needed to remind myself. Of pushing forward.”

“How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, smoothing her blouse down. “He got thrown off a horse. He broke his neck and died on impact.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Accidents happen on farms. Kevin didn’t leave my side for weeks after. I think he thought I was a suicide risk or something. I don’t think I felt anything that time. I was just in total shock, but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t wrong. He didn’t even leave when my sister and brother were here to keep me company. It was almost like I only knew I was getting better when Kevin started leaving my sorry ass alone.”

“He’s a good friend,” Jughead said.

She nodded. “He is. Don’t tell him this, but if he threatens to leave me, I will triple his salary.”

He laughed, pretending to zip up his lips, lock it, and throw away the key.

She grins.

They heard voices behind them, and as she looked over her shoulder, she saw Farmer John and Kevin. She smiled and waved at them.

“How are you doing now?” Jughead suddenly asked. “Has it gotten easier?”

She thought about it, knowing in her heart that it has gotten much better, but she often felt like she didn’t want to admit it. It was that guilt she had of forgetting things; things she thought she would always remember about Trev. Even now the denial was resting at the tip of her tongue, ready to be said, but as she looked into Jughead’s earnest eyes, like he really wanted to know, as if her answer mattered, a tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Yes. It’s--it’s gotten a lot easier, Jughead.”

She turned again at the sound of Kevin calling her, unable to keep her gaze locked in Jughead’s intense one. It felt too much right now, with the beating of her heart pounding in her ears.

********

There was a lot to be said about farm work. Jughead has had workouts in training gyms that have sent seasoned fighters throwing up in buckets, but working the farm all week had his muscles aching in places he never knew could possibly hurt.

Farm work was harder than any workout he’d had. Kevin’s work was mostly brute force--digging, hammering, and lifting--, and Farmer John’s work was an exertion on restraint--holding goats firmly, but carefully--but he hadn’t expected that the things Betty did would cause him to bleed, scratch, and bruise.

Harvesting crop, though in a relatively smaller plot of land, was a lot of bending, crouching, and pulling. His calves ached, his hands got blistered, and he cut his fingers on the garden knife she had given him to use. Add that to the cow that grazed him with a kick on the thigh when he tried to milk it and chasing runaway chickens to stick them back in the coop, and he felt quite banged up.

He still wanted to keep helping out in the farm, and writing was still a priority, but he decided he’d take a couple of days off writing to read some books from Betty’s pile of recommendations.

He took his favorite spot on the porch, a cup of coffee nearby and a cigarette between his lips, and read. He was constantly aware of Betty flitting in the background, whether she fell within his line of sight or she was close enough that he smelled her perfume, he knew when she was there and he liked that closeness.

He had decided a couple of days ago that it was stupid to fight the crush he had on her. Resistance was basically futile and he felt absurd, being near thirty and still falling into the same trap of turning away from developing relationships when there was no discernible reason to run.

So fuck it, if she knew he liked her, then so be it. It was true and if she liked the idea, perhaps they could take it from there. Life was too short to put roadblocks where there didn’t need to be one.

He was halfway deep into the YA book The Lie Tree when she emerged from the house in a pretty white dress with floral trim and brown booties.

He couldn’t help but look up from his book. She looked so fresh and beautiful that he really couldn’t help but stare and say, “You look nice. Going somewhere?”

She smiled, her cheeks glowing pink. “Just going into town for some shopping. Things like honey, office supplies, crafting materials, and all sorts of things that I can’t actually make.”

He wasn’t a huge fan on shopping, but the thought of spending all day with her, watching her shop, was so oddly appealing that he was sorely tempted to invite himself.

So when she suddenly asked, “Would you like to--?”

“Happy to go with you,” he said, grabbing his cigarettes and pocketing them swiftly. He didn’t bother to put the book back inside the house. He just figured he’d bring the book with him.

She looked positively amused. “Feeling a bit of cabin fever, are we?”

He supposed he could’ve played a little hard to get, but sure, he’ll lead with the cabin fever thing. “Maybe. This is research, mainly. I want to see how a farmer shops.”

She looked at him askance and he smirked. “I’m just messing with you. I like your company.”

Her arched eyebrow transitioned to a look of surprise. When all he did was stand there, waiting and not taking it back, she still seemed a little unsure, though she smiled back.

“I like your company too, Jughead,” she said. “Come on, then.”

As he walked with her to her truck, he wondered belatedly if his Ramones t-shirt and leather bracelet didn’t look too grungy next to her pretty white dress, then again, many people would look grungy next to her.

They got into her truck and as Betty pulled out of her property, she told him that the drive would be about 40 minutes, two towns over.

Jughead offered to drive, which she graciously thanked him for, but she insisted that he shouldn’t be driving her around.

He leaned his elbow on the window, watching the scenery shift between farmland, grazing animals, and trees. The cool wind hit his face and he relished the peace and quiet that seemed to shelter them from all sides.

“If I didn’t have my bike, I’d be wondering if you’d be willing to drive me around forever,” he said, shifting his gaze to her.

She cast him an amused smile. “How long are you planning to stay at Riverdale Farms?”

He shrugged. “For as long as it’ll take to write what I can write from it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Weeks?”

“Months?” he replied. “Who knows?”

She looked mildly astonished. “Is this what you do? Find places to write to finish your book? How does that work out for your place of residence?”

“Easily, it turns out,” he said, shifting his gaze back to the rolling road ahead. “I don’t own, I rent. I let my lease run out on my place and then headed up here. My accommodations here costs just about the same as my rental apartment in the city.”

She glanced at him, perhaps figuring out if he was kidding. He wasn’t.

“What if you didn’t like this place? Like, what if I was a horrible host with rude farmhands?”

He chuckled at that impossible thought. “I don’t know. I would’ve left it and crashed at my best friend's’ place while I look for somewhere else to stay, I guess. It’s not that hard. When you’ve been homeless like I have, none of this is scary.”

She took a deep breath and gave him a sidelong smile. “What other places have you lived in to write?”

He shrugged. “A week here or there. Paris, Amsterdam, the Caribbean, Japan, a few other states in the US, but honestly, I never gave up the lease on my apartment in New York until now. This is a first for me.”

She said nothing for a while and he could almost hear the gears turning in her head. “You running away from something this time?”

He smirked, impressed by her theory. “Why would you guess that?”

“Nobody lives in this podunk town unless they want to get away,” she replied with a chuckle. “When the most exciting thing in the town is me and the B&B, you know you’ve hit Snoozeville.”

“I don’t know. I find you incredibly interesting, Betty.”

“Don’t change the subject. Am I right?”

He said nothing for a moment, grinning mostly to himself. “How much of me did you Google?”

She put a hand up as if to prove she had nothing to hide. “I told you, I don’t dig too deep.”

“At least they’ve stopped talking about me online,” he drawled.

“I am so curious right now, I may just pull over on the side of the road until you tell me.”

He laughed. “Just keep driving. I’ll tell you. About four months ago, I broke up with my girlfriend of seven months. The relationship was over before I pulled the plug--should’ve done it sooner, then maybe we both could’ve gotten out of it unscathed.”

“Oh,” she said, quietly. “Did you love her?”

It took all his willpower not to laugh. “Eh. It was fun and she was smart, but it wasn’t love. Not even at the beginning. She was an actor. A famous one.”

That caused her eyebrow to arch. “Who?”

“Trula Twyst.”

She gasped. “Trula Twyst was your girlfriend? I love her! She’s an awesome actor. Big social justice defender and all that. She’s got a great fuck-it attitude.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

She made a face. “Sorry for rambling. Got carried away. And I’m sorry that didn’t work out for you.”

“No love lost.”

“It ended four months ago, you said?”

He nodded. “I broke up with her. I think we both wanted it, but it’s always a bit more challenging for the rich and famous to break up with people, so they kind of put it off. I just went ahead and did it for us. She asked if she could tell the public that she broke up with me. I don’t care about that shit so I said, sure. What the hell, right? But her people ran away with that shit and pretty soon, everyone believed she dumped me because I was a lying, cheating asshole.”

“What!” Betty cried.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She bit her bottom lip tentatively. “But you weren’t, right?”

He cast her a tired grin. “I may be an asshole sometimes, but I’m never a lying cheating one.” He held out his hand to count off with his fingers. “One, it’s way too much work; two, it’s too fucking expensive, and three, I’m just not like that. I don’t treat women like shit, and cheating is the shittiest of shitty things. But somehow she had everyone convinced and it was brutal for weeks. Complete strangers would yell at me for hurting Trula. I got threatening mail. I got bullied online. It got so bad that there were times I missed getting beat up by football players in high school. At least those were one and done. This was a constant barrage. New York City refused to let me write in peace.”

“Oh, Jug. I’m sorry she treated you like shit. I’m sorry people are complete fuckwads.”

He laughed. “Fuckwads?”

“Douchenozzles? Jizzburgers? I could go on.”

He had to appreciate her for her outrage on his behalf. “I don’t even know what has them so convinced. Do I even look like some Hollywood playboy? I didn’t even know she was an actor when we were introduced. I just thought she was cute and funny.”

She didn’t reply immediately, but she did put her hand on his arm. “Jughead, people are jerks, sometimes. You’re here now so you don’t have to think about them. They’re just jealous that you’re actually successful and attractive enough to fit their expectation of Hollywood playboy.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m attractive?”

He could see her cheeks turning pink, but she just shrugged. “Well, yes. Don’t you think so? You should. You have a very nice face, Jughead.”

He tried not to be too pleased at the casual compliment, and yet he wasn’t accustomed to handling it, either. He grew up surrounded by the likes of Archie and Veronica, two devastatingly attractive people. People tended to look past him to see them, and that was totally fine by him.

“Sweet of you. Thanks,” he muttered, looking out of his window. He realized her hand was gone and he craved it. “It’s settling down, it seems. The online stuff, I mean. If there’s nothing on the first page of Google, then that’s a sign that people are moving on.”

“So does that mean you’ll be going back to the city soon?”

He shook his head. “Not likely. Before coming here, there were still too many people who recognized me for the wrong reasons. I think they’ll keep getting in my business until Trula starts seeing someone else. Don’t know when. Don’t care. I’m all settled here. Whatever happens, people will eventually get on the next news cycle and I’ll be completely forgotten by the glitterati as well as her fans, just in time for my readers to buy my newest book. Meanwhile, I’m out here escaping that nonsense.”  He gave her a grateful grin. “I’m doing a lot of writing here. I’m not switching gears when everything’s going well.”

She reached over the console and put a hand on his arm again, squeezing lightly. “I’m glad you like it here. And I’m glad you’re able to write.”

He stared at her hand. Felt the pressure of it, and he wondered ridiculously if he should draw his troubles with Trula out, but of course he wasn’t like that, and when she took her hand away, he realized that he was now reduced to scheming to get her attention. “You’ll probably grow sick of me. You’ll have to kick me out.”

She chuckled. “Like I said… you’re doing me a favor. I like having company in the house.”

At the moment, he was happy to be that company. He stole glances at her as she drove.

Her hair was down this time, and some of it was blowing in the wind. The skin of her arms glowed under the rays of the sun. Her skirt was kind of riding up her thigh and he was reminded of the day she showed him her tattoo, and some of her lacy bra showed beneath her shirt when she lifted it to show him.

He had never tried so hard to keep his dick from reacting.

Right now, with her looking very fine driving the truck, he was forcing himself to think about the most nonsexual thoughts he could conjure: Moldy pizza under Archie’s bed, picking up dog poop, Veronica having a temper tantrum at Manolo Blahnik’s, misuse of affecting vs. effecting.

She caught a pothole. She made a face and whispered her apologies, but he barely noticed because her skirt rode even higher, showing even more tantalizing patches of skin. He tore his eyes away to stare out of the window miserably. He doubted a cold shower would help him tonight.

Honestly, he probably wouldn’t be the first guy to jack off to Riverdale Farm’s alluring-as-fuck hostess.

When they arrived at the shopping strip, Jughead took in the quaint, small town shops and restaurants, noting the coffee shops and the pretty Italian trattorias.

His eyes trailed to Betty who had a grocery bag slung over her shoulder.  Would it be weird to take her out to dinner?

“There’s an ATM at the corner if you need cash,” she said.

“I’m fine. I’ve got a duffel bag full of money at the B&B.”

She threw him a mildly scolding look for teasing.

He laughed softly. “I haven’t spent a thing since getting here.”

She rolled her eyes and grinned. “Okay, so I’ve got places to go--do you want to walk with me or do you want to wander on your own? We could just meet back here after an hour.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “Research, remember?”

She slapped his arm with the back of her hand, lightly. He grinned broadly at that. She was warming to him.

He followed behind her, noting the flower shop that they passed.

There was quite a crowd on the sidewalk and he realized it was because it was Saturday. He supposed it was harder to keep track of the days when he was busy like he had been.

She looked over her shoulder at him as she pushed through and he cocked a smile at her reassuringly. He saw an opening in front of her and swallowing his nerve, he put a hand on her back and guided her lightly. She let him. He was a head taller than a lot of people. He could see better where they could pass.

They finally got through the throng.

“Busy, today,” she breathed, heading straight for the honey shop nearby.

The shop owner greeted her warmly, coming out from behind the counter to attend to Betty. Jughead was introduced and Sylvia, the store owner, seemed to appraise him. For what, he didn’t know. She was nice, however, inviting both him and Betty to the back.

Betty’s batch wasn’t the same as the more commercial containers. The jars she gave Betty were bigger, and Betty was allowed to sample them before paying.

Sylvia gave Jughead two sample sticks, dripping honey on the edge of both from different batches. “This one is local. Try it and tell us if you like it better than this other one from three towns over.”

Jughead didn’t know there were different tastes of honey. He tried both and found a surprising difference.

“The local stuff’s pretty deep. More flowery. The other one’s sharper. Tangier.”

Sylvia seemed pleased, nodding. “The local bees live off a diet of wildflowers. The out-of-towners have a soft drink bottling factory nearby. Mountain Dew, I believe. I’m not knocking it. This stuff is good for mixed drinks. The other is better for baclavas and yoghurt desserts.”

Betty nodded, patting his arm softly in approval. “My guest has a discerning palette. I think I’ll bring him around more often.”

“You’re not going to get an argument from me,” Sylvia said, winking at him.

His face felt embarrassingly hot and Betty giggled softly beside him.

“I’ll take both bottles, Sylvia,” she said.

“Excellent. I know you’re still shopping, so I’ll hold these for you at the front. Just pick ‘em up when you’re ready to go.”

“Thank you. Yeah, would rather not haul those around the whole time.”

Betty gave her thanks and they both made their way out of the shop to go to the next store.

“Well, you made an impression,” she told him, grinning. “You have a knack for flavor.”

“One of my tongue’s many talents.” He waggled his eyebrows.

She gasped and laughed. “Juggie! Someone’s been spending too much time with Kevin!”

Juggie. He liked that nickname. And her cheeks were pink. He absolutely liked that he could do that to her.

She led the way to another shop, and another. He watched her at each one, liking the way she interacted with the shop owners, marveled at the meticulous way she made her selections. He carried her bags. And he touched her. At every opportunity. He couldn’t help himself.

Little nudges here or there on her arm to get her attention. A light tap on her shoulder. Maybe an entire hand. He had touched her elbow once and he could have sworn she gave a jolt. It was perhaps why, for the first time in his life, he liked the crowds, because that meant he could sidle up closer to her. Close enough to get a whiff of her shampoo.

Many of the locals recognized her and some of the guys who knew her flirted and practically turned tricks to make her laugh. He didn’t blame them in the slightest.

He found himself buying a couple of packs of craft beer and a few more packs of cigarettes, but then she talked about the beer, explaining to him who made them locally and how. He watched her lips move, but he could barely make out the words because he couldn’t stop thinking about how soft her lips looked.

She didn’t notice immediately that her words were not registering, because he would nod and respond mildly. But when she asked a question, expecting an answer, and all he said was “Yeah,” she had cast him a withering look.

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

He shook his head, unembarrassed and still not looking away from her lips and the animated gleam in her eyes. “Not in the least.”

It was only then she seemed to realize that she had his full attention and she looked away shyly. “You’re silly,” she said weakly, walking ahead of him.

They went to a couple more stores and then they were heading back to the truck. They deposited their things on the truck bed, and Jughead hurriedly volunteered to pick up the honey.

“I’m sure Sylvia will remember you,” she said with a laugh.

Jughead took to the task immediately, picking up the jars of honey then taking a detour to the flower shop. He picked up a nice set of long stemmed summer blooms that he thought she’d like.  

When he got to the truck, he set aside the honey and hopped into the passenger seat.

“I thought of you when I saw these,” he said, giving them to her. He felt a little bit like a teenager, giving flowers to a girl he liked. “Thanks for bringing me here. Maybe I did have a touch of cabin fever. I enjoyed myself.”

She certainly looked startled, but then she smiled gratefully. “Juggie, you’re sweet. They’re beautiful and thoughtful. Thank you.”

She took them and she peeked between the blooms to look at him. He saw a flash of something that definitely sent an unholy jolt through his body.  

When she leaned over the console, he had a split second impulse to sink his fingers into her hair and pull her in for a kiss, but he hesitated, and his nerve got washed away by the light kiss that landed on his cheek.

She smiled at him broadly. “I’ll put this in water the moment we get home,” she said, setting the flowers between them and starting the truck.

She began to drive, and he sat there letting the feel of her lips against his skin wash over him like water. He felt for a moment like he was drowning, breathless in the tide of her golden hair cascading down her shoulder, the graceful lift of her arms as she moved, the shifting of her skirt as the truck’s gears changed, and the scent of sweet lavender lingering in his senses.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Like Fiery Cherry Pie

“I’ve comforted many a broken heart with Cherry Pie ala mode. The contrast of warm crust and filling with cold vanilla ice cream is a sensory treat, perhaps sending a burst of endorphins when we need it most.

Cherry pie is sweet and tart, with a bold red filling. It is the color and taste of flame and passion. When emotions are strong and we’re caught in its raging heat, you must fight fire with fire.  The last thing you want is a pale and weak cherry pie, so let’s make sure your pie lives up to your heart’s expectations…”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

Jughead enjoyed having dinner with Betty.  Her dinners were often hearty, simple meals that were delicious, comforting, and satisfying. Her stews were his favorite, ladled over varying forms of carbs, like couscous, rice, or potatoes. She often had a vegetable dish on the side, often perfectly paired with her main course.

She always offered wine, which he always declined. She never got any for herself, either, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t feel like it or whether it was because he wasn’t having any.

Her desserts were amazing, from pies, to cakes, to pudding. He looked forward to dessert like a kid, because it was always a treat.

But what he liked most about dinner? It was the conversation. When it was just the two of them, their inner nerds took flight, and they went down the rabbit hole of movies new and old, or books and the characters they liked best. They talked about TV shows and their various flaws and foibles, as well as everything that was awesome about them. They debated plot points and cliffhangers, season endings and game changers. They laughed about stupid songs and gushed over the good ones.

Through it all, Jughead learned things about her that he found fascinating, like the fact that she took ballet lessons for several years, stopping only because her mother discovered that it could make her feet look hideous.

“I raged for weeks about it,” she had told him, sighing, while they were putting the dinner plates away. “Like, so what if my feet became ugly? They were covered most of the time, anyway, and I loved to dance. But she was my mom. She paid for those lessons and I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her. My ballet career was done, my feet recovered, and that was the end of that.”

“God, you must’ve been a vision,” he said, wistfully, almost in a whisper. “Did you have to wear a tutu?”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, a deep sadness lingering in her gaze. “I did. Those costumes were exquisite, and Jesus, we were all skinny, probably malnourished little things. The smaller your waist, the higher you flew. It probably wasn’t all that healthy, but it was so… well, it meant a lot to me. I gave up those carbs and fats because dancing was divine.”

“I wouldn’t give up my food for dancing,” he said, flatly.

She shrugged. “It was a different time. I wouldn’t do that anymore, but I don’t need to fly anymore. I’m pretty happy being grounded.”

He noted the wistfulness in her voice, realizing that she hadn’t just given up a hobby—she had given up something she felt passionate about. His heart went out to her. “Do you miss it?”

She nodded, thoughtfully. “All the time.”

He had wondered, then, if there was any dancing in these parts.

Jughead did not have nice snippets like that to share. His stories were grittier. More felonious. He had admitted to her that he once stole a car for his gang, that he almost got caught by the police, but when he got away, he felt a rush like nothing he’d felt before.

“I was never a thrill junkie,” he had said to her over dessert. “But that was a thrill high. I knew it for what it was and I got scared of it--that I might like it too much. Addictive behavior ran in my blood, after all. It was the first and last time.”

She leaned over the table, regarding him with curiosity. “How many more situations were you in that you had to steer yourself in the right direction?”

“I don’t know,” he said, blowing a breath through his lips. “Too many. I guess I’m just lucky that in spite of my dad being a raging alcoholic, he taught me right from wrong pretty well.”

Her eyes had trailed to the necklace hanging from his neck. “That necklace you always have on… what is it?”

He realized she had asked because he had clasped it in his hand. He held it out and at first glance, it looked slightly mangled and unidentifiable, but as he held it up in the light, her eyebrow quirked in recognition.

“It’s a bullet,” she breathed, taking it in her hand for a closer inspection.

She was close enough to him to feel the warmth radiating from her body, but he was wearing the necklace as she inspected it, so he really had no slack to move away.

“They fished that bullet out of my father,” he said, watching her face as she looked at the pendant. “He’d been in jail when it happened. Some riot from inside. Before he got shot, I didn’t even want to speak to him. After that, he was in a coma for a while and the doctor contacted me, telling me that when they thought they were going to lose him, he had asked for me, his kid.”

She looked up at him with clear compassion. “Heck of a thing to hear. What did you say?”

He shrugged. “Nothing at first. There were too many years that he let me down, but out of obligation I went to see him. The doctors gave me the bullet, and while I was there and dad was just lying there, definitely sober, I just remembered the times he was there, no matter how mired he was in the gang, or even when he was drunk. He tried to be there for me even as his demons dragged him away.”

“How are you and your dad now?”

He nodded affirmatively. “Good. He’s been out of jail for many years now. We keep in touch pretty regularly. He’s been sober. I see him on holidays. Sometimes we go on holidays. This bullet kind of brought us back together, and he knew it. I gave it back to him when he got out of jail and that first Christmas since jail, he gave me the bullet back as a necklace.“ He smirked, slightly embarrassed at the contrast between her stories and his in juxtaposition. “I recognize that exchanging bullets between father and son is so very Biker Gang lore, but that’s my truth, and it was a step forward for me and dad. It can’t erase the past, but I’ll take what’s up ahead.”

She smiled at him then, pressing her hand to his arm. “I love that story, Jughead. Thank you for sharing it. It’s exactly the kind of movie that would have had me ugly sobbing in the corner all night.”

He laughed at that. “You think?”

She nodded. “Oh, definitely.”

It was about two and a half weeks since he arrived at this B&B and he felt more at home here than he ever did at Archie’s, or being fostered by the Lodges. While he had been grateful for Archie and Veronica’s love and friendship, there was still a kind of otherness that came from the feeling of being shoved there by circumstance--because he had nowhere else to go. He always felt like a burden, and he kept apologizing to them, to their parents, to their dogs, even. It wasn’t their fault, but it was a fact that he wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

With the B&B, it was completely different. For one thing, he was paying for his accommodations, so at the very least, he had bought his spot there, but while Betty did make an effort to make his stay comfortable, his work at the farm seemed to have made him one of them. And he wanted to keep it that way, because Betty was fast becoming his friend. She was calling him Juggie, and she was inviting him to watch TV with her in her living room, and she would touch his arm, or shoulder, or even his hand.

The farmhands told him their personal stories, like the time Farmer John first realized he was gay and his church going parents had sent him to some Jesus camp for the summer to rid him of it, or the time Kevin told him about coming out to his sheriff dad, about how terrified he was, only to realize that his dad was amazing, because Sheriff Keller had no problem with it at all.

He felt close to them, and he felt closer to Betty. She had told him constantly that this was his house too while he was there, and he realized he believed it when one evening, he had gone down to the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich, as if he really owned the joint.

This place was the best thing to happen to him in years, and as he watched Betty dancing gracefully in her kitchen to some modern music as she cleaned, eyes closed and thinking he had gone to bed, he marveled at how this never would’ve happened to him in the city, where he could walk into a kitchen and have a housemate lost in their own thoughts and dancing like no one was looking.

He leaned his shoulder against the kitchen entrance, watching her do little steps and twirls with a mop in her hand, her hips swaying, her neck arching like a swan, her body curling like flowing water in what he could only figure was technically not ballet but was heavily influenced by it. It was breathtaking.

He shifted and made a sound, and she whirled in surprise. Her face went red, her mouth dropping open in speechless shock. “How long--”

“God, I can watch you do that all day,” he said unhurriedly, his voice low, his eyes flickering all over the lines of her lithe frame. It wasn’t desire, exactly, but he had wanted to hold her like that. Dancing just like that. He could see it, his palm fitting into the arch of her back, his hands circling the curves of her waist, his fingers around her nape. “Never appreciated ballet until now.”

It was the truth. She was opening his eyes to many things, and ballet was the least likely of them, but here he was, getting it.

She still looked embarrassed, but now she was smiling. “Maybe I’ll bring you to the ballet someday.”

He looked forward to that invite. She had no idea.

******

He was writing on the porch again, but this time, Betty wasn’t busy. She was on the swing, legs up and reading his first book. She was more than halfway through.

He wasn’t fussed by it. At least that’s what he told himself. His published books were baked and they were what they were. Both books had been well received--they were best sellers after all, and even if he had gotten the couple of odd bad reviews, his years as an author had toughened his hide. He could take a bad review as well as a good one.

Betty’s opinion would matter. He just knew it would. But right now she was reading it and he couldn’t dwell on something that hasn’t happened yet. He wrote as he waited.

Kevin was out that day and Farmer John, as was his wont, stayed with the goats.

It was while he was wrestling with a climactic scene in his book that he heard the distant roar of an engine.

He looked up from his laptop and saw a cloud of dust rising from behind a bold red sportscar. It was pealing through Betty’s dirt road furiously, and as it came closer, he was afraid that it was going to barrel right into the house.

Betty stood from her swing, staring at this car. She looked calm, but she was notably surprised. “What the--”

The car did slow, but it slid to a halt in front, sending dust puffing around them.

Jughead waved the dust away from his face, and as it cleared, someone emerged from the passenger side.

Her hair was alarmingly red. She had the blood red lips of a vampire goddess and her curvy body was wrapped in an expensive-looking, clingy dress. Her heels were towering, and her bag looked pricier than the monthly  cost of owning an old rental apartment in New York city.

She stormed up the porch, and Betty barely got out the name “Cheryl” when the new arrival gave an anguished wail.

“The bitch dumped me, Betty! She dumped me in fucking Paris!”

Betty’s mouth dropped open. When Cheryl--as he assumed was her name--started to cry, Betty sprung to action.

“Oh. Oh, honey, don’t!” she threw her arms around the redhead's shoulders as she shot Jughead a look. She jerked her head in the direction of the front door.

Jughead immediately got up from his perch and opened the screen door for the ladies to pass through.

Betty lead Cheryl to the living room and sat both of them down. Cheryl sobbed passionately on Betty’s shoulder and Jughead asked with his eyes what he should do.

Betty motioned for him to sit, and while he did not want to do that, he was unequal to denying Betty whatever she wanted him to do. So he took a seat on one of the sofa chairs, and watched Betty soothe Cheryl in a comforting voice.

“She did it at the Louis Vuitton store at Champ Elysee, Betty. My absolute favorite place in the world and she fucking ruined it for me!”

“That’s horrible, Cheryl!” she gasped. “What a witch. She couldn’t have waited to get out of the store?”

“That’s what I said!” she screeched, crumpling the front of Betty shirt as she sobbed into it.

It occurred to Jughead at that point that this woman looked powerfully familiar. She wasn’t some random crazy lady from the city, this was a somebody, and he could only really comprehend the reality that Betty was a refuge to all, downtrodden or privileged, rich or poor.

“Cheryl,” Betty said, rubbing her back with pure affection. “You’re better than this. You’re an Empress. You rule the goddamn world! If she ruined Louis Vuitton in Champ Elysee for you, find another place in Paris to love!”

Jughead fought valiantly to stifle a smirk.

Betty’s words seemed to have worked because Cheryl nodded, accepting the tissue Betty gave her and dabbing her eyes as her sobs waned slightly. “You’re right. You’re so fucking right, Betty.”

She nodded. “I know I am. How about I get you some cherry pie ala mode?”

“You know I love your cherry pie ala mode,” Cheryl replied, sniffing.  

“Okay. Would you like some music while you wait?”

Cheryl nodded.

“Alexa,” Betty said out loud to her Echo device. “Play Lily Allen’s—“

“Don’t you fucking dare play Lily Allen!” Cheryl cried hysterically. “I can’t handle her anger right now! My heart’s too broken!”

“Alright!” Betty yelled over her high-pitched scream. “How about Katy Perry?”

Cheryl sniffed and nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

Betty didn’t even roll her eyes. She just asked Alexa to play Katy Perry and the upbeat music started to play.  

“I’ll be right back with your pie, okay?” Betty stood to go to the kitchen, and for a moment, Jughead felt panic at being left alone with Cheryl, but Betty made eye contact with him and gave a subtle wave for him to follow.  

Quietly, he stood and followed Betty to the kitchen. When they got there and he was sure they wouldn’t be heard, he came up behind Betty and whispered, “Is that Cheryl Blossom?”

“The one and only,” she whispered back, removing the cover from the pie resting on her kitchen island. “She’s my sister in law.”

“I got that,” Jughead said, too afraid to be heard to talk any louder. He leaned over so Betty can hear him better. “She’s…” crazy.

“A bombshell.”

“Not the word I was thinking about but it’s actually perfect.”

Betty took a plate off her shelves and a jar of cherry preserves. “I wanted to talk to you about her a bit. I wasn’t expecting her until next month--she usually comes here three times a year, stays for a week, then leaves. But as you can see, her plans didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, sucks to be an American dumped in Paris.”

She threw him a look, though she was smiling. She smeared a dollop of cherry preserve on the plate then took a slice of the pie, putting it down carefully beside the smudge. “So she’s early, and I hope you don’t mind having someone else in the house so suddenly.”

He didn’t even know why she was asking him. “This is your house, Betty. Your B&B. Of course I don’t mind. It’s not my place to mind.”

She smiled plaintively. “I know you don’t like strangers. I could’ve given you fair warning if I had known she was coming.”

“I’ll live. This isn’t the first time I had to put up with new people in an unexpected social setting.”

She patted his arm as she went to the refrigerator to pull out a tub of vanilla ice cream. She started to dig a ball of ice cream out but it was too hard.  “I do hate it when the ice cream--”

“Lemme--”

“Would you? Thank you, you’re a dear.”

He took the scoop from her hands and started to form the ice cream ball with it.  She went to her kitchen window to pluck a mint from one of her pots. By the time she came back, he had a hefty ball of ice cream.

“Right on the side, Juggie,” she said.

He plopped it carefully on the side of the pie, just as he’d seen Betty do it, and she smiled at him, pleased, while dropping the mint leaf on top.

He felt like a million bucks.

“She’s a lot to handle,” Betty said carefully. “She’s a dear but you have to break through five layers of ice.”

“I ran with a biker gang, Betts. I think I can handle Cheryl Blossom.”

She cocked a smile and nodded. She took a fork, the plate, and led the way back to Cheryl. He trailed after her and sat back down on the sofa chair while Betty served her cherry pie.

Cheryl immediately began to consume it, her eyes rolling as she told Betty how good it was. She shoveled a couple more bites into her mouth before setting it down on the coffee table and began to tell Betty about her ex, Sabrina Spellman.   

“This bitch,” Cheryl started. “Has been going on and on about this trip the last few months and I’m thinking I’m going to impress the shit out of her bringing her to all the best places in Paris. When we get to Louis Vuitton, I bought her this hot new bag called a Lockme Bucket, and it’s all adorable and totally her--you know, just a trinket--”

“That’s a $3,000 trinket,” Betty pointed out.

Jughead didn’t even know how Betty knew that and could pull that off the top of her head.

“Not even,” Cheryl said, rolling her eyes. “$2,900 max. Anyway, after I buy her this bag, that’s when she springs on me that she’s seeing this guy--”

“Guy?” Betty gasped.

“Guy, Betty. She dumped me for penis. This does not happen to Cheryl Blossom.”  

Betty shook her head sympathetically. “Did you know she was bi?”

“Well, of course I did, but pussy never leaves this. I mean, look at me, Betty! Look at these!” she pressed her hands to her breasts and shook them.  “And this tongue? It’s legendary, Betty.”

Jughead found himself turning his eyes awkwardly to the pie on the table. He had a distinct feeling that Cheryl hadn’t noticed he was there. Or maybe she did and didn’t give a fuck.

“And I bought her the best fucking stuff money can buy!” Cheryl cried, slamming a fist on a pillow.

“Hon, you know that relationships have to be built on more than sex and money, right?” Betty said gently. “You can’t think that your boobs and credit card will carry you through.”

“It won’t, but it sure as fuck helps!”

Betty sighed, shooting a look at Jughead.

He shrugged. What was he going to add to that?  In fairness, Cheryl wasn’t completely wrong. He had grown up poor long enough to know that while money can’t buy everything, it sure helped lighten the burden of living and loving. “She has a point.”

Betty gave a sigh of resignation.

Cheryl finally looked at him, and the intensity of her stare did unnerve him a little bit. She looked him up and down, then turned back to Betty. “Who’s this tall glass of water?”

He arched an eyebrow uneasily in Betty’s direction.

“This is Jughead Jones,” Betty said. “He is a guest here.”

Cheryl glared at him, her pouting lips getting even poutier. “You’re Trula Twyst’s boyfriend.”

Oh, God.

“Ex. Ex-boyfriend,” Jughead told her pointedly.

“He’s a writer,” Betty interjected. “A published, bestselling author, which has absolutely nothing to do with Trula Twyst.”

He gave her a grateful look. He didn’t think he could stand it if the bullshit he ran away from followed him here in what he now considered a sanctuary.

“Did you really cheat on her?” Cheryl asked.

Jughead sighed. “I didn’t. I so didn’t. That was a story fabricated by her publicist and talent manager to save her reputation.”

Cheryl gave him a sidelong glance and turned to Betty. “Do you believe him?”

Jughead rubbed his face with his hands.

“I absolutely believe him,” Betty said emphatically. “And you know I’m a great judge of character.”

He cast her a small smile of appreciation.

“Fine,” Cheryl said curtly. “I’ll have to, then. I assume I’ll have to live with him while I’m here. I hope you don’t mind me barging in here, Betty. I know that you normally like to prepare.”

Jughead could admit to himself that he felt a slight pang of anxiety, not because Cheryl scared him, but because now he had to share Betty, which was kind of absurd. Betty was not his. Betty was his host. Then again, having her full attention had been pretty exhilarating.

Betty rubbed Cheryl’s shoulder. “It’s no problem, Cheryl. You just relax. You’ll get your usual room, of course, and do you have any bags?”

“In my trunk.”

“I’ll get it--”

“Let me,” Jughead said, needing something to do. “You stay here with Cheryl, Betts. I got it.”

She gave him a grateful smile.

Cheryl looked him up and down again before she nodded. “You’ll do, Jones.”

He held out his hand for Cheryl’s car keys and as soon as he got it, he made his way out to Cheryl’s car.  This was going to be a long week. Best he got in Cheryl’s good graces.

***

Cheryl was a hurricane. She swooped in whenever she arrived, crushing souls as she went, while advertising how much better she was than everyone else. Even Betty, the one person she professed to love best, wasn’t spared from Cheryl’s gale of venom.

She tended to backtrack when she bared her fangs in Betty’s direction, which was probably Cheryl’s way of showing affection for her sister in law, but it happened often enough that Jughead was getting incensed by it on Betty’s behalf.

When Cheryl called her, “Betty Draper Season 5,”—in fairness carelessly, not maliciously—Jughead found himself glaring at the redheaded bombshell and saying, warningly. “Cheryl, take it back.”

It was too much, since he knew through snippets of Betty’s stories that Betty’s mom had demonstrated a near-destructive obsession with Betty’s weight and body image. It was cruel, however unintentional it was, and Jughead wasn’t going to let Cheryl do that to Betty.

Betty had looked surprised, at his audacity or his stupidity, he didn’t know, but Cheryl had given him a withering look and an exasperated sigh. “Whatever. Fine. I take it back, Betty. You are not fat and depressed. I’m projecting, as you probably figured. I’ve gained five fucking pounds eating your heinously delicious food.”

“That’s better,” Jughead said, pointedly.

“If you were ugly, Jones, I’d slit your throat for speaking to me that way,” Cheryl said, storming out of the room.

Betty had watched Cheryl walk off before turning back to Jughead and smiling shyly. “You didn’t have to risk life and limb for me. She hardly means what she says to me anymore when she’s being mean. It’s all just a facade for her.”

“She shouldn’t talk to you that way.”

“She talks to everyone that way.”

“It wouldn’t kill her to have better manners when it’s you,” he said.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

He wanted to pull on that hand, closing the gap between them so that he could turn that chaste little hand-hold into a full blown, tongue on tongue kiss. The thought has already occurred to him several times, and not just when she was close, but while he wasn’t afraid to show her that he liked her, he was a little afraid at what she’d do if he acted on it.

Sometimes, he felt that she might welcome it. She certainly never turned his company away and she had become a lot less formal around him, but sometimes he could sense her hesitation and some part of him didn’t want to find out what the hesitation was about. Was she hesitating because he was a guest at her B&B? Or was she hesitating because of her dearly departed spouse?

So without those answers, he wasn’t likely to do anything so bold as to kiss her suddenly and see where that got him.  

At the moment, she had already pulled away and made her way to the porch, where Kevin was just about finished writing a list of kids they would be employing on the farm for a day. There were cheeses and bath products to be loaded and dispatched onto trucks, and without extra help, the process would be too laborious.

As usual, he sat at the porch with his laptop, smoking and writing. He had done a surprising amount of it, considering Cheryl was there to add to the background activity, but even she had known to leave him alone when he was writing.

At least she didn’t scare him. Kevin was terrified of her, and gentle Farmer John found Cheryl a bit overwhelming.

“God, when is Cheryl leaving? She’s been here a week! I am seriously having nightmares.” Kevin said, looking over his shoulder lest the Red Queen come out to wreak havoc.

Betty shrugged. “No idea, Kev. Seriously, though, don’t let her get to you. I know she threatens bodily harm often, but she won’t really kill you.”

Kevin looked at her pointedly. “Betty, I know you love her, but that’s because you are a sweet and caring lady. That  woman set her ex’s car on fire. In the middle of Times Square. She can definitely make good on her threats.”

“Oh Kevin, believe me. She was my cheerleading captain in high school. There were plenty of times she could’ve killed me. She never did it. And this was when she believed my sister had her twin brother ensnared in a love spell.”

Jughead raised his hand to get their attention. “I just want to point out that what you just said isn’t a normal thing to say about someone. I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

“He’s right, you know,” Kevin replied.

Betty rolled her eyes. “Stop. I don’t care what you both say, she is not capable of half the things she threatens.”  

Just then, a truck came into view in the distance. It was kicking up some dust as it went, but it was going at a regular pace. Nothing like the death defying speed of Cheryl’s sports car.

Farmer John showed up just as the truck was pulling into the gates and in front of the house.  

“Reggie’s here,” Farmer John told Betty.

Betty scowled. “Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious Farmer John. I would’ve liked advanced warning!”

Farmer John shrugged, unconcerned. “I only talked to him this morning and he said he was available today.”

“Imagine that,” Kevin drawled, his tone laced with sarcasm.

The truck’s engine turned off and the driver’s side door opened. Reggie rounded the truck, grinning and putting his arms out. “B Coop!  How are you? Damn, you lookin’ fine girl!” He came up the porch and engulfed Betty in a hug.

Jughead scowled.

Stiff armed, Betty patted Reggie’s bulging bicep. “Thank you, Reggie. I’m good. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Reggie finally let her go. “Well, Farmer John told me you have a fox problem. I said I’d take care of it. I’m staring at a fox right now and it doesn’t look like a problem to me.”

Betty shot him a look and Jughead had to stifle his real bad need to say something very sarcastic.

Farmer John cinched a hand to his waist. “I’m sure you think you’re clever, but your flirting is unbecoming of a professional animal control specialist.”

Jughead resisted the grin that threatened to break out of his face.

“Hey, you call Reggie, you get the whole package,” he said, lifting the front of his shirt to show his amazingly sculpted abs. “Feel this, Betty.” He actually made a move for her hand, presumably to make her touch his muscles.

Jughead had never seen red in his life, until now.

Betty wrenched her hand away before he can reach it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Reg! Cut it out!”

Reggie laughed.

“I’ll touch your abs, Reggie,” Kevin joked.

Reggie was absolutely game for it. “They’re steel, Kev.”

Kevin was absolutely going to do it and Betty rolled her eyes and shot Jughead a can you believe Kevin? look.

To distract from what was becoming what Jughead would classify as awkward proceedings, Betty sidled up to him and looped her arm around his. “You haven’t met my house guest, Reggie. This is Jughead Jones. Jughead, meet Reggie Mantle.”

To Reggie’s credit, he casually dropped his shirt, much to Kevin’s disappointment, and approached Jughead openly, holding out his hand for a shake. “Hey dude, how’s it going?”

Jughead finally got a good look of him. The guy was of Asian-European descent, with exotic features and the kind of rock hard body that ladies went nuts for. In spite of the bombastic personality, he seemed enough like an amicable dude that his feelings of outrage just seconds ago was fast dissipating. There was also something powerfully familiar about him. Jughead took the offered hand. “It’s going. You do animal control?”

Reggie grinned and nodded. “I am the absolute best in these parts.”

She nodded. “That, he is. So Reggie, how are you going to get rid of my fox problem?”

“There are a lot of ways to get rid of foxes,” Reggie said. “First I’d have to make sure you don’t have stuff around the property that’s attracting them in the first place. Do you put any meat, dairy, or eggs in your compost?”

Betty looked worried. “Egg shells, maybe…”

Reggie shook his head. “Quit that. Throw out the egg shells and keep it in the trash. I can install electronic fox deterrents if you like.”

“Uh-uh,” Farmer John said. “That’ll do no good for my goats.”

“It’ll bother the chickens, too,” Kevin chimed in.

“Okay then,” Reggie said. “We’ll need to repel them. I’ve got some fox repellant in my truck. Spray it around, and it works fine, but it you want natural treatment, I can pee some on your property.”

“Excuse me?” Betty cried, horrified.

“God,” Farmer John groaned. “Its come to this. He’s marking his territory.”

“And how’s that going to work, anyway? It’s not like the pee you make can actually cover the entire perimeter of this place. You’d have to consume gallons and gallons of water for three days! And honestly, Reggie, I don’t want your pee in my property. Like, ever.”

Reggie grinned again. “Well, obviously, I can’t do all the peeing. Everybody will have to contribute.”

Jughead wondered if he was serious.

Everyone looked at one another for a few seconds before Betty threw up her hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Nobody’s going to be peeing outside of a bathroom around here! Do we understand one another? I’m a B&B and I make bathroom products. Scents are my lifeblood. I can’t have my property smelling like the men’s public bathroom!”

Nobody could dispute that.

“Fine. No peeing, then. If you want to get rid of them, I’m going to have to shoot them, sweetie. Sorry, but that’s the only way.”

Betty’s face dropped. “Like kill them?”

“Either that or pee.”

“What a choice,” Betty groaned. “How about you just trap them and get rid of them?”

“I can trap and relocate them, yeah, but that’ll take weeks.”

Farmer John shook his head. “That’s too long. The kids will be born soon and they’ll be in constant danger if there are foxes abroad.”

Betty looked torn.

Reggie shrugged. “I can tranquilize them and then ship them out. It’ll cost you, though. Those darts are not cheap and I don’t know how many foxes you have.”

“That’s fine,” she muttered. “Is it going to hurt them too badly?”

“I’m a good marksman, Betty. They’ll be out before they know it. They’ll hardly feel a thing.”

She sighed and shook her head, looking down at her feet. “Better than killing them.”

He nodded. “I’ll scout around and see if they have any dens. I’ll destroy the dens for you and then I’ll dart them critters.”

“How long will it take?”

“Probably three days just to make sure I get them all.”

Betty nodded. “And how much do you think all this is going to cost me?”

“For you, Betty--”

She frowned. “Don’t say it, Reginald.”

“It’s free if you go out with me!”

Farmer John groaned and Kevin laughed.  

Jughead was scowling again. It pissed him off that this yahoo can just go around declaring his intentions to Betty while Jughead made careful circles around her because he basically did not want to screw this up.

Betty crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “You know the definition of crazy, right? It’s when you do things over and over the same way expecting a different outcome. This is getting repetitive.”

“So you’re saying I have a chance?”

The screen door opened behind them and Cheryl walked out explosively, demanding to know what was going on. She actually pushed between Betty and Jughead, draping an arm around Betty and snaking her arm around his.

Jughead was, to say the least, mildly shocked by the contact. Her hand was warm against his skin but he felt so weirded out by it that he wondered if this is what it felt like to be touched by a demon. That she was skimming her manicured fingernails down his arm sent his skin crawling and he shot her a warning glare, which made her grin fiercely back.

“Oh, shit,” Reggie cried. “Cheryl’s here. Wassup lesbo? Care to try this out while you’re here?”

Cheryl scoffed. “You’re lucky peen does nothing for me, Mantle. Were I of the dick-loving kind, I doubt you’d survive a night with me.”

Reggie laughed. “I don’t mind watching, you know.” He transferred his gaze between her and Betty, wagging his eyebrows.

Betty shook her head and Cheryl rolled her eyes.

“All the way out here and I still have to deal with fuckboys,” Cheryl muttered.

“Betty,” Reggie began anew. “Since I’ll be here in the next few days, what do you think about shooting some bottles out back in the river? You know I got the guns, yo.”

“You know what, Reg? I think that’s a great idea.”

Everyone stared at her in shock. Even Reggie was caught a bit off guard.

“You do?” Jughead asked at exactly the same time as Reggie did. He didn’t care. He wanted to make sure his ears were not deceiving him. Did she just agree to a date with Reggie?

Then all eyes were on Jughead and he wanted nothing more than to melt through the floor.

Tearing her eyes away from him, Betty looked back at Reggie. “Yes. We’ll make a day of it.”

“Alright!” Reggie cried, elated.

“Everyone’s invited!” Betty added, gleefully.

“Oh.”

Jughead grinned.

“We’ll make it a picnic! Everyone on the farm needs a break and I’ve got two guests--it’s perfect! I’ll take care of the food, naturally, and I’ll set up some tables and tents--”

“Farmer John and I will help with that!” Kevin said, putting an arm around Farmer John’s shoulders.

“Jughead and I will take care of the drinks,” Cheryl said.

“We will?” Jughead asked.

Her blood red nails dug painfully into his skin.

“We will,” he amended.

The pressure of her nails lifted.

Betty grinned. “Then we can swim after we shoot.”

“Oh, damn,” Reggie gasped. “I’ll get to see you in a swimsuit. Be still my heart.”

“Reggie, if you don’t cut it with that dude bro-ing, I will bust out the circa 1900 turn of the century swimwear. Teach you a lesson.”

“Bust out?” Jughead couldn’t help but ask. “You mean you have that shit in storage somewhere?”

“Well, yeah. It’s fun to have!”

Jughead grinned. He could respect that.

“Easy, B Coop,” Reggie said. “I’ll behave. In fact, I’ll start working right now.”  He made for his truck’s carriage, taking a duffle bag and swinging a rifle on his shoulder.

In spite of herself, Betty asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Nah. Gotta drive my mom to her friend’s house. Bridge night. Maybe tomorrow, if all goes well!” He winked.

She sighed and shook her head. “Reggie, if I didn’t already know you’re a sweetheart disguised as a douchebag, I’d have kicked you off my property years ago.”

“Eh, I’m way too charming to get kicked out of anyone’s property. I’ll see you in a bit. Later dudes!”

Betty said nothing as she watched him walk off.

“Hmm,” Cheryl said. “Were I straight, I might have tapped that.”

Betty cast her an amused look. “Were you straight, I’d have had dead male bodies strewn all over my property.”

“That’s true--Jughead, why do you keep pulling your arm back? I like it. It’s nice and strong and you know I won’t bite you. You lack a vagina.”

“Cheryl,” he said warningly. Lesbian or not, her assumed familiarity was unnerving.

“Maybe if your claws weren’t so sharp,” Kevin said from the porch swing.

“Watch it, Keller! I’ve choked a gay or two in my day.”

Betty chuckled and sidled up to Jughead’s other side to slip her arm around his gently. He smiled at her. Betty, he enjoyed the feel of, around his arm.

“See, Cher? You make him cranky,” Betty chimed.

Cheryl huffed. “Say what you want about this one, Betty, but he ain’t no wilting flower.” She cast him a warning glare. “Be ready tomorrow at 8 sharp. I’m driving us to town to get those drinks, and I don’t care what you think of these claws. I will scratch you and drag you from bed kicking and screaming if you’re not ready.”

“I’m usually up at the crack of dawn. You’re the one who shambles out of bed at 8.”

“I’m not interested in facts, Jones. Do as I say!” With that, she turned and went back into the house.

Jughead sighed and looked at Betty pleadingly. “Do I have to?”

Betty smirked and nodded. “Yes. Do you want me to come with?”

He wanted to say, yes, please join us, but he knew she would be busy and he wasn’t a child. “I’m good. I’ve got boxing footwork, remember? I’ll dodge her claws if she goes for my eyes.”

“I heard that!” Cheryl said from inside.

“I fear for you, son,” Farmer John said.

“Oh, don’t,” Betty said, rubbing Jughead’s arm and shooting pleasant tingles through his body. “Cheryl doesn’t scare him. I’ve seen him stand up to her.”

“Well, at least one of us can,” Kevin said wearily.

Betty patted Jughead’s cheek as she followed Cheryl back into the house.

Jughead watched her go for a while. When he finally tore his eyes from the screen door, he found that Kevin and Farmer John were watching him.

“What?” he asked with an innocent lilt to his voice.

“Boy,” Farmer John drawled, shaking his head and making his way off the porch.

“What?” Jughead asked again.

Kevin sighed and threw his hands up. “Please put yourself out of your misery and do something already, for fuck’s sake. The tension is killing me!”

He left, and Jughead sighed heavily, shoving a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

*****

When Cheryl ambled out of the house at 9 o’clock in the morning, Jughead had already finished some farm work and he was leaning casually on the passenger side of her sportscar, arms crossed on his chest, and smoking a cigarette.

He smirked, an expression of what did I tell you? on his face.

Cheryl scowled at him, fiercely. “Wipe that fucking smirk off your face, Jones. You’re lucky you’re a hot piece of ass. I’d have gutted your bowels by now, otherwise.”

Words like Cheryl’s would’ve sent him running, normally, but knowing she wasn’t actually interested in men made her less threatening. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and let himself into her car, the grin never leaving his face.

Cheryl stared at him as she got into the driver’s side. He winked, amused.

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re a sexy motherfucker. No wonder Betty’s panties are all in a twist when you’re around.”

He shot her a despairing look. “I should be so lucky.”

“Oh, you are, Treasure. Believe me.”

She turned on the engine and stepped recklessly on the gas. They ripped out of the farm with alarming speed.

****

Being with Cheryl felt like being in a constant state of alert. She was like a bomb always threatening to explode and Jughead didn’t think he could ever handle more than a day of it--and it wasn’t even noon.

The entire time they drove, she bitched about her cheating ex-girlfriend and the women she’d encountered at Riverdale Farms. She gave him a blow by blow account of how she got all of them in bed, and then she told him the various reasons she broke up with all of them.

She moved on to how she thought Betty can make her business bigger. Cheryl had offered her capital after all, but Betty had refused, preferring to keep it small so she could have complete control over the quality.

“It’s such a French Countryside thing to do,” Cheryl had said, her tone dripping with disgust. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that class is bred into Betty like a stallion. She came by it honestly and she doesn’t even think about it, but I would choose bold and big over that quaint classy shit all the time. It’s way more exciting to rule over an empire from the top of a building than from a farm in the middle of Whatsville.”

Jughead had a distinct feeling of foreboding that disagreeing would be the death of him.  Betty didn’t look like someone who craved that corner office at the top of a New York skyscraper. If she ever went bigger, she would take one of those old restored buildings in Brooklyn and run a startup from there.

Cheryl moved on to talk about high-society New York, and inevitably asked him about Trula.

“Does she sleep with women?” Cheryl asked.

Jughead nodded. “She does. Want her number?” The earlier Trula started dating someone else, the better.

“Do I want your sloppy seconds?”

Jughead laughed in spite of himself.

When they got to town, Cheryl made straight for the liquor store and started loading their cart with libations. Jughead knew a thing or two about wine, thanks to the Lodges, and he made a couple of suggestions that impressed Cheryl.

“So there’s actually class under all that lumberjack-grunge chic.”

Jughead cast her a withering glance. “The Lodges fostered me for a few years. I picked up a thing or two.”

“Lodges? Like Hiram Lodge, real estate tycoon?”

Jughead nodded. “His daughter, Veronica Lodge, is my best friend. Practically my sister.”

“Whoa! Here I was, driving with New York royalty and I didn’t even know it. Your value has increased ten fold.”

“My life is complete.”

“She’s married to that Slick Jack front man, Archie Andrews, right?”

Jughead still couldn’t erase the image of Archie playing guitar and practicing for nothing with his band in his father’s garage whenever somebody referred to him as a “front man.”  There had been too many nights when Jughead had to deal with that shit stoned out of his mind to make it bearable. Still, it also highlighted the fact that Archie was a permanent fixture in his life.

“Also my best friend,” he said.

“God, you’re low key rubbing shoulders with people who matter! Betty told me none of this!”

Jughead chuckled. “Why would she? It’s not that important.”

“It’s important to me. I may not be so ashamed to be seen with you in the city.”

“Oh? I’m ashamed to be seen with me in the city.”

“That self-deprecating vibe may work for most ladies, Jughead, but the likes of me would prefer you charge like a bull, giving zero fucks for the weaklings who couldn’t handle your ten-foot dick.”

“My dick is 9 foot-flat.”

The couple nearby turned to them at their careless mention of penises and threw them daggered looks.

“Move along, you prudes,” Cheryl hissed with a snarl on her face.

They did. For their lives.

“So are you going to bone my sister-in-law or what?” she asked him, rolling their cart to the craft beers section.

“Bone? Yes, I am thinking that, exactly. I want to bone Betty.”  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus.”

“Please. Don’t be such a fucking sap. You can’t tell me that a hunka-hunka lunk like you doesn’t bang ladies on a daily basis.”

He gave her a mystified stare. “I have never, in my life, been called that. Like, ever.”

She pinched his arm, painfully, and he gave a yowl of protest. “Stop evading the question. Unless you’re on a farm in the middle of nowhere, you probably have a constant supply of women.”

“For a strong and independent lesbian, you sure objectify women a lot,” he growled, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. “No, I don’t have a ‘constant supply of women.’ And even if I did, I wouldn’t be having sex with them willy nilly. I don’t do that shit. I have to connect with a woman, at the very least on an intellectual level, before I can even think of them without their clothes on.”

“Oh, how cute!”

“I’m serious, Cheryl. I don’t appreciate you making fun of that.”  And his annoyance was real, not affected, mostly because he didn’t want Cheryl blabbing nonsense about him banging chicks to Betty. He didn’t want Betty thinking he was some fuckboy.

She regarded him intently as she rolled their cart to the counter.  He let that silence sit, hauling their alcohol onto the table for the cashier to ring them up.  

When they paid for their purchases, Jughead carried most of it out of the store.

“What do you want from my sister-in-law?” Cheryl asked as she pulled open the tiny trunk of her sports car.

He started strategically packing their purchases into the small space. “In what world would I tell you things like that?”

“I’m just curious, Jonesy. I’m wondering why you’re waiting. How long have you been here?”

“Little over three weeks.”

“Long enough to at least get to first base.”

“What are you, thirteen? I haven’t referred to sex as bases for at least 15 years.”

Having successfully fitted all their purchases in her trunk, they pressed the trunk shut and got into her car.  

“I’ve just seen the way you look at her,” Cheryl said, starting her car and getting into gear. “And I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Most times I feel like you’re not even hiding it. I don’t know what the fucking problem is.”

“I’m not hiding it,” he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting up.

“Gimme one of those.”

He shook one out for her and realized that she wanted him to put it in her mouth. Sighing, he did and lit it for her.  She started driving like the mad woman she was.

“Then fucking get to it, already!” she said, almost like a screech.

He ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t know why he even felt like he could open himself up to this helion, but here he was, ready to explain himself. He supposed that Cheryl put off that vibe of being an open mic night, where getting up on stage for everyone to hear you sing awful karaoke was permissible, because everyone in the place sounded shitty. “I don’t know. I don’t know what she’ll think of it. Sometimes I think she’ll let me. Other times I think she’s still hung up on her husband. I don’t know how I feel about any of that. And I don’t want things to get weird. I love the way she’s getting comfortable around me.”

“Such a gentleman.”

He couldn't even tell her how ungentlemanly his thoughts of Betty have been of late. “I’m fucking not.”

“Hmm, I get it. Sometimes, I love a good slow burn. Good strategy, Jones.”

Jughead frowned. “Let’s be clear. None of this is deliberate. It’s not a strategy. It’s just me figuring things out. Not everybody’s a manipulative bitch, Cheryl.”

“You say manipulative bitch like it’s a bad thing.”

“And really, how is this any of your concern?” he asked, getting a little pissed.

Cheryl growled. “Because try as I might to hate that perky little princess, I love her and I want her to be happy.”

“Wait, love her, love her, or--”

“Don’t be an idiot. She’s my sister in law!” This time, Cheryl did look insulted for real. “Not only that, she’s my third cousin. Our great-great grandparents are brothers. They had a fight, and one stayed a Blossom while the other took the name Cooper.”

Jughead tried to wrap his head around it. “So, wait… but your brother married her sister--”

“Yeah, on the other hand, it’s third cousins. They are practically unrelated at this point. All this came to light only after they boned and married, so the weirdness is there and here to stay. But now I know and so Betty and I are, like, family.”

“Betty is technically a Blossom...”

“Well, actually, she’s technically a Cooper. Genetically, she’s a Blossom.”

“Right.”

“So yes, all of this stupid insinuation that I like her is wrong on several levels. And if I had feelings like that for her, she would be letting me eat her pussy by now. Remember? I get whatever the fuck I want.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I really wish you wouldn’t talk about her that way.”

“God, alright, Sir Lancelot.”

“So,” Jughead began, smirking. “You do have a heart hiding in the blackness of your soul.”

“Fuck you, Jughead Jones.”

****

The picnic set up looked nothing like the picnics Jughead had attended in the past. Even living with the Lodges, he had never seen a picnic quite as exquisite. That may be because the Lodges didn’t like roughing it in any form. “Outside” was a marble pergola overlooking a vineyard in Italy.

That said, this wasn’t exactly roughing it, either.

Betty’s tables were covered in white cloth and the place settings were nicely appointed, however rustic the plates, bowls, and cutlery were. It looked incredibly fine with wrapped sprigs of her dried flowers accentuating each place setting, and her center piece was a cut log filled with summer blooms and dried lavender.

The tent overhead was a pretty, filmy cloth, decorated with flowers and paper balloons, although Betty pointed out that it was more Kevin’s doing than her.

The food was relatively more simple, it being picnic style, but it was as good as anything she’d ever prepared. Shrimp salad, pasta in a sun-dried tomato sauce and seasoned chicken, roasted vegetables with a delicious yoghurt dipping sauce, a cheese and fruit plate,  bahn mi sliders, and the best jalapeno poppers Jughead has ever had.

The wine he and Cheryl bought was well received, and Betty happily made a fresh Sangria from some of their other selections.  

Dessert was Tiramisu in mugs, which looked amazing. Everyone was looking forward to eating them.

Betty presided over the table while Cheryl sat on the other end. Jughead elected to sit by Betty, because he always liked being near her.

She had her hair up in a ponytail, and her hair was long enough that it swished over her shoulders. Her top was a nice green spaghetti strap that was sexy as hell, clinging to her curves and showing off some of the lacy bra she wore underneath.  Her shorts showed off her amazing legs. Her All-Stars made her look more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.  

He stole private conversations with her between periods of table-wide discussion. She leaned over when she replied. She would look at him over her glass of wine and he would smirk when she caught him staring.

He watched her lips move as she ate, and when she touched his hand, laughing at something he said, he turned it over in his own so he could hold it.  She looked at him shyly but did not pull her hand away, so he spent the rest of the lunch making idle circles with his thumb on the back of her hand.

Their knees touched under the table and she didn’t move it away.

“How was your trip with Cheryl this morning?” she asked in a gently teasing tone.  

“Invigorating,” he replied, ominously.

Betty chuckled. “How many times did she piss you off?”

That was a fair question. Cheryl knew how to light a powder keg, that was for sure. “More times than I can count. But I can see why you like her in spite of that.”

She blinked at that. “Really?”

He nodded. “She cares deeply about people. And when I say deeply, I mean where hardly anyone can see. Like, almost hidden. It takes an excruciating amount of patience to dig it out.”

Betty beamed. “Yes. That’s it, exactly. And when she loves, she loves pretty hard.”

He played with his lighter, flipping it over and under on the picnic table. He could feel her leg rub lightly against his and he met her gaze, cocking a smile that told her he knew what she was doing down there.  He dropped his hand under the table, placing a hand on her knee and rubbing it gently with his thumb.

Her cheeks turned pink. “Tickles.”

He moved his hand up ever so slightly and he felt her knee shift to encourage him.

This was going where he dreamed it would go, and he was just deciding to take her hand and run with her into the house when Reggie gave a loud whoop.

“Shooting time!” Reggie cried.  “B Coop, get over here!”

She shot him an apologetic smile and stood to take the rifle Reggie was offering her.  

Losing the warmth of her beneath his hand made him hate Reggie at this very moment. He grabbed a Tiramisu in frustration, stuffing his face with the awesome rich taste of mousse.

Betty seemed to know how to handle a rifle real well, checking it, loading it, and holding it with a proper stance.  

Earlier, Reggie had taken the small motorboat to the islet at the center of the river. In a long, worn out bench and a few broken tree logs, he arranged a long row of bottles of varying shapes and sized. They were just big enough to be visible from across the shore but small enough to be challenging.

Later on, Reggie would have to go again to replenish the bottles, but there were quite a lot at the moment.

Betty aimed, fired, and the first bottle was obliterated from sight.  

Cheryl gave a cheer. “That’s my girl!”

Betty aimed again and shattered the second bottle. Kevin and Farmer John clapped enthusiastically.

Reggie looked sincerely impressed. “Damn, girl. You’re good at this!”

“I have a brother in the FBI, Reggie. What do you think we do when we hang out?”

Jughead arched an eyebrow. “You hang out at the shooting range? Really?”

“Damn straight,” she replied. She aimed, fired, and a third bottle exploded.

“Well, shit,” Jughead said. “Three out of three.”

“Okay, here’s the deal, Betty” Reggie said. “How about I shoot three in a row, and then we’ll take turns after that. If you miss before I do, you have to go on a date with me.”

Betty glared at him. “Um, no.”

“C’mon, are you scared you’ll lose?”

“I’m not going to get tricked into giving up my agency, Reggie.”

“Ooh, agency!” Kevin gasped, laughing.

Cheryl banged the table. “Them fighting feminist words, Betty! I like it.”

“Count on the lesbian to say the F word,” Reggie muttered.  

Betty frowned, gun on one hand and hip on the other. “You have a problem with the F word, Reg?”

Reggie at least had the grace to look the tiniest bit uneasy, as if he had just realized he was digging himself into a hole.

“This is not going well for you, Mantle,” Jughead drawled.  

Reggie threw his hands up. “All I know is, when the F word is mentioned, my peen shrivels.”

“Pretty sure none of us needed that visual,” Jughead replied. “Gay or straight.”

“Shriveled peens are the worst,” Kevin grumbled.

Farmer John just shook his head and closed his eyes in devout disapproval.

“This is why I love pussy,” Cheryl said. “They can never shrivel. Well… as long as Kegels are employed on a regular basis.”

“This would’ve been a perfect conversation over oysters,” Kevin said.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation over my beautifully appointed picnic table,” Betty breathed exasperatedly.

Cheryl stood and demanded her turn. She knew how to handle the rifle and she managed to get two out of four attempts. Farmer John tried as well and managed a few bottles himself. When Reggie’s turn came, he shot five out of five.  

“I’m telling you, B Coop. We would’ve been evenly matched,” Reggie said.  

She ignored that last quip and turned to Jughead. “Do you want to try, Juggie?”

Jughead sniffed and stood. “Sure. Can you teach me?”

“Of course. Reg? Give the man a rifle.”

Reggie handed the rifle to him and Jughead was taken back to the days when his gang gave him a shotgun. The rifle felt lighter, then again, he was only 16 when they gave him the gun. He wasn’t exactly a muscular kid. He had mostly been given handguns, since they were easier to hide under a jacket, but shotguns were dramatic and good for scaring people.

Betty put her arms around him to get him in position. When she taught him how to line up his target, she got even closer, which was the goal all along.  

As he tilted his head to get his target in sight, he whispered. “I have a confession to make.”

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve handled guns before. I just wanted you to put your arms around me.”

She gasped and stepped away, laughing. “Juggie!” She slapped his arm.

“Whoa! Easy! I have a gun!”  

“What’s happening?” Kevin asked.

“Jughead’s being silly,” Betty said, blushing.  “He was messing with me. He knows how to use a gun.”

Cheryl arched an impressed eyebrow. “Sneaky. I like it.”

“Oh, pulling out all the stops, are you?” Reggie said. “Let’s see how you shoot.”

Jughead managed 3 out of 4. It wasn’t bad, considering he hadn’t used a gun in over a decade.

“Where’d you learn to shoot, man?” Reggie asked.

Jughead shrugged, unwilling to mention his gang past. “Just lucky, I guess.” He handed the rifle back to Reggie.

Farmer John shot a few more bottles and Kevin, who had never held a gun in his life in spite of being the Sheriff’s son, tried his hand at it and missed every single bottle. He did, however, manage to shoot down some random bird who happened to be flying overhead, which was a feat unto itself, since he wasn’t even supposed to be aiming anywhere near upward.

The dead bird plunged to its grave in the middle of the lake.  

"Fuck,” Kevin hissed. “I killed something.”

“And the cycle of life continues,” Jughead said.

“With a bullet to the brain,” Cheryl finished morbidly.

Farmer John started to cry and Betty automatically handed him a tissue.

Reggie stood back and looked at all of them. “Ya’ll are nuts. It’s just a dead bird.”

Jughead just realized that they all reacted to it exactly the way they were supposed to.  

Betty sighed and cast Jughead a small smile. “So, anybody want to go for a swim?”

***

The fact that a freshly dead bird was at the bottom of the river did not deter their group from swimming in it. The bird had been deep enough and far enough that they could tell themselves that the water was completely free of death.

At any rate, when Betty had asked everybody about swimming, Jughead was the first to say, “That’s a great idea.”

He realized without thinking about it much that his need to see Betty in a bathing suit had dominated his mind, and now he was shameless about it. That both Cheryl and Reggie had grinned simultaneously and he understood why—Reggie, because he likely wanted to see Betty in a swimsuit too and Cheryl, because she knew Jughead wanted to see Betty in a swimsuit—was another quick realization that he was really getting in the weeds of this place.  

He had managed to scrounge up swim shorts from his luggage. He had traveled enough times to know that he would need swimwear every once in awhile. He threw on a white tank, mainly because the presence of a dinner table still tended to make him feel like he shouldn’t be walking around barechested. It was definitely a remnant of his days living with the Lodges, when he had to be constantly dressed for meals.

Kevin and Reggie had no such reservations, and Farmer John, true to character, wore a hawaiian shirt, regular shorts, and a huge straw hat.  He walked around with a sangria in his hand and pulled out a lawn chair, sitting by the riverbank to disapprove of their foolish antics, which was mostly Kevin and Reggie outdoing one another, diving off a nearby jetty.

Cheryl was predictably elegant. Her swimsuit was naturally red, and while it was technically a one-piece suit, it had so many cuts and holes that it was closer to a two piece held together by swaths of cloth and pieces of string. She looked good in it, of course, and with her huge designer glasses, she came out looking like a vixen fit to grace the cover of a magazine.  

Reggie was loudly appreciative, which earned him the finger.   

“You want it!” he cried right back. Then he looked over to Jughead, who was standing beside him. “She wants it.”

“Yeah, getting the finger usually means exactly that.”

Reggie chortled and tapped him gamely on the shoulder.

It was about that time that Betty sauntered out of the house in a white two piece bathing suit. It wasn’t fancy or overtly provocative, but Jughead was completely hypnotized. Her legs, for one, were incredibly long. He knew that Betty was relatively tall, even if he stood half a foot taller than her, but he had only ever seen her in dresses and jeans. Shorts, today. This was a revelation of more epic proportions.

Her tattoo was in full display, but that couldn’t distract from the feminine flatness of her stomach and that beautiful, beautiful cleavage.

“Oh, fuck.”

“You got that right.”

It took a second for Jughead to realize he had spoken first and that Reggie was just responding to him.  

“Jesus,” Jughead whispered. “I’m so fucking dead.”

Reggie stifled a laugh and tapped him on the shoulder again. “Welcome to my world! I got weed. Wanna commiserate?”

Jughead looked at him sharply, a protest on the tip of his tongue. Not for the weed, but for the idea that he was in the same bucket as Reggie, where Betty had no reservations turning him down for all to see.  Then again, he wanted the weed.

The weed won for now. “I’m down.”

***

As Betty lay tanning on her stomach beside Cheryl, she glanced over at Reggie and Jughead who were smoking something on the jetty, their feet in the water.

They seemed to be getting along, with Reggie constantly slapping Jughead on the back and Jughead saying something in that sardonic mannerism he was so perfect with.   

“What are they doing?” Cheryl asked. “Are they talking?”

“They’re smoking weed,” Betty drawled, laying her head back down on her arms. The sun was comfortably hot and she felt lazy enough that she was enjoying it.  

“And they aren’t sharing?”

“Reggie always has a lot of it. Ask for some later. I’m too lazy to get up and do it now.”

Cheryl probably felt as lazy as she did because she didn’t argue.  Instead she said, “Your man looks hot.”

Betty didn’t even need to ask whether she meant Jughead or Reggie. “He’s not my man.”

“You were playing footsy with him at lunch and he was getting handsy. He’s your man.”

Betty groaned. “How in the world did you know that?”

“I have x-ray vision. Also, you were doing that thing with your shoulders, when you tilt it at a certain angle. You were flirting like crazy. I could see your hands, but one of his was nowhere to be seen. Conclusion: You guys were getting all bothered under the table.”

“You know, you should work for a gossip magazine and be their official body language expert.”

“Please, it doesn’t take an expert with you guys. The sexual tension is frankly making me horny. I had to get myself off this morning to a picture of Ruby Rose.”

“Jesus, Cheryl,” Betty moaned. “Oversharing, maybe?”

“So what’s the holdup, Sandra Dee?” Apparently, she refused to be deterred. “You obviously do it for each other, so why aren’t you fucking each other’s brains out?”

Betty rolled her eyes and pushed herself up by her elbows to look Cheryl in the face. “Don’t be indelicate, Cher.”

“He’s looking at your ass right now.”

Betty had to admit that gave her a deep thrill. “Is he still looking?”

“Yep.”

She grinned and shimmied her shoulders delightedly.

“So you like his attention?” Cheryl asked.

“Of course I like his attention. Do you see what I see?”

Cheryl smirked.  “I may like pussy, but yeah, I see it. He isn’t stacked but that body on him is fucking king. That tattoo--”

“Bold but faithful,” Betty sighed. “I know.”

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “I was talking about the dragon. Where is this Bold but Faithful tattoo you’re talking about?”

It occurred to Betty that that tattoo was completely covered by his tank. She felt her face grow instantly warm. “It’s under his navel. Saw it first when he was helping Kevin dig out a trench.”

“Ooh, what a sexy beast.”

“You’re telling me.”

“So what are you waiting for? Want him to make the first move? Because I can make it happen.”

“Stay out of it, Cher.”

“Is it Trev? Is that what’s keeping you?”

Betty sighed and turned over, lying on her back. “I don’t know. A little bit, but not in the way you think.  I’ll always miss Trev and he showed me this life, this life that I really love, and I think I may be ready to move on from him, except…”

“Except?”

“Except that I feel guilty forgetting him.”

“Forgetting him? That’s not possible.”

She threw her arm over her eyes, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up in her chest. “It is, Cher. It totally is. I thought at first I’d never forget, either. I mean of course, I’ll never forget the dates we had, or that he was my husband, and that the happiest years of my life to this day were with him, but I’m forgetting other important things, like how it felt to be in his arms, or how his kiss felt, or even how I got so turned on by him when he wore that cowboy hat and wrangled horses. I’m forgetting the things that made me so constantly in love with him, Cher. And I feel like I’m betraying him because I am now enjoying the best of what he left me. I mean, the least I could do is remember, right?”

“The least you can do is get laid and enjoy it.”

Betty sighed. “I don’t know why I come to you for these things.”

“Because I give swift kicks to the ass. I’m not tender like Kevin. He spoils you.” Cheryl leaned up on her elbows. “Look, I’ve never lost anyone I love to death. It’s not a loss I completely understand, but if there’s anything I know, it’s to never feel guilty about the things you earned. None of this was here when Trev was alive, Betty. Trev wanted to breed horses and sell beef. That was never for you, and I’m not saying that he would’ve held you back. You probably would’ve found some way to make it even better, but when he died, it quickly became apparent that it wasn’t for you, so you shifted gears, and everything’s been different since then. All of this--you made this by yourself. It’s all you. And the reason that boy’s so gone on you is because of what you are. Right now. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.”

Betty found herself listening and marveled at the fact that Cheryl had words that made sense. Not that Cheryl was ever dumb, but she never seemed to care enough about other people to actually dole out wisdom for their own good. This was definitely out of the ordinary.  

Or maybe Betty just wasn’t giving Cheryl the credit she deserved.

“That was--”

“Good, right? I’m telling you, Betty. You stick with me, you go places.”

Betty smiled and sat up, waving to Reggie and Jughead and yelling at them to share the weed.

****

It was not lost on Jughead that watching Betty getting a tan was mildly creepy, but it was impossible to tear his eyes away, not when she had a butt as perfect as that, not when he was high on weed.

“Dude, you stare at her any harder and you will burn a hole through her,” Reggie said, taking another toke before passing it back to Jughead.

Jughead shot him a sidelong glance but took the stub to take a puff of his own. He held his breath for a few seconds before letting the smoke out.  “It doesn’t matter. She knows I like her.”

Reggie laughed, madly. “Man, I’ve been where you are for the last six years, maybe longer if you count the years I actually started liking her, but she was my best bud’s wife, so you see how awkward that could’ve been if I had told him.”

Jughead frowned. “Trev was your best bud?”

“Since we were kids.”

“And you had designs for his wife?” He hated to relegate Betty to “wife” but in this context, that fact was kind of essential.

“Hey, give me some credit. I never let anyone know I liked Betty until after Trev died. You know, bro code and everything.”

“Sure.”  Not that Jughead actually got it. He and Archie never had problems with liking the same women. They had different types, and so it never became an issue, but there had always been an ever-present consciousness of “which girl is Archie’s type?”  So maybe he understood it to a certain level.

“At any rate, Betty and I are never going to happen,”  Reggie said. He didn’t sound sad about it, however. It was just fact, and maybe it was why Reggie was so loud about liking her. At this point, there was just no sense in hiding it and getting nowhere.  He was putting it out there, even if he knew, perhaps in the off chance that she would mercy-date him, or something. “I’ve got a shit-ton of Trev Baggage all over me. She doesn’t need that in her life.”

Jughead nodded, taking another toke of the marijuana. He looked at Betty again, and now she was on her back and one leg was curled up. He could look at that amazing body all day, mostly because he was high out of his mind.

After a while, Betty waved at them, and he thought she was asking them to share the weed. He wasn’t sure, but when Reggie tapped his shoulder and got up, telling him that the girls wanted to get high, he didn’t question it.

Kevin joined them on the riverbank, where the girls were sunning, and they all puffed on Reggie’s weed while Farmer John watched disapprovingly from his lawn chair.  

Jughead planted himself beside Betty, passing her the weed and watching her take a puff. He was mesmerized by her lips blowing out the smoke.

The weed was passed around, and a couple more rounds and Betty and Cheryl were giggling madly. One more round and Betty was leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, “You look really nice in that tank.”

He was too high to appreciate her compliment properly, but he was high enough to loop an arm over her shoulders without a hint of hesitation. “Oh yeah? Well, you look super nice in that swimsuit.”

She giggled. “I thought you’d like it.”

He grinned goofily. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, it registered that she wore it specifically for him, because he pulled her closer and placed a soft kiss on her lips.

She blinked up at him in surprise, then she smiled. “Do it again,” she breathed.

“You’re high,” he drawled.

She touched his nose. “So are you!”

“Check back with me in a couple of hours.”

She sighed, smiling up at him. “When we’re sober?”

He nodded, grinning and bumping his forehead to hers. She giggled and fell back on her beach towel.  He lay back beside her, their heads touching as they stared up at the dimming sky.  

“Did you have a good time today?” she asked.

“I did. I always have a good time here.”

“Even when you’re working the farm?”

“Even then.”

Betty beamed. “Me too.”

Bodies began dropping around them, high as they were on the riverbank.   

*****

Jughead didn’t remember what time he ambled into bed. All he knew was that after Betty indulged their munchies with burger sliders and fries, everyone felt way too relaxed to do anything else.

Farmer John took the car keys of both Reggie and Kevin, both of whom did not protest and shambled drunkenly up the rooms without being told where.

Jughead could only assume this sort of thing had happened before and they knew where their rooms were.

So when Jughead passed out, it hardly occurred to him that Kevin was sprawled on half of the bed.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Making Space to Fill a Home

“One of my favorite design challenges is making space where once there wasn’t. Clever overhangs and secret cubbies give so much character to a house while allowing our more creative selves to exist without the clutter that comes with what I like to call enthusiastic creation.

For my home, it is my not-so-secret desire to make use of the hollow beneath the stairs. The decision to turn it into an open bookshelf, a charming little reading area, or a place to store items that I cannot bear to part with consumes me, but whatever I decide to do--or whatever it is you decide to do for your space--that precious real estate can make the plainest areas glow bright with personality...”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

Jughead felt gross waking up. He hadn’t showered from the previous day’s activities and he must have forgotten to brush his teeth.

His head ached, too. He must’ve smoked way too much weed. Or maybe Reggie’s stash was more potent than he thought.

When he turned over in bed, he realized he wasn’t alone.

He cracked an eye open and saw the back of Kevin Keller’s head.

Jughead groaned and momentarily wondered if he was in a monumentally awkward situation. He lay there, wracking his brain for any recollection on how he and Kevin had ended up in bed together.

He looked at himself and saw that he was still wearing his swim shorts and tank. Memories of him stumbling in the dark and passing out on a bed came to him. He was momentarily relieved at the fact that he hadn’t just had gay sex high on weed.

Sighing, he sat up and realized he wasn’t even in his room.

“Jesus,” he croaked.

Kevin stirred, turning over as his eyes cracked open ever so slightly, but when Kevin saw him, he gasped and scrambled for the sheets to cover his bare chest. “Oh, my God, Jones! Did we--”

“Relax,” Jughead said. “Nothing happened. I passed out in the wrong room.”

Kevin let out a relieved breath, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, almighty. You fucking idiot! G-Get out!”

“Alright,” Jughead groaned. “I’m going. Jeez, don’t be such a homophobe.”

Kevin threw a pillow at him.

Jughead stood but his head spun slightly and he had to sit back down. “Just give me a second. Fuck, where the fuck did Reggie get this shit?”

“He grows it himself. He calls it his own special strain.”

“Right.”  Jughead fell back in bed, pulling the pillow over his face. “Does he coat this stuff in roofies? Mother of God. What time is it?”

“It’s five in the morning,” Kevin replied, sighing. “Shit. I have to get up for work.”

Jughead did, too. “Five more minutes,” he moaned from under his pillow.

“You’re already awake. And you’ve had plenty sleep. We were all out by 8 last night.”

“Whatever. That shit was potent.”

“Potent enough to make out with Betty.”

Jughead remembered. He wasn’t so high that he would forget. “It was one kiss. No tongue, even. And we were both high, so I don’t even know if it counts.”

“Oh, it counts, Jones. You better think it does, or I will punch you in the fucking face.”

Jughead wasn’t going to argue. He wanted it to count, but that was not just up to him.  He sighed and curled up on his side.

Trying his very best to keep his eyes open, he directed his gaze at Kevin sheepishly. “So, I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me out.”

“Okay… in what way?”

“Like--does Betty like Italian food?”

Kevin’s expression fell flat and Jughead saw it.

“Okay, not Italian, then.” That certainly ruled out the cute tratorias he saw in town.

“French,” Kevin said. “She loves French food. She likes Italian just fine, but if you’re thinking of bringing her to the ones you saw in town, that would be tres boring.”

“It’s already gone from my mind. Any suggestions?”

“There’s a lovely French bistro just about 30 miles out. A little secret the upstate gays like to keep. It’s called Provence and it’s hidden in this cheap looking strip mall, but it’s awesome and Betty would love it.”

“You’re awesome, Kev. Have I told you that before?”

“Not lately, no.”

“You’re awesome.”

“Thank you. I try. Now we need to get a move on. It’s getting late...”

“Okay… should I leave the room first or should we--”

Kevin punched his arm. “That’s not funny!”

Jughead laughed in spite of himself. “No? I thought it was pretty funny.”

“Go now, Jones. I have to get ready for work! Are you helping today or staying in?”

“Helping. It’s delivery day, isn’t it? All hands on deck.”

“Then get your butt out of my bed.”

“Is this how you treat all of your one night stands?”

“Out!”

Jughead dragged himself out of Kevin’s room. As he padded to his room next door, he heard bustling downstairs in the kitchen. He supposed Betty was awake already.

Hurriedly, he showered and got dressed for the day.

By the time he ambled downstairs, his headache was almost gone and he was fully awake and ready to do his work.

Breakfast was already laid out on the table when he arrived at the kitchen.

When Betty saw him, she smiled brightly. “Good morning!” She handed him coffee and two tablets of Tylenol.

He was never so thankful of her near-psychic abilities. He popped the tablets in his mouth, washing it down with some water.

“Thanks,” Jughead said with a sigh. “How did you--”

“This was not the first time I’ve had Reggie’s weed,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s something else,” Jughead said, sinking into a seat as he sipped his coffee. “I woke up in Kevin’s room.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Nothing happened,” Jughead drawled. “I passed out there last night by mistake.”

He could tell that she was stifling a laugh.

“You find this funny?”

She nodded, her lips pursed tightly as her eyes danced with merriment. “And what did Kevin have to say about it?”

“He threw me out. Rudely. What a queen.”

She laughed this time, taking a seat beside him. “I’m a bit surprised you’re up. You don’t have to get up like everyone else. You’re not being paid to do this. Maybe I should pay you.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t exactly explain to her how all this farm work was making him feel so much a part of something while getting him far in the workings of his book. This was becoming a defining experience. “I like this work. I enjoy it.”

“I love it, but I get something out of it.”

“So do I.”

She smiled at him plaintively, and right now, the way they were seated at the table, he was reminded of their conversation the day before, when they weren’t high, and she was letting him hold her hand, and her knee. He wondered about that more than the kiss, because they were both clear of mind.

There was shuffling from the stairs and he could have sworn Betty had exhaled a frustrated sigh.

Kevin arrived, and shortly Farmer John and Reggie.  

Whatever talk they needed to have, Jughead would have to wait a while longer.

***

The hired kids arrived at the farm and there was a constant flurry of activity.  Bath products and cheeses were packed in boxes, labeled, inventoried, and loaded in trucks.

The loading was perhaps the easiest. It was the cataloguing that took forever, and it required multiple people working at once.

Jughead was in charge of looking down a list and making sure bath products and labels matched. The kids were sharp, and they didn’t take bullshit, but they appeared to like him. Maybe there was some kind of radar between kids that grew up in tough homes. Maybe they knew each other, because Jughead saw it in their eyes, that wariness of strangers, that kindred recognition of shared pain, and that need for someone-- anyone to understand, even if that someone was no good for you, like a gang.

“Mr. Jones,” said one of the kids, a young girl with tight dreads and wearing thick baggy clothes in spite of the late summer heat. Her name was Kaela, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.

“What’d I say, Kaela?” he reminded her, smirking.

She grinned. “Jughead.”

“That’s better.”

She gestured to his arm, where the sleeve of tattoos were visible on his forearms. “Are those gang tattoos?”  

Jughead debated telling them at first. Did admitting he was in a gang affirm their need for them? Or was this something that would actually be helpful to them?  He decided that lying to them wouldn’t help anything to begin with, so he nodded. “Most of them are.”

At this point, there were three other sets of ears listening to him speak as they worked.   

“Are you still in the gang?” Kaela asked.

He shook his head. “No. I got out of it.”

“How’d you do that?”

He chose his words carefully. He was lucky. He had people around him. These kids may believe they have no one, and if they thought the gang was their only ticket out, they may lose hope. “I wanted out, so I had to find a way. I did, but it wasn’t easy. I had to find something I could do without the gang to back me up. I had to be independent from them, but I came to realize something important: I needed help. It took some doing to trust other people, but when I did begin to trust, I got help the help I needed. I could have had a dozen friends outside of the gang willing to help me, but if I didn’t let them, then none of their kindness would’ve mattered.”

He paused, watching the faces around him and letting his words sink in.  He had a kind of optimism for the world, no matter how shitty his childhood had been. There will always be people willing to reach out, even if they weren’t people like Archie and Veronica’s family.  There were teachers, social workers, foster families--you just had to let go, painfully, of the ones you trusted first. In his case, it had been his parents.  

“My dad was in jail and my mom thought I would follow right after him,” Jughead continued. “I didn’t have them around to give me a hand, and the sooner I realized that they weren’t going to become the parents I wanted them to be, I was able to see the help other strangers offered. The gang was the easiest one, of course, but even if you don’t see it now, it will come with a heavy price later. Had I stayed in the gang, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have written two books and made money off it.”

Another kid, a young boy wearing a purple top and skinny jeans, raised a hand.

Jughead chuckled. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Dante. This isn’t a classroom. You got a question for me?”

“Yeah. You published a couple of books? What are they called?”

“ Epistrophe and Goodbye, Sugar Pie Blues.”

“I read that!” Dante cried. “I read that first one! You’re J. Jones!”

Jughead was a little surprised. Not that he didn’t think any of these kids read, but his books weren’t exactly on the class list.  And these kids were too young for them, anyway. Then again, he remembered he had been reading wildly outside of his supposed reading level by the time he was 13, and all these kids were at least 16 years old.

“His hero’s a black dude, yo!” Dante proclaimed, grinning. “I totally dig it. He plays a mean trumpet and he solves crimes. I haven’t gotten to the second book, but I want to!”

Several kids surrounding him, many of them kids of color, rose up and started asking Dante about Epistrophe. Dante said he didn’t want to give them all the details, but that he really liked the book and that Jughead was pretty good at this writing shit.

Jughead couldn’t help but chuckle, a warmth blooming in his chest. He always wanted to have this kind of experience with kids, but his books were not age appropriate, so he’d never really interacted with 16 year olds about his book. This was certainly out of the ordinary.

Betty came up to them, probably drawn by the excited ruckus surrounding him. She slipped an arm over his shoulders and rubbed gently, smiling down on him as he sat on one of the work benches.  

“Betty, Jughead is a writer!” Kaela cried, completely oblivious to the fact that Betty probably would’ve known that.

Betty grinned. “I knew that, Kaela, but yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

“So he wrote this book I read,” Dante said excitedly. “And I was just telling these fools how they should check it out.”

“They’re not for 16 year olds,” Jughead told Betty aside. “But I haven’t the heart to--”

Betty patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Dante, what’d your momma think about you reading that book?”

Dante shrugged. “She okay with it. So long as I was reading. And he an interesting character. Got demons, and he fightin’ through it, doing good even if he needs that fix. He should be getting help, but it’s tough. It’s tough! Is he getting better in the next book?”

Jughead wasn’t one to give out spoilers, but he felt there was a lesson here. “A little. But it’s never easy, Dante, so I have to show that, too. I wanted it to be honest.”

Dante and several kids around him nodded.

“Yeah,” Dante said. “Yeah, J. D’as honest. Ain’t easy or pretty.”

“He’s a lot better in the third book. And he’s met someone. I haven’t told anyone that except my editor, so you guys have the inside scoop.”

Dante squealed and bumped the kid closest to him with his shoulder. Everyone oohed around him, giggling and bouncing on their seats.

Jughead felt their excitement and maybe it was times like these that he felt outside of himself and he realized he was part of something bigger whether he liked it or not.

“Anyone else interested in reading my books?” Jughead asked.

Hands shot up in the air.  

“Okay, so listen,” he said. “My books aren’t for kids--”

Betty giggled. “Yeah, that’s going to make them not read it.”

The kids around them laughed loudly.

She was right, of course, and his chest was bubbling with his own delight. “As I was saying-- so I’m going to ask you nicely to tell your parents or guardians about it first, but if you want to read my book, give me your addresses and I’ll send you copies, free. Cool?”

“Yeah!” everyone cried, clapping excitedly.  

Dante frowned. “Do I get a copy? I read the one from the library--”

“Of course you’ll get one, Dante. I’ll sign all the copies, how about that?”

“D’as cool, J. Thanks!” He held up a fist. Jughead bumped it, and Dante drew him into a somewhat elaborate handshake that Jughead could only go with, which he did with unexpected grace.

When the kids finally settled down, flush with the prospect of getting new books in the mail signed by the author who wrote them, Betty gave him a hug from behind and whispered in his ear.

“Thank you.”

He grinned and looked over his shoulder at her. “A hug? That’s it?”

Her cheeks flamed red and she bit her lip, grinning. She leaned over and gave him an unhurried kiss on his cheek. He shifted, perhaps hoping to catch her lips with his, and he almost did. Her eyes gleamed knowingly and he practically dared her with his eyes to try it again.

A chorus of excited squeals and shouts erupted around them.

“Betty and Jughead sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” chanted the kids all at once.

Jughead chuckled and Betty’s face got redder. She laughed and pulled away, telling all the kids to settle down, they’d had their fun.

She had to leave and attend to other things and Jughead could only watch her go.

Kaela nudged Jughead’s shoulder and nodded approvingly. “That was smooth, yo, but a chick like that ain’t easy. You gotta keep at it.”

Jughead nodded, chuckling. Many of these kids had worked at the farm many times and he could tell they regarded Betty with reverence. She was teaching them things that were helping them in real life, and Kevin had mentioned that she always offered them sanctuary and refuge, free of charge. It didn’t surprise Betty that she didn’t get more kids coming to her when they needed someone like her to look out for them. She was absolutely aware that they were afraid she wouldn’t understand--the woman in the big house with the fancy soaps, but she tried, anyway, whenever she had these monthly shipments, or when she dropped in at the nearest youth center.

“They came more frequently when Trev was here,” Kevin had explained. “But it’s been tougher to get their trust since he died, even with Farmer John here. Not their fault. They’d gotten burned so many times.”

Jughead knew what that was like. This group had regulars and they were the most likely to run to the farm for help, but it was difficult to communicate that all were welcome.

“Got any tips?” Jughead asked Kaela.

“Cook her dinner. Ladies love that,” Kaela said, winking.

“No way in hell I can cook anything better than Betty can. What do you think about me bringing her to some fancy French bistro?”

Kaela gave it a thought then nodded. “Sounds good, Jughead. I think you might get points for that.”

Jughead chuckled. He gave her shoulder a nudge. “Thanks. Now let’s get this batch packed, or Kevin’s going to come over and nag us…”

Betty flopped on the couch, exhausted by delivery day as she always was, but it was always the good kind of exhaustion, partly because it was the culmination of a month’s worth of work in bath products and six month’s work in cheese. Cheryl had made an appearance at some point, frightening all but two teenagers whom she appointed as her minions to help with quality control and dispatch.

But when it got too hot and when her minions were taken from her, she retired to her room, claiming a headache.

The rest of them carried on until the end of the day. She paid all the kids their due in cash and she fed them all before they left. She sent them away with packed dinners, as well. She knew the kids loved sharing their takeaway with their families.

Kevin, Reggie, and Farmer John had already left and Betty did some last minute cleanup with Jughead’s help.

No matter how tired she got on delivery day, however, it was always worth the effort. The kids had a fulfilling day and that’s what mattered. They earned their pay, they were fed delicious food, and Jughead promised them signed copies of his book.

She listened to Jughead talking to his agent on the phone, telling her to send twenty copies of both his books to the farm and mailing labels for when he sends them out to the kids.

“I’ll email their addresses to you,” Jughead said, with all the surety of having people getting things done for him. “Thanks, Ethel. Bye.”

He collapsed on the other end of the couch, sighing and leaning his head back on the soft cushion. “What a day,” he said. “What a great day.”

When he said things like that, she was halfway ready to throw herself on him and possibly do unimaginable things to him.

She sank back on the couch, probably to restrain herself. “It was. And thank you so much for all the things you did, helping out, offering your books… you’re a wonderful human being, Juggie.”

He waved away her words bashfully. “It was nothing.”

“It meant a lot to the kids. And they really liked you. It’s like you spoke their language.”

He shrugged. “Just a shared experience, I think. More than half of these kids are being recruited by gangs, if they aren’t there already. I get it, so they don’t feel like they have to explain themselves.”

She nodded, sighing. “I understand. A lot of people have let them down. Trust is difficult and it’s on me for them to gain that trust.”

“They love you, Betts,” he said reassuringly, reaching out to rub her feet. “They look at you and they see an angel.”

She tried not to get too distracted by the warmth and strength of his hands. She tilted her gaze at him. “I don’t want to be an angel. I want to be the kind old lady they feel they can come to.”

He chuckled. “Alright, first of all, none of them will ever see you as an old lady. Secondly, these kids need an angel to look to. Their lives can be very dark. They need to follow a light. And last but not least, many of them already feel they can come to you. Just be patient. They’ll see it--that you care. Besides, you’re not alone in this. Maybe for some kids, it’s Kev or Farmer John who brings them in. Maybe it’s me. Who knows? Whatever it takes, right?”

It felt nice to have someone to talk to like this at the end of the day. She could recall many times in her life the past six years where she just wished she could sit on a couch and unwind with someone about both serious and silly things. Someone who didn’t have to go when the wine or tea was done. Someone who was actually going to stay.

Even if Jughead’s stay was only temporary, extended though it was, it felt for now like he was sticking around.

“I’m glad you’re here, Juggie,” she said, softly. Tiredly.

He rubbed her foot a bit more before patting it lightly. “Get you to bed, Cooper. You did good work today. You deserve a good night’s rest.”

He was right, and loathe as she was to remove her feet from Jughead’s soothing massage, she sighed. “You, too.”

He nodded. “I’ll be up in a bit. Thought I might watch an episode of Parks and Rec . I miss me some Leslie Knope.”

What will it take, she thought, for her to just go ahead and jump his bones? He was possibly everything she wanted in a man: Kind, handsome, watches Parks and Rec… She might have leapt the distance of the couch to kiss him and do God-knew-what if Cheryl’s call of, “Betty, honey, can you come up here? I think I may have a case of contact dermatitis!”

Betty threw back her head and moaned miserably.

Oh, Cheryl.

“Better get up there,” Jughead said, smirking.

Betty rose from the couch and headed for the stairs. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Juggie.”

“G’night, Betts.”

Maybe tomorrow, she could find a minute to jump his bones.  

**********

Jughead plopped on his bed, cleaned and dressed in his pajamas. It had been a long and fulfilling day, topped off with some quiet time with Betty in the living room and a good episode of Parks and Rec .  

If he was going to be completely honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to knock on Betty’s bedroom door and sweep her into his arms, but he seriously did not want to fuck this up.  

According to Kaela, he needed to take Betty out to dinner first.

That, he could do.

His phone rang, and he was suddenly reminded of the fact that it was around the time he needed to call either Archie or Veronica and update them of his very calm life at the farm. He expected it to be one of them, but he was mildly surprised to see that it was his father.

His dad never called.

Sure, they talked, but only because Jughead called him. Jughead had realized that Forsythe Pendleton II never called because he didn’t think he had a right to disturb his son. Maybe to a certain point, Jughead had agreed with him, but the last couple of years should have queued FP to the fact that his son didn’t mind anymore if he called. Jughead had, after all, helped his father get a house and cover the cost of closing it.

So when Jughead picked up, he was a little worried. “Dad? Everything alright?”

FP was quiet for a heartbeat over the line, then he sniffed. “Not so much, son. I wouldn’t call you if I don’t need help, but I do. I need help.”

Jughead sat up, his stomach bottoming out. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you--” he closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. “Are you drinking?”

“I’m not drinking,” said FP, much to Jughead’s relief. “But it’s a bad night, kid. It’s a bad night and I’ve had them before and managed, but I had my sponsor. My sponsor’s out of the country right now, and the guy he left me with isn’t picking up. I’ve been trying, but he isn’t picking up.  I can’t--”

“Dad,” Jughead said, calming his own voice. “Do you need me to go to you?”

FP was silent for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t ask if--”

“I’ll be there in an hour. Just hold on, okay? Think you can handle that?”

“Maybe,” he said, sighing. “I’ll try, kid.  Just--just hurry.”

“Listen, between now and then, call me. We’ll talk. We’ll get through this, okay?”

“Okay. Okay, kid.”

“Okay. Talk to you in a bit.”  

Jughead turned off his phone and sighed, running his hands through his hair. His father had come a long way. He’d done so much better, and even if by all accounts, FP didn’t deserve his son’s help, Jughead was going to give it.  

He checked his Uber app and there wasn’t a service available within 20 miles. He didn’t have time to wait for a car to arrive. He had to go now.

Steeling himself, he went across the hall to Betty’s room.  Then he knocked.

*********

When Betty opened the door, her eyes looked drowsy from sleep. She was in a cami and pajamas with little stars on it, and her hair was pillow tossed, beautiful even in her disturbed rest, but she smiled and Jughead wished he was there under better circumstances.

Perhaps seeing the look on his face, her smile faded to a concerned frown. “Is everything alright, Juggie?”

He swallowed, a wave of embarrassment overcoming him, but he told himself that this was for his father. For all of FP’s faults, he had always tried to be there for his son.  “I hate to do this, Betts, but I--I need transportation. I need to get to my dad.”

She began to look alarmed. “God, is he okay? Has something happened to him?”

He shook his head, holding his hands up. “He’s okay for now, but--he needs my help. I have to get to him or he might--” He tried to find the words. “He might fall off the wagon. He’s been sober the last five and a half years and--”

“Give me five minutes,” Betty said quickly. “I’ll be right down.”

He blinked at her unexpected response. “Y-You don’t need to drive me. He’s about an hour away and I don’t--I can drive--”

“Where does he live?”

“Tarrytown, New York.”

“I can get you there in forty minutes. I know shortcuts. And I’m not going to let you drive out alone in the dark in your state.”

“I can’t have you driving there, drop me off, then drive back alone.”

“I won’t. I’m not going to leave you there.”

“I may have to stay overnight.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have to do as well.”

“Betty--”

“Juggie--”

“I can’t put this on you, Betts!”

It was only then he realized the frantic tone in his voice. The panic rising in his chest. He wanted so hard for his father to be okay. He dreaded the day his father would get lost in his alcohol again. He didn’t want his father to slide back. He wanted his dad to keep moving forward.

He sighed with a shaky breath, whispering apologies, but she reached out and held him by the shoulders.

“Juggie,” she said softly. “Let me help you, so that you can help your father.”

Pursing his lips, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  

She gave him a small smile. “It’s going to be okay.” She rubbed his shoulders firmly, and he felt some of his worry melting away.  “Five minutes.”

“Ten is fine. I don’t want to hurry you too much.”

She gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded. “I’ll meet you outside at the truck. Tell your dad we’re on our way.”

She closed her door and got ready. He turned and realized he needed to get dressed himself.  He pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a coat. He hurriedly got on a pair of socks and his boots, then jamming his beanie on his head, he made his way down the stairs, out of the house, and straight to her truck outside.

Not long after, Betty emerged from the doors, wearing jeans, a wide-necked shirt, and a cable-knit cardigan. She had tied her hair up in a bun and slung over her shoulder was a large bag.

Before he could ask her what the bag was, she had placed the bag on the truck bed and told him to get in the truck.  

They were out of the farm in minutes and Betty was turning down the road towards the highway.  

“My favorite Miller lives in Tarrytown. I get all my flour and grains from him,” she explained. “He grinds everything with an ancient looking contraption that he made, but it produces the best flours any dessert chef could dream of.”

Jughead appreciated her efforts to calm him and he smiled tightly.  

She smiled back and then left him to his thoughts. Silences with Betty were always comfortable, but after twenty minutes of total silence, he itched to hear her voice again. It always had a calming effect on him.  

“Dad’s sponsor is out of town,” he explained softly. “And the guy who was supposed to stand in for him isn’t picking up. Dad’s always been cagey about asking me for anything. When he does, it’s something like a testimonial for his parole officer, and once when he needed me to take a look at his resume for a job--he didn’t get the job, but he told me he uses the same resume over and over again and it was the thing that got him the job he has now working as a supervisor in construction. This is the one big thing he’s asked of me, and if my bike weren’t out of commission, this wouldn’t even be such a big thing--”

“Juggie,” she interrupted gently. “I never would’ve let you go on your bike this time of night. It isn’t safe. This isn’t the city. Besides, friends don’t let friends go out alone when they’re upset.”

He supposed he should be glad she was doing this out of friendship and not guest relations.

His phone rang and it was his father.

“Dad? You okay?” he asked the moment he picked up.

“Kid, I need you to talk to me. I need to hear your voice. I’m--I’m really struggling here.”

Jughead closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his seat.  “What do you feel like talking about, dad?”

“Anything. I don’t know. Just tell me something, anything that I might have done right, you know? Before I became this complete fuck up.”

He sighed. “Dad…”

Sometimes it pained Jughead to hear him say these things, because it meant FP couldn’t summon the memory of his kids and family to hold on to, but all that white noise was just echos of resentment past.  Jughead had to remind himself that FP had been fighting his demons for so long that some things just didn’t come easy for him and that if he had been FP’s sponsor, none of this judgement would’ve been in the equation at all.

“Do you remember that time when I was nine and you took me and Jellybean to the food festival in Edison?”

FP was silent for a heartbeat. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

“Mom didn’t go with us that day. She was upset about something so she stayed home.”

FP chuckled. “Don’t ask me what she was upset about. All of it’s jumbled in my head. Everything about me upsets your mother.”

Jughead grinned in spite of himself. “I was kind of glad that it was just you. If mom wasn’t there, it meant there was little to no chance that Jelly and I would have to watch you two fight. So it was nice, just the three of us, enjoying the food fair.”

“Yeah, I really enjoyed that day.”

“We didn’t get everything we asked for, but you were strategic. You got us the high-carb, dense stuff. All the foods that gave us the most bang for your buck. Fries, huge burgers, carb-heavy corn dogs--basically foods that were cheap but would sit in our bellies like a ton of bricks. Jelly and I were so stuffed that day that we didn’t even ask for dinner.”

“That Jones appetite, kid. Your stomachs could eat through an entire week’s paycheck!”

Jughead chuckled. “But that wasn’t even the best part, dad. At the end of the day, you brought me and Jelly to some gift shop. It sold really cheap things, but you told us you were going to guess what we would like and if you guessed wrong, you would have to buy us two things each.”

“Yeah! And I got you both good!”

Jughead nodded. “Yeah. You got Jelly that stuffed pony, which she loved, and you got me a notebook.”

“I may have been a shitty father but I know what you kids like.”

“You do.  That notebook was the best thing I’ve ever gotten. I looked at those blank pages and all I can think of were words to fill them. It was the day I realized that writing was something I really wanted to do, because it was the day I realized that all the words I had in my head could be put on a blank page. I am what I am right now because you gave me that notebook that day.”

FP sighed and Jughead could hear him sniffing through the line.  After a few seconds, FP chuckled. “Thanks, kid. I needed that.”

“Anytime, dad.”

“I think I’m good for now. You getting here soon?”

“Another twenty minutes.”

“I think I’ll be fine. I can’t wait to see you, son.”

“Me too.”

FP clicked off the phone and Jughead sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

He heard the sound of sniffing, and when he looked up, he realized that Betty was crying.  “Betts, are you okay?”

She gave an embarrassed laugh, wiping her eyes with her fingers.  “I’m good. It’s just--that was beautiful.” She reached over and held his hand. “You have such a big heart, Juggie.”

“You say that as if yours isn’t the size of the moon.”

He could feel her thumb rubbing the back of his hand.

“I guess it takes one to know one,” she quipped, smiling at him.  

They reached Tarrytown quickly enough, and as Betty drove through the silent streets of the town, Jughead focused on directing her to the right house.

Unlike before, where FP lived in a trailer park, Jughead had gotten him a one-bedroom home just off the main road. It had two floors and a tall angled roof. Quaint and easy to maintain, FP kept it clean inside and out, which Jughead was always glad to see.  

They were barely up the porch steps when the door opened and FP met them.

Jughead felt his father’s strong arms surround him.  His father was just the slightest bit smaller than he was in height, and FP’s shoulders were broader, scruff thicker. That was where their differences ended. In everything else, they looked alike--eyes, hair, the shape of their face.  If not for FP’s extra facial hair, Jughead was a dead ringer for his father.

If Jughead hadn’t turned away from the gang, their fates would have been the same as well.

“Dad,” Jughead said against his shoulder.  “You alright?”

FP pulled back and held him by the face. “I am now. Come inside. And… uh, aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”

Jughead nodded and stretched his arm out to Betty, who stepped into his circle. “This is Betty Cooper. I’ve been staying at her B&B the last couple of weeks and she was kind enough to drive me here. My bike’s out and I couldn’t get to you otherwise.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Betty. My friends call me FP.” He put out his hand.

She took it and shook it properly. “How do you do, FP?  I’m glad to meet you.”

“Thank you for driving my boy here. Very kind of you.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Anything for Jughead. I know you two need to talk, so I can wait out here if you like--”

“Don’t be silly,” FP said. “Please come on in. Jughead and I will be fine having you in the living room.  Let me get that for you.”

Jughead noticed the bag she had again, and he wondered about it. What was in it that she had to lug it all the way here? It didn’t look particularly light. Did she bring an overnight bag?

FP set the bag aside and offered her the couch.  “Would you like something to drink, Betty? I’m afraid I only have soda, though.”

“I’m good, FP. You and Jughead should talk,” she said, gently.

FP looked gratefully at her for a heartbeat before turning to Jughead.  “Wanna talk upstairs for a bit, kid?”

Jughead nodded. “Yeah, dad. Of course. You go ahead and I’ll be right with you.”

FP headed for the stairs, and when he heard the bedroom door upstairs close, he looked worriedly at Betty.

He fell beside her on the couch and without thinking, took her hands in his. “Are you going to be okay?”

She tilted her gaze at him, giving him a mildly chastising look. “Don’t worry about me. Go be with your dad. I’m fine right here, and I’ve got a book. I’ll wait all night and all day if I have to. Go on, now.”

He searched her gaze and saw that there was nothing but concern there. She gave him an encouraging nudge in the direction of the stairs.

“Go,” she said, gently.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him and touched his cheek with her fingers. “You’re welcome.”

Tearing himself away from her, he made for the stairs and went to his father.

Once Betty oriented herself in FP’s kitchen and she’d put away her things in his refrigerator, Betty sat on the couch and read the last few chapters of Epistrophe as she waited. The story was mesmerizing enough and the character so engrossing that she barely noticed the time. She understood halfway through why this book was a New York Times bestseller, but by the time she was done, she was enthralled by Jughead’s gift for words and narrative.

This was an amazing book. And he was an amazing writer.  She wished she had brought the second book so that she could start on it immediately.

She stood from the couch, finding the shelf of books underneath FP’s staircase. She loved it when people made full use of their spaces. Shelves under the stairs was one of her design fantasies. She wanted to do it for her own stairs but she kept putting the project off. She was delighted by the one FP had.

She looked at the books and sure enough, at eye level, were several copies of Jughead’s novels. They were in different editions and formats, different languages and covers. It was FP’s collection of his son’s accomplishments. It made her heart warm for father and son.

She was looking over the French edition, which had a fascinating cover, when she heard the bedroom door upstairs open.  She peered over the overhang and through the balustrades.

She saw Jughead coming down the stairs. He looked tired, but he didn’t seem to be in any distress.  

She smiled and met him at the foot of the stairs. “Hey, you. Everything good?”

Jughead nodded, smiling back at her and running a hand through his hair. It was a mess on his head, but that somehow always just added to his charm and devastating good looks. “Yeah, it’s all good. Listen, I have to stay with my dad overnight, just until he could get ahold of a new sponsor. You’re welcome to stay here, but you don’t have to. It’s late, so I’d feel a lot better if you stay here and not drive by yourself, but--”

“How are you going to get back home?” she asked, forgetting completely that Riverdale Farms was not his home, really.

He didn’t seem to mind, however. “I’ll take an Uber tomorrow. I could wait for it this time.”

She frowned. “It will cost you a ton.”

He rubbed her shoulder, smiling appreciatively. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more.”

“It’s totally not an inconvenience, Juggie,” she insisted. “And I don’t mind staying here, at all. I can bunk on the couch.” Then she remembered that he needed a place to sleep. “Or the floor. I don’t care.”

He laughed softly. “I will never let you sleep on the floor, Betts. Neither will dad. He will beat me, first, before he lets that happen. You can stay on the couch. It’s a sofa bed, so it’ll be relatively comfortable.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Dad said he has a futon lying around--”

She gave him a lopsided look. “So you’re staying on the floor.”

“I’m used to it. Homeless, remember?”

“Jughead,” she said in a firm, unwavering tone.  “I don’t care if you grew up sleeping in trains. You are not sleeping on the floor while I sleep on the couch. We’ll fit on the sofabed. You hear?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his eyes roving to the referred-to couch. Then he looked back at her hesitantly. “You sure?”

She nodded, broadly. “Absolutely. We’re both adults and I think we can sleep on a couch without being embarrassed about it.”

“Oh, I’m not embarrassed.” His eyes did not waver from hers, and she felt her cheeks warming at the intensity of his gaze.

“Good,” she replied, softy. “Now, do you and FP need a break? Are you hungry?  I can whip something up if you are.”

Jughead looked up at his father’s bedroom door. “He may be. He might have mentioned McDonald’s, mostly because it’s the only joint in town open 24 hours.”

She tutted. “I can do better than that. Tell him to come down. We can have a hot meal.”

“Um, I doubt there’s anything in my father’s refrigerator.”

“There wasn’t,” she replied smartly. “But there is, now. Ten minutes and I’ll have something for you.”

“Betty--”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He put his hands up. “Fine. I’ll tell him.”

She nodded and headed for the kitchen.  “Ten minutes!” She heard Jughead’s footsteps climbing the stairs and she set to work immediately, opening the refrigerator to choose what she should make for the Joneses this evening.

She had brought some homemade beef stroganoff, dry ingredients separated from the wet. She started the steps to heat everything, from the stroganoff, to the pasta.  She took some of her fresh bread and sliced a few pieces to go with the dish.

The dish was hearty and it would be filling, so she needed a dessert to contrast the savory with the sweet.

She started to preheat the oven, just so she could stick her pie in there for heating.  She would have loved to top that pie with ice cream, but she wasn’t sure if the ice cream would make the trip. She had enough faith in her apple pie, anyway, to have it stand alone.

Just as the food was ready, Jughead and FP came down.  

“I didn’t think there was anything in my kitchen that could smell that good,” FP said as he walked in.  

Betty was just laying out the plates for them. Jughead jumped in to help.  

“I come prepared, FP,” she said, cheerfully. “I hope you like it. It’s beef stroganoff. Homemade, of course, and I’ve got Apple Pie for dessert.”

FP looked more than a little surprised, arching an eyebrow at Jughead. “Where’d she get that? I swear there was nothing in my fridge.”

“Betty knows magic,” Jughead said, straightfaced. “She graduated from Hogwarts a few years ago.”

“What?” FP reacted, confused.

She shot Jughead a gently scolding look and Jughead smirked.

“Stop teasing your father, Juggie. FP, this is just what I do. I feed people. It’s kind of like a neurosis. It’s the easiest way to make people happy.”

FP took a seat at the table. “Well, it’s working. Son, get a move on, will ya?”

“I’m moving as fast as I could, dad. Take it easy.”

Betty watched them banter, smiling at the easy cadence of their gentle ribbing and private jokes. The tension in Jughead’s shoulders from earlier was gone, and his smile was constant, easy to come. The blues in his eyes, so often stormy on the calmest of days, now radiated with oceanic hues. At this moment, he was transformed. A doting father’s son.

She didn’t know FP, but she recognized a proud papa when she saw one. He talked about his collection under the stairs, about how he bragged to everyone he knew about J. Jones, bestselling author. He told everyone that one day, Jughead’s books would be turned into movies and his son would walk the red carpet.

“Dad,” Jughead had groaned, face red. “That happens in one in ten thousand books.”

“Who cares? It’s good enough to be a movie. My friends and I have worked this out. Your detective’s gonna be that guy in the big robots movie. The one where they fight giant monsters, what’s his name?”

“Idris Elba!” Betty cried, nodded. “Yes! Oh, yes! He’ll be perfect!”

Jughead cast her a tilted look. “Don’t encourage him.”

“It’s fun,” she said. “Then of course we’ll need a hot young star for the role of Justin.”

“Naturally,” FP said, shoving some stroganoff in his mouth. He made a sound of appreciation. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is amazing.”

She beamed. “I’m glad you like it. Have as much as you like. There’s plenty other food for breakfast tomorrow.”

FP cocked a smile. “You don’t need to convince me.”

“Juggie, have some. There’s plenty for everyone,” she told him, nudging his shoulder with her own.

He was staring at her, his eyes half-lidded with his tilted smile, and she felt, strongly, adoration in that gaze. It made her feel giddy with accomplishment.  

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” he told her in a low voice.

She felt her face warming intensely.  

“Language, kid,” FP mumbled through mouths full of pasta.

Jughead did not break his gaze from her. “Sorry, dad. For a second I forgot you were there.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see FP rolling his eyes, and Betty had to stifle a giggle, but she didn’t feel embarrassed, just so damn thrilled by the look in Jughead’s eyes.

When Jughead did manage to tear his eyes from her, he had some of the food, which he loved. He always did appreciate her cooking.

The apple pie hit the spot, and the Joneses finished more than half of it. Whatever appetite Jughead had, he had come by it honestly.  Perhaps it was the whipped cream that FP did happen to have in his refrigerator.

“I usually have that whipped cream for dessert,” FP confessed.

Betty arched an eyebrow. “Just that?”

FP shrugged. “I don’t cook.”

“You poor thing.”

“Maybe I should head on over to your farm when I’m feeling sorry for myself,” FP joked.

Jughead’s scowl was serious when he said, “Dad.”

Betty chuckled. “You can come to the farm anytime, FP.  I always have an open seat at my table.”

FP looked at Jughead smugly, wagging a finger in Betty’s direction. “You hear that, son?  That was clearly an invitation.”

Jughead cast him a warning look and she couldn’t help but rub Jughead’s arm soothingly.

“I’m not joking, FP,” she said. “Come for comfort and conversation. We’d be happy to have you. God knows, when it’s just me and my farmhands, it can get real quiet in the farm.” She tried not to let the sudden pang of loneliness overwhelm her.  Sooner or later, Jughead would be gone, and then it would be just her again. Kevin and Farmer John helped, but when the house was quiet and the only sound was her and the television, she shunned anything alcoholic, as it was a one way ticket to Depressionville.

FP nodded. “I appreciate that, Betty. I’ll take you up on that from time to time, but not so much as to embarrass my kid. I try not to be a mooch.” He winked.

She grinned. “Please. It’s as much for me as it is for you.”

Jughead’s gaze darted in her direction, sharp and intense, then it gentled, the warmth spreading from his gaze into her limbs. He held the hand that she had put on his arm and she did not pull away.

After dinner, FP said he was ready to knock off. He went to his son and gave him a firm embrace, thanking Jughead for being there when he needed him.

“You’ll make sure Betty’s comfortable?”  FP asked.  

Jughead nodded. “We’ve got it worked out.”

“You want to stay in my room on the futon?  Give Betty some privacy in the living room?”

Betty pursed her lips, waiting to find out what Jughead had to say about it.

It was fascinating to see Jughead’s face going red in the midst of his father’s awkward inquiries. “We’re good, dad.”

FP’s eyebrow arched slowly before he nodded, his face completely neutral. “Okay.  You kids have fun.”

“Jesus, dad,” Jughead said with an exasperated sigh. “We’re just sleeping. And we’re not kids. I’m almost thirty years old.”

FP put up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it!  Goodnight, Betty. If Jughead does anything untoward, just holler, alright?”

“Christ!”

Betty giggled. “He’s always the perfect gentleman, FP.”

“Oh, yeah? I hope not too perfect.”

“I’m done,” Jughead said, walking out of the kitchen.  

FP laughed, following his son. “I’m just teasing!  Okay, I’m finished. I’m going to bed.”

When FP was gone, Betty followed into the living room where she saw Jughead unfolding the sofabed.  

“I’ll grab some clean sheets for this and I know that dad’s got a couple of extra pillows in the linen closet. Do you, um, need stuff? Sleep shirt? Toothbrush? I know we left your house in a hurry…”

She smiled, amused by his sudden nervousness. “I’ve got a toothbrush. And I did pack sleep shorts. I’ll wear this shirt. I’m not as high maintenance as I look.”

He chuckled uneasily. “I didn’t think you were. Bathroom’s over there. I’m going to get the sheets and then change into some of dad’s clothes.”

“Okay.”

He hurried off, probably just needing his awkwardness to end. She thought it terribly cute. He was so self assured in almost everything, but she supposed having his father in the next room made him seem younger.    

She went to the bathroom, changed into her shorts, and brushed her teeth. She shook out her hair after pulling it off its bun and looked at herself, perhaps allowing herself a wicked smile.

She took out her phone and texted a message to Kevin and Cheryl, telling them a little of what happened. The farm will continue without her the next morning.

By the time she got out, Jughead was in pajamas and a shirt that said, “Rock the Dad Bod.”

Betty tried her very best not to laugh.  

He could tell she was trying not to laugh. Her eyes were bright with merriment and she was biting her lip. It was distracting enough that he was torn between acknowledging how ridiculous his t-shirt was and telling her how breathlessly beautiful she was in her shorts and cami with her hair down. Her mirth won. “Okay, so I gave my dad this shirt.”

She finally giggled. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“ Godfather , right?”

She shook her head. “ Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan . Don Corleone's words were ‘Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is cold.’”

God, I need this woman in my life.

“Well, this bod is tired,” he said, finishing with the sheet.

She took the pillows and plopped one on each side of the sofabed while he picked up a comforter and handed it to her.

She spread it over the sofa bed and he realized she was willing to share the blanket with him. He hesitated for only a moment, watching her go under the sheets and tucking herself in. Willing his nerves to settle, he went on his side and pulled the blanket over him.

The sofabed was not as big as he thought, and he was totally aware of the fact that she was only inches away. He could even feel some of her body heat, and it was tempting to just roll over and fold her into his arms, not just because he wanted her to be closer, but because she had been a wonderful friend to him.

He turned on his side and marveled at how perfect she looked lying in bed. Beside him. “I meant what I said, earlier. You’re fucking amazing.”

She gave him a shy smile. “I just care about people.”

“Yeah. You do.”  He desperately wanted to kiss her, but his father was upstairs and he was reminded of his dad’s words just minutes ago, when he had said, “I hate to be a killjoy, kid, but I’d like to be able to walk out of my bedroom without having to worry about seeing things, ya hear?”

It was admittedly a boner killer, the mere thought that his father could walk out on them doing unmentionable things.

Not that he thought Betty would let him. Even with her staring at him right now, looking like his kiss would be welcome.

“Goodnight, Juggie,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Betts.”

She closed her eyes. He didn’t. Not for a while.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home, The Mighty Omelette

“What is more versatile than an omelette? It is the one perfect dish that you can make in a pinch, whether you’re low on ingredients or have an overabundance of it, the omelette can both satisfy or lean light.  All you need are eggs, salt, and a couple of ingredients that you can throw in it. You can have it with cheese or without. You can make it as rich or as healthy as you prefer.

The trick, however, is in keeping it fluffy. You may be tempted to pat an omelette down, but really, just like any other food, you have to let it come to its own at some point...”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

The warmth was heavenly, easing the knots on her body that she so often woke with.

Sleep, for her, had seldom given her that boneless rest. Sleep was so often a reminder of how alone she was, first after Trev’s death and then later just--

By itself.

The largeness of the bed, the heat that was so exclusively hers and no one else’s, all served as a reminder that the void remained, even when she reached out and offered herself up to the world.

But now. Now.

Between waking and sleeping, she felt cocooned in strong arms, a firm back, and limbs tangled in limbs. She moaned contentedly, nestling herself deeper into this unexpected embrace. The arms around her tightened and her ass was even more flush against his hips.

It was in her waking consciousness that she began to realize what this warmth meant. Jughead was wrapped around her, enveloping her in his arms. She also realized that she was in no hurry to get out of it.

She sank lazily into the pillows and blankets, with every intention of enjoying this for as long as she could get away with it.

“Betts,” he moaned softly.

She tensed ever so slightly. Was he awake?  

He shifted then settled, his breath slipping to an even cadence.  

She became aware of her heart beat, which was currently racing. She was now fully awake, and she supposed that now she was taking advantage, because she was in full control of her faculties.

Carefully, she tried to slide out of his arms, shimmying her hips away and turning to push herself off the bed, but he got jostled, and now he was shifting again, pulling her to him. If she ever doubted his strength, the next few seconds dispelled it. She felt herself getting dragged back in, and she found that she was right back where she started.

She sighed. Why was she trying to get away, anyway? She liked where she was and Jughead was not making it easy for her.

She checked her phone. It was five thirty in the morning, but she did not need to get up.  She was not running a farm today. In fact, she saw Kevin’s no nonsense response of “Ok. Text me when you’re headed back.” He wasn’t demanding where she was. He wasn’t going into a panic or sending out a search party. Kevin was fine. Which meant Farmer John would be fine. Cheryl would probably give zero fucks.  

She was comfortable and happy and she wanted nothing more than for this to be real.

And by real, she meant They’d Just Had Sex real.  Real, like They Were Having a Lie In real.  Real like if she turned over in his arms, she could wrap her legs around him, kiss him awake, and have him inside her in a heartbeat, real.

He stirred, and for a moment she thought he was just shifting, but as she lay there, unmoving, she felt something poking her backside.

Her eyebrow arched. Is that Jughead’s--

“Well, this is awkward,” he suddenly muttered into her hair.

She gasped softly in surprise. “Juggie! How long have you been awake?”

“Few minutes.”

“U-um, good morning?”

He groaned, peeling himself away from her and throwing an arm over his forehead. His eyes were still half-lidded from sleep, but he was smirking. “Yeah.  Let’s go with that.”

She turned over on the bed, only then realizing that one of Jughead’s arms was pinned beneath her. “Sorry.” She lifted up her hip and he slipped it out from under her.

“It’s fine,” he grumbled. “If you can forget about my morning hardon poking your back, I can forget about you putting my arm to sleep.”

She thought about it for a second. “Not equivalent.”

He sighed. “I guess not.” He covered his face with his hands. “It was all very comfortable until--”

“Until Forsythe Pendleton IV decided to make an appearance?”

He groaned, casting her a glare.  “Did dad tell you? About my name?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  She jerked her thumb at his father’s display case.  She had seen his dad’s high school diploma and it said Forsythe Pendleton Jones II, and while she hadn’t Googled Jughead very deeply, the spackled mention of FP Jones III in relation to Jughead’s search results made it easy for her to put two and two together.

“Nothing escapes you.”

She shrugged. “That much is true, Forsythe.”

“Can we pretend you never found that out?”

She giggled softly and curled up on her side, staring at his profile. She didn’t want to get up just yet. She liked this illusion of waking up with Jughead beside her.

She shifted and her foot grazed against his leg. She wasn’t sorry for it, but she said it anyway. “Sorry.”

He looked at her. “Don’t be.”

She wanted to kiss him, but aside from the feeling of stale breath, she didn’t think she could stop at a kiss, and FP was one walkout away from seeing everything.

Sighing in frustration, she threw back her covers and pushed herself out of bed.

*************

Jughead did not think he could take much more of this dancing around.

He watched her, forlornly, walk away to go the bathroom. Once she was out of earshot, he grumbled about what a huge idiot he was.

He got up, went to his father’s room, freshened up, and dressed back in his clothes while FP snored fitfully in the background.

Betty was back in her clothes from last night when he descended the stairs, the bun on her head making her neck look swan-like. She was already folding the blankets of their bed, so he tidied up with the sheets and pillows. With the sofa folded back in and the linens neatly stacked, he put away the sheets and then helped Betty in the kitchen.

“You’ve made a morning person of me,” he said, drinking coffee.

“One of my greatest accomplishments.”

He took a sip of the coffee. It was the instant stuff, as it was all FP had in his cupboards, but it served. Caffeine was caffeine. “Does the farm know you’re not there? Because Kevin and Cheryl will blame me and kill me.”

She chuckled. “They know, but they will not kill you. I’ve had to take emergency leave before. Once when Polly gave birth to the twins and another time when Chic got shot on duty. And then of course when Trev died, but the farm runs well even if a few parts of it are missing for a few days. It’ll be fine.”

Jughead looked upward to the second floor. “My emergency’s less urgent than any of that.”

She shook her head. “That’s not true. Your father’s continued sobriety is just as important as Polly giving birth, or Chic going into surgery. It’s a big deal, Jug. And I know it means so much to you. It should. Your father’s alcoholism is a lifelong struggle that no one should have to bear alone. You were right to come rushing over here. And I’m glad I was able to help you with that.”

She looked so adamant. And she meant every word of it, too. He could see it and he felt shaken by the intensity of it.

Suddenly he was recalling every single thing about her the last few hours that made him want to pull her closer, and it was a beautiful mixture of things that bombarded all of his senses—the sight of her eyes, alight with mirth, the feel of her body against his, the lavender smell of her skin and hair, the sound of her voice, and the thought of her, what she inspired in his mind and the beating heart in his chest—it was all culminating in the desperate, all consuming need to taste.

That realization, that need was about as much as he could take.

“Betts…” he said, almost nonsensically. What did he want? Permission?

Her brows knotted slightly. “What is it, Juggie?”

He set his coffee down, crossed the kitchen in two big strides, and wrapped his arms around her, his lips pressed to her head. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.

“Juggie,” she whispered, holding still.

On any other day, holding her would have been all he needed, but right now, it did not feel like enough. He needed more, and pulling away slightly, he tilted her chin up and pressed a kiss on her lips, gentle and unhurried. He held the kiss for another few heartbeats, then slowly, he pulled away.

He breathed and he opened his eyes to look at her face. Her eyes were still closed and suddenly, he didn’t want to hesitate anymore.

He kissed her again, more firmly this time, and when her lips parted, he stroked his tongue against hers. She responded and it was all he needed to keep going.

He caught her face in his hands and the temperature of the kiss heightened, climbing to near desperate.

Her fingers were in his hair and he pushed her chin up with his thumb so he can deepen the kiss even more. She moaned into his mouth and that sound broke the control he had. He breathed her in, their kiss intensifying.

He didn’t even realize he was walking her back until her back bumped the kitchen counter. Without breaking the contact of their lips, he lifted her by her waist and thigh and set her on the counter, his lips traveling to her neck.

“Juggie,” she whispered, breathless, wrapping her legs around his hips.

There was a frustrating amount of jean between him and her, so all he could really do was squeeze her ass through her pants. He nursed her mouth with his, their tongues rubbing a gentle massage against each other.

When they finally separated, they caught their breaths, foreheads touching. Jughead stole shorter kisses, in no hurry to end their makeout session.

“You don’t know how long--” he murmured between kisses “--I’ve wanted to do that.”

She smiled as she kissed him back, her arms slipping over his shoulders. “What kept you?”

He wasn’t sure he was ready to get into that, particularly about what kept her, but it was enough that she was so wonderfully responsive at this moment. “Stuff,” he said with a grin.

They came together again, and he moaned into the softness of her lips, the velvety stroke of her tongue, and just everything that was making this moment as wonderful and stimulating as he imagined it would be.

The sound of a door opening and closing loudly reverberated through the house. “Hey, kid? You awake?”

It was FP from the top of his stairs, loudly announcing himself.

Jughead pulled away, and they were both trying to catch their breaths as they exchanged knowing smiles. He gently helped her hop off the counter.  

“Yeah, dad. In the kitchen,” he called over his shoulder.

By the time FP reached them, Betty was cracking eggs into a bowl and Jughead was leaning back on the counter, ankles crossed as he sipped his coffee.

Jughead noted FP’s suspicious eyebrow arching in his direction.

“Good morning, FP!” Betty said cheerfully. “I guess Jughead got his Morning Person thing from you.”

Jughead tried not to choke on his coffee. Way to make his father even more suspicious.

“You must’ve met a different person. You ain’t talking about my kid.”

“Must’ve been the farm, then,” she quipped, chopping onions expertly.

“Need help with that?” Jughead asked.

“Peppers,” she said, sliding them in his direction.

He managed to find a second chopping board and a knife. He sliced and diced, though not nearly as well as she did.

By the time he was done, she had already ladled some eggs on a skillet and spread it perfectly on the pan’s round surface.

FP chattered animatedly about Jughead being the first Jones in several generations to finish college and how he did it all without his father’s help.

One thing about Jughead’s father, he never pretended he was there for either of his kids, particularly his eldest. Though Jughead could probably scrounge up the ways FP had been there for other things, like lying about being Jughead’s alibi for some drug charges that Jughead had been falsely accused of, or beating the shit out of some gangbangers who had tried to beat the shit out of Jughead first, but even FP recognized that these were situations that Jughead shouldn’t have been in if he had a father looking out for him in the first place.

Even Jughead was a bit loathe to admit it was things like that which made Jughead loyal to his dad. Nobody with a normal upbringing could understand that, but that had been his life. Maybe someday he could tell Betty about all of it. And oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid she’d take it badly.

She had listened to him talk about the bullet he wore around his neck without the slightest indication of judgement. He imagined she did the same for every kid that sought refuge with her. She listened and helped. Her home was a judgement free zone because she, the mistress, was.

She made three omelettes and served them with the bread she brought over, freshly warmed in FP’s oven. She had brought a bottle of preserves and a jar of butter to spread on her bread. And when they sat down to eat, it felt like brunch at a trendy restaurant.

That was the way with Betty. Every meal felt special, no matter how simple the dish was.

“So kid, if you’ve been eating this way the last few weeks, how are you not thicker in the middle?” FP asked.

Jughead grinned and winked. “The famous Jones metabolism.”

FP almost looked like he believed it.

“He works the farm, FP,” Betty said, throwing Jughead an amused look. “Pretty hard, too. I should pay him.”

“Research,” Jughead said. “For my third book. Also, I like it. The farm work.”

“That part’s the Jones in you, kid,” FP said. “We always liked getting our hands into the work. We like seeing something made.  I’ll be a blue collar worker all my life, kid, but it’s what I want to do, after all.”

Jughead smirked. “Would you disown me if I told you that I actually like artisanal mayonnaise?”

Betty stifled a laugh.

FP scoffed. “I forgive you. At least I know that when you wear flannel, it isn’t with irony. But if you start raving about deconstructed burgers, I may beat you.”

He had to laugh at that.

“So I’m guessing,” FP said, with a pointed gaze at Betty, “that you made this bread, jam, and butter yourself.”

She nodded, almost like she was guilty. “Eggs from my chickens and onions and peppers from my vegetable garden, too.”

FP nodded, impressed. “Get you a farmer and you’ll never go hungry. She’s perfect for you, Jug.”

Jughead almost choked on his coffee. Again. When did his father get into the matchmaking business?

“Something I said?”

Betty leaned her chin on her fist. “I’d like to know, too, FP.”

Jughead eyed her with an affectionate glower. “No. Nothing wrong with what you said, dad. I totally agree. I should get on that. Like, stat.”

It was in the midst of this, and him feeling Betty’s foot rubbing his leg under the table that FP got a phone call and he had to excuse himself to take it.

“So how are you going to get on that, Jones?” she asked with a quiet giggle.

He leaned over the table, rubbing her knee with his hand. “How about dinner tomorrow night? You free?”

She pretended to think about it.

He ran his hand up her thigh boldly as punishment. She bit her lip and scolded him in a whisper, her eyes dancing with suppressed merriment.

“Okay, I’m free,” she said. “I’ll just have to tell Kevin I’m skipping the gay bar this weekend.”

He laughed quietly just as FP returned.

“So good news,” FP said. “That was my stand in sponsor. He apologized for being absent last night, but he had an emergency and didn’t get his messages. He’ll come by this morning to get me through, so you can get on with your lives, but honestly, I think my crisis has passed, thanks to you both.”

“No problem, dad.”

“I’m glad,” Betty said. “We’ll stick around until he arrives. Unless you want us to go.”

“Are you kidding? I enjoy having my boy around. And you’re giving me every reason to like having you around, Betty.”

She looked extremely pleased by that, and Jughead had to fight off the weird feelings that his father’s words had invoked.  FP had always been an expressive guy, while Jughead’s tendency to over-contemplate and shut down had always been a trait he learned from his mother.  There were only two things FP didn’t talk about: The Serpents and his son’s involvement with the Serpents, everything else was pretty much fair game.  So when FP said he liked having his boy around, that wasn’t a surprise, but Jughead had to think about the last time FP said that sober.  

So much of the past had been filtered through FP’s alcoholic haze that Jughead was often caught off guard when FP was doing the same thing with his full faculties intact.  Jughead supposed he should’ve been less surprised, since alcohol could loosen the tongue of anyone, and some would argue alcohol brings out one’s true self, but while FP had often told Jughead “thanks for coming,” or “I’m glad you made it,” or “I was surprised you showed up,” to hear FP say, “I enjoy having my boy around,” so clearly and to someone else was a little surreal.

Five years sober and FP was still catching up on moments like these with Jughead.

And then there’s the bit about FP liking Betty, which was unsurprising, but mildly unnerving. He and Betty weren’t even really a thing yet. A sprout, tops. Will his dad get on his case if by some stroke of bad luck, it didn’t work out with her?  Jughead never had to worry about showing FP his report cards growing up, but this felt a little like that: like he had to do well, or else he’d have to answer to his dad if he failed.

Jughead hadn’t had to answer to his father for anything in a little over 15 years. This all felt very strange.

He caught Betty’s eye and she seemed completely unbothered by any of this, which was possibly the kind of certainty one could only acquire for being the Teacher’s Pet for most of her life. He had no doubt Betty was that student.

She smiled at him reassuringly, and he could only smile back in return.

**********

FP’s stand-in sponsor arrived just shortly after breakfast, so they were driving back to the farm by 7:30.

It was an interesting scene, watching Jughead and FP saying goodbye to one another. In the light of day, with everything working out well, father and son shook hands, patted each other’s shoulders like old buddies, and then separated.

For someone like her who took thirty minutes to say goodbye to her siblings, this was unnervingly efficient. She herself had given FP a warmer goodbye, giving him an unhurried hug, a reminder that her table at the farm was open for him, and that if he ever had a hankering for good cheese, she could drop off a basket of it. Her own goodbye had taken longer than Jughead’s.  

But then that was just the kind of person she was, and both Jughead and FP were an interesting study of relationships destroyed and rebuilt.

It felt a lot less hurried on the way back, which is why Betty took up Jughead’s offer to drive. He skipped over the shortcuts, using the longer, more direct routes by highway. Betty didn’t mind. It just meant more time spent with him without the looming presence of everyone and everything that surrounded them at the farm.

“Your dad was really sweet,” she said, making herself comfortable on the passenger seat.

A small smile lifted the corner of his lip. “He always was, drinking or not. He only got really ornery when he had to deal with the gang and since that’s all behind him… well, he’s come a long way.”

She nodded, understanding to some extent. Polly had had some problems of her own in the past. She hadn’t gotten horribly addicted, but she’d had some drug use in her history, mostly to deal with the demands of their parents. But Polly had been lucky. Their parents had money to throw at it, for one, and Polly’s support system had been stable.

It didn’t sound like FP had it quite so easy, and while that hadn’t been an excuse to subject Jughead to a shitty childhood, she respected FP’s and Jughead’s efforts to make it work. To make it better. God knows, Polly would probably be dead if they’d been as hard up as FP and Jughead were.

“It’s adorable how proud he is of you,” she remarked, smiling at the memory of how FP’s face lit up when talking about Jughead and his books. He could probably talk about his son like that the entire day.

Jughead shrugged. “I think dad would’ve been proud of me if I got tenth place at a little league baseball tournament. He doesn’t have strict standards.”

She laughed and touched his arm. “That only makes him better in my eyes.”

“This is the best of him, you know. He was a really crappy father before,” he said quietly. He wasn’t being disrespectful. Jughead was just the kind of guy who refused to be disingenuous.

She nodded, smiling kindly. “I got that. I guess you just have to give people a chance to make up for the things they did to you.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “Speaking from experience?”

She shrugged. She felt that her experience with Polly didn’t much equate with Jughead’s experience with his father. “Just a little. It was nothing like your situation.”

He chuckled, sounding slightly sardonic. “Betts, after everything you’ve done for me, do you really think I’d be a dick and judge you?”

She shook her head. “Oh, it’s not that. I just don’t want to equate my petty--”

He shot her a look. “C’mon. I’m pretty sure it’s not petty.”

Sighing, Betty leaned back on her seat. “So my sister had a drug problem some years back.”

Jughead blinked, then his gaze on her softened. “So you know what this is like.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t rely on her for my well-being Juggie. She didn’t have to raise me or feed me, we had parents with money to bail us out of trouble, we had lawyers and she had rehab--”

“Hold on a second,” Jughead said, interrupting mildly. “You’re using ‘us’ and ‘we’ as if you both got in trouble.”

“We did,” Betty replied.  “She was kind of a functioning user and I didn’t know a single thing about addiction. I didn’t know people who took drugs and went about their day normally like Polly did, and even if someone else told me Polly was sniffing blow in the bathroom, I don’t think I would’ve believed it, so a lot of it was probably me denying she was acting strangely. So that one night she drove both of us home from a party, she was apparently high and she ended up crashing our car into the side of the road. It wasn’t a horrible crash, thank God, and we only suffered some minor injuries, but she had drugs in the car, Juggie. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was plenty enough that I got hauled into jail right along with her. It was just a couple of days, but I remember being completely furious with her the whole time. We were yelling at each other so loudly at one point that the guards had to come in and separate us. I got dumped into a vacant cell all by myself, which was kind of a mistake, because now she was stuck with half a dozen strange women, and between that cell and mine, there were the men. She was all alone over there with a bunch of strangers who were probably there for one bad thing or another. I was scared for her safety. Not to mention the fact that I basically had to endure drunken catcalls the entire time from a bunch of bored dudes.”

Jughead fell unnaturally silent.

She smirked. “It’s okay. You can laugh. I get that a perky blonde white girl like me in jail is the stuff of comedies.”

He did cock a grin. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at all. Being in jail is no joke, Betts. That’s some serious fucked up shit. I’m just amused at the fact that even at your angriest, you still worried about her. I think you’re too good for this world, Betty Cooper.” He reached over and rubbed her thigh, giving her an affectionate smile.

She blushed at his words and his look.

“How long did it take you to forgive your sister?” he asked.

She sighed.  “I don’t know. A while? The lawyers managed to clear me of any charges and Polly got off with a misdemeanor and community service--just a couple of privileged kids who got away with stuff because money , but I hated Polly for putting me in that position. I wanted to break out on my own, and I resented her for possibly taking that from me. It meant I had to rely on my parents for my career, which I absolutely did not want.” She gave him an embarrassed look. “I know: boohoo, my parents can get me a job. Poor me.”

He cocked a grin. “Don’t mock yourself. That’s a valid aspiration. And you did it. You broke out on your own without their help.”

She felt that glow of pride in her chest, whenever she was reminded that the success of her farm and business was her doing, with the help of Kevin and Farmer John of course. “I did, and I love doing what I’m doing. I am so lucky. And yes, obviously, I forgave Polly. She comes to the farm with her family every other year for the holidays. But whenever I need something from her and she resists, I remind her that I went to jail because of her.”

Jughead chuckled. “How long are you going to hold that over her head?”

“Probably when I need her help burying a body.”

He laughed, reaching over to take her hand. “I’ll help you bury a body.”

“Oh, no. You, I’ll plan the murder with. A crime novelist? C’mon. You’d be great at it.”

He grinned. “I ought to pick your brain for this next novel. You’re my muse, after all.”

His words gave her warm tingles. “I am?”

“Yeah. That surprises you?”

She shrugged, flushing. “A little bit. Should I be doing something to be the best kind of muse you have? Are there muse duties?”

He pretended to think about it. “Back rubs. That would be nice. And kisses. Lots of them. Maybe draw up a nice bath…”

She giggled, running her hand up his arm. “Wouldn’t that be exquisite?”

“Do those things daily and I’ll finish ten novels.” He winked.

Heat pooled at the bottom of her stomach and she felt a small thrill go through her. She wondered how they would spend the evening together, when Cheryl was asleep and the farm was free of anyone but them.

They arrived at the farm by 8:30 and Farmer John waved as they passed him. When Jughead parked the truck, Kevin and Cheryl met them at the front.

A muted gunshot sounded in the distance and Betty was reminded that Reggie was still there working the property.

“Everything alright with you, Jug?” Kevin asked as Jughead got out of the truck.

“Yeah, it’s all good, thanks to Betty.”

“I just drove you there. It was nothing.”

Cheryl put a hand to her hip, her lip curling as she arched an eyebrow. “We ate apple strudels and donuts for breakfast.”

Betty frowned. “Kevin, there was a proper breakfast in the fridge. You just had to--”

“We all wanted the apple strudel and donuts, Cheryl,” Kevin said pointedly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t!”

Cheryl sighed. “True, but I usually have hired help to look out for my diet. How do you plebes get around self-policing yourselves? I’ve called my personal trainer and he’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

Trust Cheryl to have a personal trainer who got paid enough to drive 70 miles to cater to her whims.

“So long as it isn’t Jonah,” Betty muttered. “His calorie counting drives me up the wall.”

Kevin shot her a warning look, eyes wide. “If she hears you, it’s gonna be Jonah,” he said through grit teeth.

Jughead put an arm around her shoulder. “I’m a great antidote to calorie counters.”

“I bet,” she said, giggling.

“Oh, by the way,” Kevin said. “A package came for you, Betty.”

Betty wracked her brain for any orders she might have placed online, but when Kevin pointed in the direction of the porch and she saw a huge box sitting by the door, she realized what it was.

“Oh, your wheel’s here!” she said, tugging on Jughead’s hand and getting up on the porch. The box was wide and bulky, and there were probably a few other things inside that added to the weight. It was covered in messages hastily written with markers and taped up packaging slips. It may have gotten lost at some point, which explained why it took so long. “About time, too.”

“Wheel?” Cheryl asked.

“My bike got a flat on the way here,” Jughead explained.

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “Like, you pedaled your way here?”

“I realize that at some angles I look like a hipster, but no, I didn’t pedal my way here.”

Betty was too busy folding over in laughter to say anything clever. The idea of Jughead pedaling on a speeder was too funny and adorable. “Cheryl, it’s a Harley. See, the logo’s stamped on this side of the box.”

“You drive a motorcycle?” Cheryl exclaimed in inexplicable disbelief.

Kevin frowned. “What are you so surprised for? Everything about Jughead suggests he drives a bike.”

Jughead scowled. “Not everything.”

Betty sized up the box and asked if someone can haul it into the garage for her. Jughead jumped, of course, and it was always a pleasure to watch him lifting heavy things.

Cheryl went into the house, already disinterested in the proceedings and Kevin begged off Betty’s invitation to help fix the bike. Betty led Jughead to the garage and once there, she was glad to be alone with him.

She wasn’t the only one looking forward to their privacy. As soon as Jughead set the box down, he took her by the hand and pulled her to him. He leaned back on his bike, sitting on it comfortably as he settled her between his legs.

She was in his arms in a second and she smiled lazily at him, sliding her arms over his shoulders.

“You know, I never realized how many people were in this farm until I wanted you all to myself,” he said, pushing some stray strands of hair that had fallen on her face.

She smiled somewhat shyly. “It did feel crowded out there.”

“I just wanted to pick up where we left off in dad’s kitchen,” he said, quietly.

“So pick up, already,” she whispered, affectionately.

He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. She met his tongue with her own, melting into the embrace of his body.

She pulled off his beanie, releasing his luscious dark hair so she could run her fingers through it. His hair was beautiful. It was soft. And feeling it between her fingers felt intimate.

She felt one of his hands slide down and squeeze her ass and she knew he’s wanted to do that for a while now. She was happy to let him.

The kiss lingered and his hands roamed, slowly, exploring her curves. Her gentle moans indicating her approval.

She felt something twitch against her thigh and realized he was getting excited, and it sent shockwaves of heat through her body. This was not a morning hardon. This was her eliciting his desire and it made her feel heady.

Distantly, she heard a sound. Maybe it was a gunshot. Maybe it was someone banging about in the mudroom. She didn’t really care.

Jughead pulled away, his lips reluctantly leaving hers, while his gaze was dark with lust.

“What?” she whined, trying to get their contact back with an insistent open-mouthed kiss.

He moaned and accepted the kiss, but he pulled away again, looking over her shoulder as he did. “Cheryl.”

At first what he meant didn’t register. When it slowly began to dawn on her, she craned her neck to look and saw that Cheryl just stood by the mudroom door, leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest.

Betty’s jaw dropped in shock. “Ch-Cheryl! How long--”

“Aw, you two are like chimps in captivity grooming and picking lice out of each other.”

“Are you being serious?” Betty cried, whipping around to face her. She had intended to pull away from Jughead, but he kept her there with a gentle rub of her back.

“Oh, settle down, hon,” Cheryl replied, descending the stairs to sit on one of the work benches. “Holden Caulfield over there doesn’t give a shit.”

“Of course I give a shit,” Jughead grumbled. “But by the time I noticed you, you’d seen everything, so there wasn’t a point to panicking.”

“I swear to God, Cher. Sometimes you can be creepy as hell,” Betty huffed, turning to Jughead. “I’m going to change into work clothes. You okay being alone with Cheryl?”

“Very funny,” Cheryl drawled.

Jughead chuckled, rubbing her shoulder. “I’ve got holy water in my back pocket. I’ll be fine.”

“You two think you’re so clever,” Cheryl sneered. “Just so you know, his wooden stake’s not going to be much use around me.”

Betty should’ve known better than to go head to head with Cheryl. She rolled her eyes and gave Jughead one last peck before extricating herself from his arms and making her way up the mudroom.

*********

Watching Betty fix his bike was a major turn on. She knew exactly what tools she needed and which part went where. He wasn’t much help except for the lifting and the occasional handing something over, but that didn’t bother him. He was totally fine watching her work.

“Could you imagine if Betty put up a garage full of babe mechanics?” Cheryl mused while drinking wine. “Even all the way out in the city, men and women will come over from miles around. We can market it as a Hooters for auto services.”

“Hooters? You mean that classy joint that serves buffalo wings?” Betty quipped as she cranked a bolt wrench.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. We get sexualized in whatever we do, regardless of what we’re wearing, so we may as well get money off of it. So you show some cleavage and butt cheek. Cheap thrills! The tips alone will be amazing. It’s all about agency.”

“And a good, strong bouncer,” Jughead said, sarcastically.

“You see, Jughead agrees with me.”

“That was in no way an endorsement of your ideas.” Not that he didn’t agree with Cheryl’s thoughts on agency, but he did find a bunch of guys ogling servers in a restaurant, or in this hypothetical scenario, mechanics who just wanted to do their jobs, creepy.

“Whatever, like your approval matters, weirdo. Why do you always wear that beanie, anyway?”

“He doesn’t need to explain and I like Jughead’s beanie. And his approval counts plenty.” Betty gave him a sultry wink.

He grinned and beamed at Cheryl.

“Ugh, you guys are gross.”

“Says the woman who stood watching us make out for God knows how long,” Jughead shot back.

“It was only a few seconds,” Cheryl said nonchalantly. “Can I tell Reggie?”

“Cheryl,” Betty said in a warning tone. “Stay out of it.”

Cheryl scoffed. “It’s not as if you haven’t been turning him down for years. And he’ll probably tell himself Jughead’s just temporary.”

Jughead could’ve sworn Betty paused, then she went on working. He shot Cheryl a scowl. What the fuck did she know about how long he wanted this to last? Its barely been a day. There were still many things to figure out and he wanted them to take their time. They had plenty of time.

“Thanks, Cheryl,” he said, sarcastically.

“I’m just assuming those will be his thoughts,” she replied casually. “Not a reflection of you. Can you kiss Betty in front of Reggie? I want to see his reaction.”

“We will not play parts in your sadistic screenplay, Cheryl,” he drawled.

She pouted. “Spoilsport. You all lack the killer instinct I have, that’s the problem.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Betty said, tightening a bolt then getting up and patting the newly installed perfect wheel. “All done!”

“Looks great, Betts,” he said, giving her a grateful smile. “Thank you. How much for everything?”

“Just the wheel. I don’t charge for auto repair. It’s not what I do.”

“I’m a really good tipper,” he said, winking.

She blushed, but grinned. “Oh, yeah?”

“If you keep going this route, I’m gonna need a cigarette for this,” Cheryl said.

Betty rolled her eyes exasperatedly and tried to ignore her. “Juggie, want to help me put lunch together?”

“Sure thing,” he said, grinning. “See you later Cheryl.”

“Fine. Leave me here.”

“Bye!” Betty said, pulling Jughead into the house with her.

*************

The farm was always busy during the day, so she and Jughead did not have that many opportunities to be alone. He had been considerate enough (probably much to her frustration) to actually help her prepare lunch. Except for the occasional grazing touches and flirty invasions of personal space, he didn’t actually get in the way of putting lunch together.

She supposed she should’ve been grateful for his consideration. There were people to feed, more so now with Reggie and Cheryl there, but she would not have minded a few minutes of interruption from him, especially since she felt he wanted to.

When lunch was ready, she picked up her long-range two way radio and told everyone to come back to the house for lunch.  Three different responses returned, confirming they got the message.

When she turned to Jughead, he was smirking.

“You have that grin everytime I use the walkie talkie,” she said.

He shrugged. “It just hits me how practical and inelegant that thing is. A place like this--it’s almost like you should be ringing one of those lunch bells on the porch. Or at least sending out owls.”

She laughed. “Owls? Again with the Harry Potter reference.”

“Hey, you called yourself a witch at some point.”

“True, and I wish that were possible, because if I had owl messengers, that would be how I would send out all of my mail. But the two-way radio is super practical. I don’t think I can run the farm without it.”

“I don’t believe for a minute that there’s anything you can’t do,” he said, going up to her and caging her against the counter with his arms. His lips found the underside of her jaw and she sighed, giving him access.

She eventually guided his lips upward with a gentle nudge, catching his face in her hands, pressing an open mouthed kiss on his lips. His response was immediate and he moved up against her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.

She felt herself being lifted off the ground and she gasped quietly, giggling. “You are really tall, Jughead Jones.”

“Is that a complaint?” he asked, grinning.

“Heck, no. It makes you handy around the farm.”

“Well, so long as you have use for me.”

She kissed him again, but they heard footsteps from the porch so they separated, and Betty welcomed Reggie and Kevin as they lumbered noisily into the kitchen and went straight for the sink. Farmer John arrived shortly after and Betty called Cheryl, who apparently was still in the garage, chit chatting, probably with her personal trainer, on the phone.

They all sat for lunch and it was a rowdy crowd, but Betty did love it. She loved the conversation and company. She was reminded of how it used to be like this everyday with Trev alive. She remembered how he did take every opportunity to be alone with her, just like the way Jughead had just done. It pained her a little, however, that she couldn’t remember much more beyond Trev’s presence, or the gentle, loving kisses he would place on her cheek or forehead.

She was forgetting Trev’s passion for her, because the feel of Jughead’s kiss on her lips and neck were such overwhelmingly fresh memories that it sent heat throughout her body.

A single glance at Jughead and she would catch him staring at her. His eyes would flicker briefly to her lips before catching her gaze again. His small smile stroked her desire like a feather and she knew he wanted her. It made her feel beautiful and desirable, and it spread an overwhelming warmth through her body.

Had it been like that with Trev? Of course it had been, at some point, but it was becoming harder and harder to associate those feelings with him.

Jughead leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You are so gorgeous.”

God , she thought. I want this man so bad.

She gave him a look that she hoped conveyed how much she wanted to reward him for his words. He smirked back, probably getting the message.

On her other side, Cheryl leaned into her and whispered, “You are both eye-fucking so hard right now.”

She cast Cheryl a chastising glare, but one look at Kevin across the table and she realized that he had noticed, too. She felt herself blushing.

“Sorry,” she finally muttered at her sister in law.

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “What are you apologizing for? More importantly, who are you apologizing to? Me? Why would you?”

Cheryl’s questions caught her completely off guard and she had to wonder. Why, indeed?

**********

The day easily progressed to evening. Betty tended to her soap and cheese production while checking in on the pregnant goats with Farmer John, one of which was now in labor. Barring any issues, one of the goats would be a mama by the end of the day.

Kevin’s newest project, a chicken jungle gym, was also in full swing. He clearly loved the chickens more than he let on, because with the chickens being more or less free range, they were happy enough, but something for them to climb and roost on in the open air definitely seemed like something they would enjoy, and if Kevin was making it, it was probably going to look pretty. He was a carpenter, first and foremost, so Betty loved it when he did woodwork for her farm. She checked on him, as well, making sure he had all he needed to complete the project in the time he planned for.

Jughead was back on the porch, writing. He went hours on coffee and cigarettes, interrupted only by Reggie, who eventually appeared and told her the deed’s been done and that all the foxes had been drugged and relocated, except for the ones now in his truck. Those foxes were scheduled to be released elsewhere.

She sighed, relieved that no foxes had to die for their convenience. “Thanks, Reg. Just send me the check.”

Reg saluted, heading to his truck. “Will do, B Coop!”

“Are you not staying for dinner?”

“Nope! Mom’s going to poker night this time.” He jumped into the driver seat and started his car. “Take care, lady! Tell Cheryl I’m always open to threesomes.”

“That’ll never happen, Reg.”

“You never know!” he yelled above the roar of his engine as he pulled out of Betty’s property.

Betty shook her head.  

“Is it weird that I like the guy?” Jughead said from his seat on the porch.  

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “No. He’s irritating sometimes, but he’s such a well-meaning goofball.”

“Ah,” he responded, as if suddenly remembering something. “I know. He reminds me of Archie.”

“Your best friend, right?”

Jughead nodded, whipping out his phone. “Which reminds me, I need to text Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.”

As he concentrated on his phone, she went inside and  started making preparations for dinner.  As it turned out, Kevin and Farmer John weren’t joining, either, so it was just her, Cheryl, and Jughead.  It did not, however, prevent Kevin from texting her with the foreboding, “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.”

She didn’t want to think much about it, since she didn’t know if she was ready to discuss this with anyone, not even Jughead.

When dinner was ready and Betty had called both her housemates to sit down, Jughead was still texting with his best friends.

“Do you mind putting that away? It’s rude!” Cheryl said loftily.

Betty shot Cheryl a scowl. “Like you never texted at the dinner table.”

Jughead hit send and put his hands up. “I just needed to send off a couple of things, that’s all.”  

Betty could have sworn Jughead and Cheryl exchanged some kind of look, which Betty found slightly suspicious, but she didn’t pry.

Just then, two pings sounded out at the same time. Cheryl’s eyes lingered on it disdainfully before she shot Jughead a glare.

“Get your shit together, Jonesy,” Cheryl scolded.

He switched off the sound of the phone and glared right back at her. “I am. Just ignore my phone, okay?”

The phone continued to light up, so he put it away.

“You should’ve texted them earlier,” Cheryl said.

“They just miss me,” he said, hastily.  

Betty rolled her eyes. “Leave him alone, Cher.”

“Just saying. If they miss you that much, you should invite them to stay here.”

“No,” Jughead said pointedly. “I have rules about that and they know it. This is my writing space. It stays sacred.”

Betty looked at him in surprise and he blushed slightly.

Cheryl’s eyebrow arched in surprise. Clearly, this was an unexpected response, in spite of her ribbing. “You’re fine writing with me around.”

Jughead sighed, eyes rolling. Again, he shot Cheryl a look, like See what you made me do? “It’s just a bunch of things I’d rather not get into,” he said. “Besides, having Archie and Veronica around where I can be creative takes me out of that headspace sometimes. I love them, but they have no boundaries around me. It’s complicated.”

Betty didn’t know why this bothered her. “So you’ll never invite them here?”

He shrugged. “To be determined.”

Betty tried not to let his words get to her. She wasn’t sure why there was a niggling thought in her brain about this. Why should it matter to her that he refused to have them here?

She didn’t know the answers yet, so she shook off her thoughts and tried to enjoy dinner with Jughead and Cheryl.

The conversation was animated, anyway. Cheryl always brought a nice touch of controversy and provocation, and Jughead, being unafraid of her, just spurred Cheryl even more.

At one point, Cheryl called him a hobo, which somewhat riled Betty up. She hardly got provoked by Cheryl anymore, but this touched a nerve with her.

“Cher!” she hissed. “Don’t call him that! It’s not funny!”

Cheryl seemed mildly surprised. “Jeez, take a chill pill! I was just kidding!”

Betty bit back her response of how Jughead had been homeless at some point because she didn’t know if Jughead wanted that to be known. “Just don’t.”

She caught Jughead’s eye and he was giving her a tiny half smile. He reached under the table and gave her knee a gentle squeeze.

After dinner, they helped her clear the plates, put away the leftovers, and wipe the table.

“I’m going to bed,” Cheryl declared, stretching her arms over her head. “My trainer’s coming early in the morning. Wanna join us for some yoga? I’ll pay for it.”

“Me and my First World options. Whatever will I do?”

Jughead actually laughed. Betty was pleased with herself but didn’t show it.

“Please,” Cheryl muttered. “You’re lucky I don’t demand for some pumpkin spiced lattes. So are you gonna yoga with me?”

“I was a trained ballet dancer, Cher. Yoga poses do nothing for me.”

“Whatever, Black Swan. It’s the meditation that you should be looking into. You got mad stuff going on in your head.”

There was that Cheryl Blossom straight talk again, and Betty resented the fact that now she was thinking about it. Stubbornly, Betty said she was good and Cheryl just shrugged.

Cheryl left and as her footsteps faded, Betty gravitated to Jughead’s side, smiling up at him with warm affection. He slipped his arm around her waist and pressed soft kisses on her lips.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, softly.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, just enjoying the feather-light touch of his lips. “A movie. In the living room. Maybe something scary, but not too scary.”

She felt the flick of his tongue along her neck and she sighed.

“Go on. I’m listening,” he said.

She could’ve sworn he was doing everything but that. “Cabin in the Woods?” she breathed.

“Great choice,” he said, cupping her face in his hands as he kissed her, his tongue coaxing her lips to part for him.

She sighed into his kiss, thinking that sooner or later, she was going to make a man out of him in this kitchen, but not tonight.

She pulled away gently, even as he made it difficult with every velvety stroke of his lips and tongue. “I’ll meet you back down in the living room, alright?”

He stared down at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was actually going to make him watch a movie with her, but she grinned up at him mischievously. “Well, I have to play a little bit hard-to-get, don’t you think?”

Chuckling, he threw his head back in frustration. “Right. Obviously.” He was smiling and rubbing her shoulders, but he did have to physically remove himself. “I think I’ll go take a shower before we start this movie. A cold shower.”

She laughed and let him go up first. They had their own bathrooms, but she didn’t think they’d make it up the stairs chastely if they climbed it together.

Only after she heard his door shut did she make her way up to her bedroom.

**********

With both of them freshly showered and some wine to cap off the evening, Betty found that snuggling with him on the couch, even with the screams of wayward characters on screen serving as a backdrop, was intensely relaxing.

He sat sprawled on one end of the couch, his long legs accommodated by the soft ottoman nearby. She curled up on his side, her head resting on the crook of his shoulder.

With her hand gently rubbing the hard planes of his stomach and his hand gently caressing the curve of her waist, it was as if they were consciously restraining themselves so they could get through this without falling victim to the wiles of an uncontrollable make-out session. It did, however, make for a very comfortable cuddle.  Keeping their eyes glued to the screen and their comical reactions to what they were seeing serving to make it all very enjoyable.  

She opted to drink wine this time, and she may have had more wine than she could handle, because towards the end of the movie, Betty felt her eyes drooping sleepily.  She was drifting between waking and sleeping when she heard Jughead’s voice in her ear.

It was a soothing, rumbling murmur, more likely to lull her back to sleep than wake her.

His chuckle reverberated through her body, sparking a small fire in the pit of her stomach. She smiled, running her fingers through his hair and arching her neck to put her mouth over his.

Now she wanted to make out with him.

Her tongue probed between his lips and he met it with his, slowly, dipping and sweeping as their lips pressed together in a hungry massage. But he chuckled again, moving away as he smoothed her silky hair back from her face.

“Betts, I want to, but you’re a little tipsy,” he said, softly.

“I’m not,” she whined, trying to catch his lips again.

“You so are.” He gently coaxed her to her feet. “Come on, I’ll take you to bed.”

She giggled softly. “Mmm, yes, take me to bed.”

Laughing, he led her up the stairs, his hands around her waist to guide her. “I will, and you’re going to sleep, while I take another cold shower.”

She just felt inebriated enough to speak more boldly. “I can help you with that.”

He sighed. “I know you can, so God help me.”

She pouted and her hands traveled south of him. “I’m not drunk, Juggie. Not completely...”

“Half is drunk enough. Now come on.”

She supposed he was right, and really, she was fully aware that he was being responsible, and that he was looking out for her. She still wished she could push him through his bedroom door and do unmentionable things to him, but yeah, she was half drunk.

Even if she had her full faculties, she couldn’t physically push him through anything.

He’s so big and strong. She giggled at the thought, pressing her hands over the muscles of his arms. “I really love the feel of these,” she said, pressing a wet kiss to his jaw.

“Archie’s smelly socks. Misused apostrophes. Michael Bolton songs…”

“What are you rambling about?”

“I am remembering things to kill my boner.”

“Bad grammar can kill your boner?”

“More than anything. Misuse of apostrophes are the worst.”

“I minored in literature. This is not making me want you less.”

He smiled lazily, leading her through her bedroom door. “And I don’t want you to want me less. Just not right now.”

He led her to her bed and he pulled her bedsheets back for her to slip into.

Sighing, she sank into her mattress and pillows, curling on her side as he pulled the covers over her.  “You’re a good man, Juggie,” she whispered, feathering the back of her hand against his cheek.

He smiled and pressed his lips to hers. She tried to deepen it but he pulled back. “Goodnight.”

She sighed. “Goodnight.”

He stood and as he left, he rubbed her back, then her ass. She giggled and he chuckled.

She heard him leave, and the last thing she remembered hearing was the click of the doorknob on her bedroom door.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Luscious French

“When it comes to French cuisine, we are often bombarded with images of buttery croissants, rich glazed desserts, and perhaps impossibly tiny servings. We forget that these stereotyped foods are but a fraction of what French cuisine has to offer. When we think of France, we think of Paris, but there is so much more to France than the City of Lights. There is Basque, Montpellier, Avignon, Bourges, among many other French cities, each with distinct cuisines and signature dishes, most of which are about as simple to prepare as any home cooked meal.

Let me introduce you to a couple of them that break the French cuisine stereotypes: Barigoule of Spring Vegetables and Chicken Basquaise...”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

Betty felt electric the following day, especially when Jughead casually asked, “Are we still on for tonight?” after breakfast.

When she told him of course, did he change his mind? he sidled up to her, kissed the crook of her neck and said, “Nope. Can’t wait.” in her ear.

His breath on her neck gave her delicious shivers and she had to check herself all day--her smile was so bright.

She didn’t have many date dresses, since her club clothes, so often picked for purposes of dancing at gay bars, didn’t seem to work for this occasion, but she knew someone who would have something for her to wear.

“Talk to me, baby,” Cheryl said as Betty stepped into her room.

“I need an outfit for a date. Sexy, but not slutty--”

“What’s wrong with slutty?”

“Classy, but friendly,” Betty finished with a grin.

Cheryl’s lip curled in disgust. “What’s the point of class if you can’t make someone feel less than you?”

“Do you have something I can use or don’t you?”

Her sneer turned into a smirk. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“How so?”

“Jughead asked me the other day if I wanted to swap my car for his precious motorcycle, after you both so viciously made fun of me.”

“Viciously? Please. And did he ask you first or—?”

“Okay, I asked to use his motorcycle first. He proposed the swap.”  Cheryl was grinning, so she was pleased by the deal. She went to her closet and threw it open. “Writer boy at least knows how to treat you. I’m going to cruise for some chicks tonight with that hot piece of machinery.”

Betty sighed and rolled her eyes. “Do you even know how to drive that thing?”

“Don’t insult me, Betty. I have bikes because I look sexy as fuck on them. But that’s neither here nor there. I had the yoga instructor bring something with him from New York.” She pulled out a box and laid it on the bed. “You can thank me later.”

Betty’s jaw dropped as she threw open the lid. The dress was a dusky, silky pink, the material luscious to look at and touch. It dipped low in the front, held up by spaghetti straps. The beautiful embroidery of bright flowers on one side accentuated an otherwise boring style. This dress would hug her figure beautifully. A pair of pink, strappy shoes were in the box, too.

“You like?” Cheryl asked.

“I like!” Betty gasped. “Will it fit me?”

“Do you take me for an idiot? Of course it’ll fit!”

“How did you--”

“I’ve been buying dresses for my girlfriends for years, hon. I know what your size is. And of course, I got you nice underwear to match.” Cheryl lifted the dress out of the box and laid it on the bed. At the bottom of the box were a matching bra and panties that were more lace than cloth.

Betty looked at it doubtfully. “Won’t those itch?”

Cheryl looked offended. “This is Faire Frou Frou, only the most expensive underwear money can buy. You can bet this is comfortable as fuck.”

She cast her sister-in-law a grateful smile. “Sorry I doubted you. Thank you for all this. You are an angel wrapped in devil’s clothing. How much do I owe you?”

Cheryl scoffed. “Please. You are the only person I know who sincerely cares for me. Consider this my love letter to you.”

Before Cheryl could avoid her, Betty threw her arms over her. Cheryl stiffened in her arms.

“Oh, just go with it, Cher,” Betty whispered, grinning. It wasn’t like Cheryl had much of a choice. She was a little thing compared to Betty, so there wasn’t much Cheryl could do to resist.

Cheryl sighed and finally hugged Betty back. “Fine, you blonde bitch. And if you tell anybody what I just told you, I will slit your throat.”

“I know.”  

When she finally let Cheryl go, she kissed her sister-in-law on the cheek and said, “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Why do you think I did all this for you?”

Betty smiled. She packed the dress back in the box and took the box in her hands. “You be careful on that bike now.”

“You know I will be. Tell Jughead I’ll even have it cleaned for him before I return it. I may just do naughty things on it.”

Betty made a face. “Maybe I won’t tell him that.”

Cheryl laughed. “Well, have fun. Do everything I would do.”

Betty nodded and left. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready to do everything Cheryl did.

******

The thing about dates is that relative to people like Archie and Veronica, Jughead didn’t go on a lot of them, so he never developed a practiced nonchalance for it. Every date was some kind of major event in his psyche. So lone wolf though he tended to be, he always needed support and encouragement when the moon was full (or as he called it: date night).

He looked at his phone sitting on the dresser, which currently had Archie’s face looking out of it. “What do you think?”

“You look good, man.”

Jughead sighed. He looked like a fucking douchebag, is what he thought.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” came Veronica’s voice from the speaker.

Archie was shoved aside and Veronica's face came into view. She stared out of it, then smiled. “Oh, Jug! You’re an absolute smokeshow! That suit brings out your eyes and she will totally drop her panties for you.”

Jughead laughed out of nerves. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I gotta put on something else--”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Veronica hissed. “I totally meant what I said. That suit fits your lean figure perfectly. And I’m glad you left out the tie. You’re sexier without one. Stop hating on yourself. You look sharp.”

He sighed and looked at his reflection one more time. His suit was a basic black, form fitting, and slick. The plain white blouse he wore with it made him look put-together in spite of the omitted tie and loosened buttons at the top. It was simple, comfortable, and about as good as it was going to get for him. His hair was a mess, but he decided hair products would be kind of gross if Betty had a hankering to run her hands through it, which he fervently wished she would do.

“Thanks for sending it over, V,” Jughead said somewhat bashfully. “I would’ve gone out in jeans and looked like Betty’s personal assistant, otherwise.”

“No problem, my love. And it was clever of you to tell me about Cheryl Blossom’s yoga instructor. Who knew that Blossom girl could be so nice?”

Jughead refrained from telling Veronica that Cheryl had only done it because Cheryl didn’t want her sister-in-law to be seen hanging out with trailer trash. It was also possible that Cheryl’s soft spot for Betty was more powerful than Cheryl let on. “Yeah, she’s a fucking peach.”

There was a knock on the door and Jughead jumped at the sound.

“Let me in, Jughead. I need to QA you!”

“Shit. Speak of the devil,” Jughead said, opening the door.

Cheryl pranced in, slamming the door behind her and looking Jughead up and down. “Excellent. You look goddamn expensive and I personally would not be ashamed to be seen with you.”

“Thanks.”

“Here, give her these.” Cheryle produced a tasteful bouquet of flowers and tossed them on his bed. “I also brought you these.” She tossed him a box.

He caught it and found that they were condoms. He felt his face grow warm. “Goddamn it, Cheryl!”

“What? Safety first!”

“I had him covered,” came Veronica’s voice from the phone. “Jug, you did get that extra package I sent, right?”

Jughead felt like melting through the floor. “Yes, I did. Never send me a box of condoms and label them ‘XXX sweet treats’ ever again.”

Cheryl turned at the sound, astonished. “Who the hell is that?”

“Veronica Lodge-Andrews. I’m Jughead’s foster sister. How would you even know his size?”

“I may eat pussy, but I know the foot-to-dick ratio. How did you know his size?”

“Cheryl! God, you women live to torment me!”

“Hey, there!” Archie greeted, his face coming into view. “Are you Cheryl Blossom? I’m Archie. Thanks for looking out for my man, Jug. Wish we could be there for him, but he’s got this weird writer rule thing.”

“Aren’t you adorable,” Cheryl said flatly. “Can I talk to your hot wife? Her sassiness turns me on.”

“Christ, would you take it easy?” Jughead begged.

“It’s okay, Jug. Cheryl and I were cut from the same cloth,” Veronica huffed. “Bitches get shit done, amirite?”

Cheryl smiled and winked. “How about you ditch that redhead and taste this one, gorgeous?”

“Hey!” Archie cried while Veronica giggled hysterically.

Jughead stepped between them. “Alright, you home wrecker. Stop flirting with my sister and get out. Thanks for the flowers. Thanks for everything, but I think I got this--”

“You better give Betty a great time, you Leonardo DiCaprio wannabee or I will skin you alive, slowly.”

“Feisty! I love it!” Veronica whooped.

“Babe!” Archie whined. “Really?”

“Cheryl,” Jughead said calmly, holding her by the shoulders. “Is there anything constructive you want to say to me?”

She glared at him fiercely. “Take her dancing to that place I told you.”

He fidgeted uneasily. “I am the worst dancer.”

“She is good enough for the both of you. Man up and take her there.” With that, Cheryl turned and left.

Jughead sighed and looked back at his best friends. “I am going to fuck this up.”

Archie took the screen. “Listen to me, man. From what you’ve told me, she already likes you, and that’s without you being anything different from what you are. She likes you for your brains, your weird fashion sense, and probably the way you make her feel. If you step out of your comfort zone for her, she will probably be head over heels for you by the end of the night. Be yourself and everything will be fine, no matter how badly you dance.”

Jughead let Archie’s words sink in and was surprised by how calming they were.

“Aw, baby,” Veronica said. “That was beautiful. This is so why I love you.” She gave Archie a kiss that Jughead would rather not watch.

Jughead turned away and rolled his eyes. “Alright guys. This is where I leave you. Thanks for everything, you two.”

“Bye, Jug,” Archie said. “Good luck and enjoy. It’s going to be great.”

The call ended and Jughead took a deep breath. He took stock of everything before he went and got Betty.

He had two boxes of condoms (Cheryl actually did get the size right), flowers for a beautiful date, a car that was probably too cool for him, and his grown ass self. He could do this.

Taking Cheryl’s car keys and pocketing them, he headed out of his room.

********

6:30 @ the living room, was what they had agreed upon by text and Jughead didn’t quite know what to do waiting there at 6:25.  

He felt slightly awkward, slightly slouched on the sofa chair with flowers across his lap while he counted the minutes and checked off items in his head.

Cash and credit card? Check.

Reservations? Check.

Emergency cigs? Check.

Emergency condom?

I feel like a dick, he thought dourly. But yeah, check.

He twirled a cig between his fingers, tempted to step outside and smoke it, but he smelled so goddamn fresh and clean, and he didn’t want the first thing Betty remembered of him to be the smell of Marlboros.

When he heard the footsteps coming from the hallway, he tucked the cigarette away in his breast pocket where his pack was and stood, straightening his suit.  When Betty walked into the living room, he could not have been prepared for what he saw.

Her dress was pink and it had a flower on the front of it, which he supposed was exactly her style, but the color of it brought out her tan, and the cut of it showed off her gorgeous body like he would never believe.  Her legs went on forever and her shoes gave her an unbelievable silhouette.

Her loosely tossed blonde hair framed her face in long sexy waves, and holy shit , she smelled great.

He swallowed, speechless in the face of her overwhelming beauty.

She smiled, her eyes looking him up and down. “Hi, handsome. Those flowers for me?”

He blinked back his senses and looked at the bouquet he was holding. “Uh, yeah. They are--” he lost his train of thought as he looked back at her. “God, Betts, you’re fucking breathtaking.”

She smiled and looked down shyly. “Thanks, Juggie.”

She stepped towards him, close enough that she only had to tilt her head up and he only had to lower his lips so they could kiss, softly. Then more deeply. And so early on, her fingers were running through his hair, sending electricity coursing through his body.

Jughead’s breath was ragged by the time they separated and he could only stare into her eyes, completely gone on her.

“I’ll put these in water,” she breathed, the flowers in her hands. “I’ll be a minute and we can go.” She walked off, the sway of her hips captivating him.

She had his full attention. All night, for sure, and he was utterly and absolutely done for.

*******

Jughead never would have found the quaint french bistro thirty minutes out of Riverdale if Kevin hadn’t pointed him to it, so he had to admit that he owed Kevin more than he would probably be willing to admit.

The food was delicious, and Betty kept looking at him with sultry, lidded eyes throughout dinner, which he could only attribute to the fact that she didn’t have to get dinner ready for everybody this time. They leaned over the table to talk, even if they could hear each other fine across the table. He laced his fingers through hers because he wanted to touch her, and she let him, smiling at the contact. Their knees touched under the table, and she rubbed her calf slowly against his.

She talked about her parents, how her father taught her how to fix cars and their engines and how her mother had pushed her to be the best and brightest student in all her years of schooling.

He talked about his mother who, while she spoke to him civilly over the phone, still harbored resentment for his choosing his father over her, and his sister, Jellybean, who barely knows him but for the birthday and Christmas gifts he sends her way every year.  

He told her stories about his life with both Archie and Veronica, and about having walked the red-carpet when he dated Trula Twyst and because Archie always invited him to big events, like the Grammy’s, MTV Awards, the Emmy’s, and even at one time, the Oscars, because Archie had been nominated for voicing a cartoon character in an Oscar nominated movie.

In turn, she told him stories about her twin nephew and niece, about witnessing the extravagant lifestyles of her in-laws, and having a brother in the FBI--spending time with him at the gun range and having a GPS tracker installed on all their phones in case they were in danger because of his line of work.

And amidst all the talking, Jughead accepted and encouraged the kisses. The searing, involving touching of their lips, always swift, but also heated.

Jughead felt like he was in high school again, the weirdo making out with the cheerleader in a booth at the local diner, because his hormones were raging like a teenager.   

He had to remind himself that they weren’t teenagers. They were grown-ass adults in their late twenties, and they had both seen their share of dating mishaps and snafus, failures and tragedies, so they both supposedly knew exactly what they were getting into.

Only Jughead didn’t quite know. He hadn’t cleared many of the questions he had, for her or for himself. He didn’t know if she considered him a possible long term relationship or a temporary, passing thing. But he certainly didn’t mind if she wanted something more lasting. He wondered, throughout the night, if he should bring it up, or if it was too soon to be so heavy handed.

He’d known her for a month now, and at the very least they’d formed a friendship based on mutual respect. The attraction was powerful, that much had been evident from the beginning, but he’d only acted on his feelings for her the last few days.

The night before, when he brought her to her bedroom, he had seen a photo of Trev on her dresser. It wasn’t a large, framed photo by any means. It was of Trev and her, arms around one another on what he recognized as one of their farm fences. Betty’s smile had been radiant as she looked at the camera. Trev was looking at her, so utterly besotted. The photo was tucked between the mirror and its frame and it was a photo Jughead knew she saw every morning as she got ready for the day.  

It was the only one she had of him in the house that he knew. She didn’t have his photos up in the living room or anywhere else. There were photos of her siblings, niece and nephew, Cheryl and her twin, and some of her with her farmhands and the kids who came to help, everywhere, but none of them were of Trev, except for that one on her dresser.

He was unsure where he stood, but it was clear that seeing Trev’s photo upset him unreasonably enough that he had to call Archie just to talk about stupid things. He had needed Archie to get his mind off that goddamn picture that was suddenly haunting his thoughts.

It bothered him that he was jealous of a dead spouse, one she hardly talked about, but clearly still felt a deep affection for. And that was certainly normal. One could argue that he ought to be bothered if she didn’t care if her husband was dead and gone. This just supported the underlying truth of Betty’s love--it was strong and lasting. Just maybe he wasn’t sure if she was willing to let go of it for something new.

Her finger tracing the line of his jaw broke him out of his reverie. He blinked and gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“You spaced out for a moment,” she said, quietly. “Penny for your thoughts?”

He smiled, trying to frantically think of an excuse and settled for some of the truth. “You. I was thinking of you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “And how all this is unreal to me. Like the school geek getting the prom queen to say yes to him.”

She laughed. “Jughead… I was never the prom queen.  Cheryl took that title, three times. Unprecedented since you only get two proms. I bet that if I had known you in high school, I would have dated you for sure.”

“No quarterbacks in your dating history?”

She scoffed. “Please. Those neanderthals could never keep up with me. I had a brief romance with my co-editor at the school paper, but he mansplained stuff to me one too many times.”

Laughing, Jughead pulled her closer. “See, that’s where you made your mistake. You went with the editor. You should’ve gone with the feature writer. That’s the shit.”

She grinned at him. “You were the feature writer at your paper.”

“Hells, yeah. I kicked ass and took names. I solved the mystery of the meat at the cafeteria. Also, and I’ll ask you not to bring this up when Archie’s around, I got a teacher kicked out for having inappropriate relations with a student.”

Her eyes widened. “With Archie?”

Jughead nodded. “Given that she did get a considerable number of students all hot and bothered for her, it was still gross and criminal of her to get in Archie’s pants.”

“Wow. How did Archie take it?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “He knew it was wrong, but Archie’s kind of a fuckboy. He kind of dug that he was scoring with a teacher.  I think I might have hit him upside the head for it, but Archie was never the deepest thinker. He writes a hell of a song, but social issues be damned. If he’s having a good time, everything is right with the world.”

She gave an embarrassed chuckle. “We were a private school. Scandal was not common in our halls. At least, not publicly. I basically discovered we had a cocaine problem in our school, girls and boys sniffing blow in locker rooms and bathrooms.  Heck, Polly was one of them, but it got swept under the rug. When word got around that I wanted to publish it, my locker got trashed and tainted in pig’s blood, I got threatening letters, and my parents had to make a huge ass donation so that the board wouldn’t think about expelling me.”

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Pig’s blood?”

“Carrie influence, probably. The message was ‘Go to hell tat tling slut.’ I can probably tell you who did it, but I felt jaded at that point. The adults were just as bad as the teenagers. And then the accident with Polly happened and I was in jail with her, so yeah, my options and my clout grew thin. My editor published a highly watered down version of the original expose and it basically got relegated to the a small panel in the second page.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “You live and you learn. I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist. I was waffling at that point already, though, between journalism and interior design. I just figured it was a sign that interior design was in my future.”

“Others would say that was a baptism by fire, and since you got out of it in relatively one piece, journalism was your destiny.”

“Maybe, but since living in the farm, I’ve never wondered about the what if. I am so happy where I am, Juggie.”

Jughead was glad to hear it.

After dinner, Jughead told her they were going somewhere else, at which point his palms felt the slightest bit sweaty. She looked excited by the prospect of something else, and he was willing to bet she would be happy with the slightest thing, but this was a dance club, and she would love it, but he had no idea how he was going to swing the idea of, “I don’t dance, so go ahead and enjoy while I sit here and watch you at it.”

He had a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that this was not a realistic proposal. He would just have to hope that she liked him enough to forgive him for being absolutely incapable of moving to music.

So when they found parking in the surrounding streets of the club and he took her hand to walk her two blocks before rounding the corner to the club, Betty was effectively surprised, and then completely delighted.  The latin music wafting from the club doors gave Jughead an immeasurable amount of anxiety. He was bad enough with American pop music, but latin music was sure to make him look even more ridiculous.

He managed to smile at how happy she looked, however, and she hurriedly pulled him through the doors. The colors, the lights, and the sounds were captivating. Bodies moved expertly on the dance floor, hips, arms, and legs moving in impossibly fluid angles.

“Oh, Juggie!” she cried, bouncing on her feet. “This is amazing! I’ve always wanted to come here! How did you know?”

He shrugged nervously. “Lucky guess.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, itching to step out and smoke. The beat of the music was now pounding in his ears and panic was settling in the pit of his stomach. This was a mistake.

New music started, and the intro notes had everybody screaming excitedly, including Betty.

“We need to dance to this!” she squealed, her beautiful green eyes wide with glee. She took him by the hands and tugged in the direction of the dance floor.

He frowned. “Isn’t this a Justin Beiber song?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Not this version.  This is the original by the Puerto Rican singer, Luis Fonsi.”

His heart was racing as he resisted her pull. “Right. Hardly makes a difference. Listen, Betty, I don’t know how to do this. I can’t dance.”

She arched an eyebrow, smiling, but instead of the gentle, forgiving look he was hoping for, she looked challenged. Like she wasn’t going to let him win this one. “Everybody can dance, Juggie.”

“I can’t. Or else I’m terrible at it. It’s not really my thing.”  There. He’s said it.

She looked utterly undeterred. “Come here,” she said, pulling him close, her lips to his ear. “Have you ever made love to a woman?”

He had not expected that question, here, on the dance floor, in the middle of a panic attack. Her soft breath down his neck sent his blood rushing to places, some of it to his face. “Um, I’ve--I mean, you know-- had sex--”

She chuckled. “Just move that way with me. I’ll do the rest.”

The thought that he just had to move that way with her obliterated his defenses. He found himself being led to the dance floor, his mind gone of fear and replaced by a raging desire, fueled by his imagination of her and him moving that way.

She pulled him flush against her, took his hands, and planted them on her hips, just shy of her ass. “Move like you want to kiss me,” she said.

“I always do…”

She gave him a sultry smile, looked intensely into his eyes, and when the beat of the music started, she moved that way.

He was enthralled. Her hips were moving in tantalizing circles and her hands were running provocatively through her hair. Mesmerized by her movements and the look of desire in her eyes, he moved, just like she said, to kiss her. She smiled wickedly and moved her lips away. He chased it, but she moved again, and he realized that evasive movements were a dance, and he was inadvertently dancing with her.

Amazed, and his hands never leaving her hips, he tentatively moved his body with hers, which made her grin madly.

“You’re doing it!” she told him.

“I’m doing you,” he murmured in her ear.

He could have sworn a moan escaped her, and when she turned around, her ass to him and her body flush against his, the dancing went on, her hands leading his where he should be touching to keep the rhythm going. He pressed his lips to the crook of her shoulder, even while their bodies moved to the beat.  Her fingers were in his hair, and still her hips moved, bumping against his body.

However amazing this was, that he was dancing with her without making a complete fool of himself, he was also unbelievably and uncontrollably wound up. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

Miraculously, Betty got him to dance two more songs, and just as the third song started, she dragged him off the dancefloor, out of the club, and straight for the car.

She turned before she let herself in the car and he crashed into her, lips, tongues, and limbs tangling on the sidewalk, regardless of who could see.   

Jughead held her face in his hands, her mouth pliable against his while his body pressed against hers. His erection was surely hitting her in places that was making her moan and all he could do not to drag her into the car, push her skirt up, and fuck her in the back seat was the overwhelming desire to make this last much longer than 5 goddamn minutes.

“Take me home, Juggie,” she said desperately, panting into his mouth.

Wordlessly tearing himself away from her, he pulled open her passenger side door.  She hopped in and he got in the driver’s seat, tearing out of their parking space and making straight for the farm.

******

Betty had never felt this way before. She had never needed someone so badly that a ride home in a speeding sports car felt like a crawl through traffic. She had never wanted anyone so badly that a door she had a key to felt like an obstacle that made her want to give up and mount him on the front porch.

When Betty grabbed her house keys from her purse, everything but the keys tumbled to her feet and she didn’t care, focusing instead on the lock while Jughead pressed himself behind her, his lips sucking on the skin of her shoulders and neck, and his hands coming around her to keep her flush against him.  

She arched her neck, throwing her head back against his shoulder. “Juggie,” she breathed, closing her eyes and running her hand through his hair.

“Open the door, Betts,” he said in a soft but decided tone, his teeth rasping against the lobe of her ear.

Moaning, she jammed the key in the lock, turned it, and stumbled into the house. Jughead locked the door behind him and pulled her towards the stairs by the hand. She followed impatiently behind him, their ascent interrupted only by the urgent need to kiss and touch.

When they finally reached the landing, Jughead lifted her in his arms. She gave a delighted yelp and he smirked, carrying her to his bedroom door.  

She felt the grooves of the door on her back and she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms over his shoulders. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue shoved aggressively against hers while he fumbled to turn the knob.  

The door swung open and the only thing that kept them from tumbling to the floor was Jughead’s upper body strength.  He lowered her to her feet and shrugged off his coat while Betty went for his belt and undid it in one fluid movement.

Their shoes came next, frantically undoing their own straps and buckles and Betty giggled as he winked at her goofily while they hurried. As soon as the last shoe came off, their lips came together again, and Betty started working on the buttons of Jughead’s blouse.  

He whispered her name and it felt like a feather down her spine. His hands pushed down the straps of her dress then traveled to her back where the clasp of her dress was. “You are,” he breathed in her ear, “so goddamn beautiful, Betty.”

She closed her eyes and let his lips soothe the shiver his voice had caused. She pulled his blouse out of his pants and undid the rest of his buttons while the zipper to her dress came undone. Her dress pooled at her feet.

His blouse fell open at the front and she ran her hand down the lines of his chest and stomach, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his body. And this close to him, she saw the line of hair traveling from his navel down.

His lust lidded eyes looked her over for a few seconds before he lifted her face up to dip his tongue into her mouth again.  He walked her backwards until she fell against the bed and he crawled over her body to cover her mouth with his.

She gave a gasp as she felt herself lifted up, so that she can lie higher up the bed.  “Juggie, take off your clothes,” she whispered, tugging at his blouse.

He smiled down at her, sliding his hand beneath her to reach the clasp of her bra. “You first.”

The bra came free, and ordinarily at this point, she would be feeling self-conscious about her nakedness, but she found that with Jughead she felt completely at ease, and she realized that it was because she trusted him. It had been so long since that last happened—trusting the partner she had in bed, and her desire became nearly overwhelming.

He slipped off her bra gently, his lust lidded eyes staring like he’d discovered the world in that bed. She smiled and touched his face. “Like what you see?”

“God, yes,” he whispered, a tortured groan leaving his lips.

Another heartbeat later, he threw her bra over his shoulder and his mouth was on her breast, sucking and licking. She threw her head back and moaned, her fingers running through his hair and her breathing going even heavier.  

She felt gentle fingers slip beneath her panties and touch her center, while his thumb circled her clit.  It blew her mind how heinously good it felt, building that ache between her legs while simultaneously soothing it.  

She was fast losing cohesive thought, his name escaping her lips as her hands bunched around the fabric of his blouse. She moved her hips to meet his hand and she threw her head back against the pillows.

“J-Juggie,” she gasped urgently as his fingers dipped into her and curled gently, teasing that tantalizing bundle of nerves.

“Are you coming?” he asked, softly, a crooked smile lifting the corner of his lip. She could feel her own desire fluttering at the pit of her stomach, her gaze pleading him to keep going.  

She arched her neck. “God, yeah!” She wailed as she climaxed under his fingers, her hand over his as she rode the orgasm out.  

When her senses returned, she saw that he was watching her come the entire time, but instead of looking smug, he looked fascinated. Almost like he couldn’t believe he had done what he just did.

As she caught her breath, she kissed him gratefully, her tongue making loving circles around his. He groaned into her mouth and the sound reverberated through her body.

“I need you, baby,” he said, desperately, his voice choked with want. He was sliding her panties off her and she slipped out of the garment fluidly, one long leg at a time.

Barely recovered but knowing that her desire was still strong, she pushed off his blouse, throwing it aside. He sat back on his knees and she helped him undo the buttons and zipper of his pants.  She helped him out of his pants and boxers, clasping his cock in her hand and sliding her hand down his length.

He cursed profanely, falling upon her so that he was moaning into her mouth. She felt him nudge against her core and she wanted nothing more than for him be in her.

“That feels good, Betty,” he whispered as her hand moved against him.

“I want you inside me,” she pleaded.

He groaned, but he reached over to his bed stand and grabbed something from inside his drawer. It was a condom and she took it from him, tearing its packaging open and helping him roll it on. As soon as it was in place, he was within her, stroking slowly, their groans mingling as his mouth closed upon hers.

Betty closed her eyes for a moment as he stayed still, enjoying the sensation of him filling her. When her eyes fluttered open, his blue eyes met her green ones, and he began to move. For while, that was how they moved together, with gazes locked, kissing and moaning between strokes.

Wanting even more of him, she shifted her knees so that her thighs were wrapping around his body and her ankles were crossing over his ass.

“Holy, fuck,” he gasped, his hand clasping the back of her thigh. “Oh, Betty.”

He kissed her deeply, their moans combining as he moved. She could tell he liked this small adjustment because his groans grew louder.

His desire filled her senses and the her own desire spiked to levels that sent her moaning just as uncontrollably.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop…” She didn’t even realize she was gasping it over and over.

“I won’t,” he promised, sucking the soft skin of her neck. “I won’t, baby.”

When his pace picked up, the friction built to an insanely pleasurable crescendo. Her nails raked down his back as his groans became urgent. His fingers came between them, his thumb pressing frantic circles on her clit.

Her breath quickened and she cried yes, just like that.

“I’m so close,” he groaned. “Betts, you are so fucking amazing.”

He pushed harder, and she felt her orgasm crashing into her in waves. She was crying out his name and he came, groaning loudly as he joined her.

******

She felt cared for. Precious, even.

As they came down from the pleasurable high, he looked her in the eyes, pushed her hair from off her face, then kissed her gently, murmuring softly about how wonderful she was. He kissed her shoulder even as he rolled off her, deftly doing away with the condom and gathering her into his arms.

She sighed contentedly, sinking into the pillows as he threw his sheets over their bodies. She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt him move her hair away from her nape so that he could place a soft kiss on her neck.

She closed her eyes, letting him pet her into a relaxed state. His hands rubbed her arms, before sliding them down to rest on her stomach. His thumb made gentle circles under her breast and it tickled slightly, but she liked that even sated, he was still trying to cop a feel from her.

She covered his hand with hers and looked over her shoulder at him. “I had the best time, Juggie.”

He smiled, though sleepily. “Me, too.”

The dinner itself had been great. Sitting down with Jughead to dine was always something she looked forward to anyway. Conversation was always interesting and as they got closer, breaking down the physical barriers between them was always enjoyable and stimulating, but when he took her dancing…

“Did you know it was Latin Night when you took me to the dance club?”

He gave a small sound, groaning softly. “Oh, yeah, and I dreaded it. With pop music, I could’ve gotten away with just standing there, but I knew I was screwed with Latin music.”

Laughing, she reached up and kissed his chin. “You did great!”

His smirk was one of amusement, like he knew she was being generous with her compliments, but she didn’t feel like she was lying. Jughead had been uncertain and nervous at the beginning, yes, but with proper instruction, he loosened up well, and he knew how to dip her when she told him to, knew how to twist her because she saw him observing the other guy on the floor, knew how to move with her body when she pressed against him. He wasn’t a dancer, but he was a quick study.

“Well, I thought you did great,” she said quietly. “Certainly good enough to get me worked up like crazy.”

He sighed, closing his eyes as if to re-live a memory. “God, I have never been worked up in public so much in my entire life. You are such and incredible dancer, Betts.”

She grinned, loving that it was the dancing part, not just the hip grinding and bumping parts, that got him so turned on. “Flexible, too.”

He groaned. “Give me half an hour. I’m not sixteen anymore.”

She giggled and snuggled in his embrace. “Go to sleep.”

She felt his nose rub down the side of her neck, then his lips kissing her shoulder. “I will.”

It occurred to her that the morning she woke up with him just like this, with his chest on her back and her bum nestled into his hips, she had wished it was real.

Now it was. Or it was going to be, and she smiled blissfully to herself with the hope that they would wake up just like this the next morning.

**********

She was waking up to something else, to something velvety and warm between her legs. As this persistent, pleasurable sensation slowly woke her from her sleep, she gasped with shock, and with a buck of her hips, it dawned on her that Jughead had gone down on her in her sleep.

She had barely registered her own moans, her hand diving beneath the sheets to clasp at his hair. Whatever his tongue was doing, it was stoking the delicious heat in her body and she wanted him to keep doing it. He paused, realizing she was finally awake.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Please don’t stop.”

She might have felt that low rumbling chuckle from his mouth, and as he continued his ministrations, she sighed and moaned with satisfaction.

She whispered his name, telling him how good this was making her feel, telling him how utterly clever he was, but when she felt fingers joining that tongue, she was lost.

She came loudly, her vision going white for a few heartbeats before she began to form coherent thoughts again.

“Not fair,” she breathed, as Jughead’s head popped out from beneath the blankets, grinning and smug, like he had done something naughty and got away with it.

He hovered above her, his gaze roving between her lips and her breasts. “You looked so hot naked under the sheets. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity.”

She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. “I want to return the favor.”

He smirked and shook his head. “That was all for you, babe.”

And she could see that he meant it. If she were a blushing virgin, that might have been enough, but she wasn’t, and she wanted more.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re sweet, Juggie, but I want you inside me.” She kissed him, her tongue probing into his mouth to stop any kind of protest. She doubted if he would, anyway, judging by the groan that escaped his throat.

She rolled him onto his back, and she straddled him easily. As she pulled away from his mouth, she kissed her way down his body, down his ink, and finally to that brilliant line of hair beneath his navel.

“I love this tattoo,” she whispered, tracing the words with the pad of her finger.

He gasped, his hips bucking slightly. “C-come here.”

“In a minute,” she whispered back, taking him in her mouth.

He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillows. She pulled her mouth along his length and his fingers were in her hair. His cock was so beautiful, its length and size desirable, its shape and skin lovely to behold. She wanted so much to appreciate it--with her lips and her tongue. She held it in her hand, stroking it with just the right amount of pressure. He was rock solid, but velvety. She liked the reaction she got when she took him in his mouth again. She was enjoying herself, because she was nothing if not a hostess, after all.

He began to shake his head, gasping as she licked and sucked. “That feels so goddamn good, Betts.” His eyes rolled back and for a while she thought he was giving in, but he continued to speak. “But you need to stop. I’m going to finish if you don’t.”

“Silly. That’s the point,” she said, stroking him with her hand.

“Not like that. I want to be inside you,” he breathed. “I want to be inside you, baby.”

He’d been using that word. Baby, and God help her, she loved it. She loved being someone’s baby, even if it was because she was screwing his brains out.

It was difficult to resist, especially when the ache between her legs was getting increasingly uncomfortable. She gave in, and as she rose up his body, she reached for his drawer of condoms. This time, he grabbed it and tore the wrapper off, sliding it in place.

She lowered herself on him and settled herself on his hips with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he gasped, eyes closing. His hands clasped her hips, and as she braced herself against the sheets, she rolled her hips against him.

The sounds that came from him shot heat through her body and she wanted nothing more than to hear it again. She moved the way he wanted and it was just as pleasurable for her.

His hand trailed up her arm then came to rest on her breast, his thumb rubbing a nipple gently. She gasped, holding that hand in place as she rode him.

His grip on her hips tightened and his hips began to thrust back. “Sweet Jesus, I’m not going to last long,” he cried. “Baby--”

The pressure of his hips against hers, that word, was basically all she needed. She climaxed. Intensely. She had never felt such a strong orgasm in her life.

She threw her head back, eyes rolling back, and she cried his name, over and over. She might have laced it with profanity. She wasn’t sure, but he was bucking right back, and he was cursing as well, so it might have been him. It was difficult to tell. They were riding the wave together and it was incredible.

When finally, the orgasm was spent, she collapsed atop him, their breathing labored. They were both slick with sweat and Betty realized her legs felt like jello. She could barely push herself off him.

“Oh,” she gasped, moaning. “Oh, Juggie. That was--”

“Incredible,” he finished for her through ragged breath. “God.”

A few seconds later, he helped her off him. When he’d disposed of the condom, he settled beside her on his side.

A smile spread on his face and she grinned back, feeling slightly goofy, but not so much that she would stop grinning.

If it was always going to be like that, she was probably going to get addicted. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to his heart, feeling its frantic beating.

He held it, then pressed her hand to his lips. Her smile disappeared and she felt a painful pang. That had been such a tender thing to do and she wished it actually meant something, but that wasn’t a conversation they could have so early on.

“We’ll have to do that again,” she said to cover up her burgeoning emotions. “Because clearly we are good at this.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’m sure we can work it into our busy schedules.”

She laughed. There was always something to do on the farm, but there were definitely advantages to living in the same house.

She was suddenly feeling lethargic, her lids fluttering slowly as her body got lulled into rest.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her close.

Their legs tangled as he pulled the blanket over them. Her hands pressed against his chest, his lips on her forehead.

“God, you still smell great,” he said, nuzzling her brow lightly with his lips. His hands rubbed her back gently, keeping her close.

She closed her eyes. Was he always like this? Did he always make his women feel precious and loved?

She didn’t want to dwell on it too much. She didn’t want to fall where no one would catch her. But then, she never did have control over her feelings, especially, she realized, when it came to him.

***********

Farms always needed to be tended to, even on weekends, and she was usually not too bad getting up on Saturdays, where she could actually wake up later than usual, mostly because she didn’t have farmhands coming in to have breakfast. But this Saturday was tough.

This Saturday, she did not want to get out of bed, because Jughead was wrapped around her and she was immensely comfortable.  When her eyes opened to the amazing warmth of his body around her, she smiled contentedly. When she saw the light of morning illuminating his windows, she debated the merits of leaving his paradise to tending to her responsibilities.

She then had to tell herself that the sooner she got stuff on the farm done, the sooner she could spend more time with Jughead, so she quietly got out of bed, trying not to jostle him, and put something on for the short walk from his room to hers.

She pulled on her panties and picked up his blouse. She was shrugging it on when she felt Jughead stir.  

His warm hand rubbed her back.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sleepily. “Get back in here…”

She grinned. “The farm still needs to be run. The chickens and goats won’t feed themselves.”

He ran his hand up her arm.  “But it’s the weekend and you look way too good in my clothes…”

His words ruffled the butterflies that had taken permanent residence in her stomach and she was sorely tempted to let him pull her on top of him, but if she didn’t get out now, she never would.

“I really need to do this,” she said apologetically, crawling over to him to give him a quick kiss. “Go back to sleep. You don’t have to get up. It’s only 6:30.”

His sighed and smirked. “You have made a morning person of me. I’ll help you with the farm.”

Her heart melted with his offer. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said, giving her another kiss before pushing himself up and slapping her behind.

She shrieked and laughed, watching him walk around, naked as he gathered some things from his dresser.  

“Enjoying the view?” he asked as he ruffled through his drawers.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He grinned and jerked his head to the bathroom. “Quick shower?”

At least they would have to be standing to do that, right?

She supposed she can spare a few more minutes.

********

It was past 7 by the time they got down to the kitchen to make breakfast.

She had asked herself, momentarily, what might change between them if they slept together.  On a certain level, she wondered ever so briefly if he was the type who would go on as if nothing had happened, going about his day normally.

That would have been devastating for her. It would have been a world of pain, an unending questioning of her life choices. It may not mean he was blowing her off, because she didn’t think Jughead was capable of that cruelty, but even if he were just compartmentalizing, she knew she was incapable of handling that sort of thing without overthinking the hell out of it.

Fortunately, he wasn’t that type. He was, in fact, the type who liked to be closer, and she liked that. Exceedingly.

He wasn’t obnoxiously close. Occasionally, he would get behind her to press a kiss on her shoulder or be adorably handsy, but those were things she invited him to do, anyway, usually with a wink or a teasing smile.  

What she noted were the times he didn’t have to be near, but he opted to be anyway, like when he was casually leaning against the counter, or sitting at the kitchen table, or doing something with her.  He stood just a few inches closer.  Close enough to be able to look her in the eyes when he shot her wordless responses, or close enough that he could reach out and push her hair back, or brush his hand against hers with his knuckles. It was nice, this constant presence of him.

She was in the middle of making a brioche french toast, topped with caramelized bananas, roasted pecans, and her house-made maple butter, when they heard the distant rumble of a motorcycle.  

Jughead’s eyebrow arched, a smirk forming on his lips. Betty stifled a grin, and when they heard the front door open, she looked over her shoulder expectantly.

Cheryl came into view, her red hair tied up in a ponytail, her leather outfit absolutely stunning even if she probably hadn’t changed it from last night.  She stopped in her tracks, surprised, perhaps because she hadn’t expected them to be up, or hadn’t expected them to still be there.  

“Morning,” Betty said, neutrally.

Cheryl arched an eyebrow haughtily. “Humph. Right back at you, princess.”  She stomped off without acknowledging Jughead in the least.

“Breakfast will be ready in a minute!” Betty cried after her.

“Not hungry!”

When they heard the door slamming upstairs, Betty tried not to giggle.

“I’m sure she ate something,” Jughead said with affected gravity, winking goofily as he did so.

She slapped his arm lightly. “Juggie!”

“Easy! Coffee’s hot!” he cried, laughing.  “It’s her loss. More for me.”

So it was just the two of them for Saturday morning breakfast, which Betty didn’t mind in the least.  It was nice to have Jughead all to herself right now, especially when doing the farm work.  While he never did like the chickens, he seemed to like the goats and llamas and they liked him, nipping at him affectionately as he worked around them.  

He carried her baskets when she harvested the vegetables and after lunch, he went with her to the local farmer’s market to get some fresh fruits in her stock.  When they got home, she thought he would do some writing, but instead he sat outside with her on her porch swing, making out with her when they weren’t talking.

As the day slowly came to a close, just before she had to start making dinner, she brought him to her loft in the barn. The stunning sunset captivated him, his silence while watching the view giving her an opportunity to admire his profile and realize that she liked their quiet moments so, so much.

“This is a great place to sit and think,” she said. “The expanse of the view makes you feel rather small, and it puts a lot of things in perspective. Somehow, my troubles don’t seem so bad.”

He nodded. He motioned to say something, but he hesitated and just didn’t go on.

“What is it?” she asked, gently.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I was just--I like being by myself a lot of the time. I need to be, to write. But I like having you around. When I write, I mean. I can write with you around. I told you that you were my muse, and that hasn’t changed, but it feels like an inadequate title in the grand scheme of things. Calling someone a muse feels fanciful, don’t you think? You’re--” He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re real. You’re more than that. You make me listen to my own thoughts. Make what I’m doing now better. It just seems--” He sighed. “I don’t know. Sounds stupid now that I’m saying it.”

She tried not to let his words affect her too much. He was rambling and it could just be the musings of a author caught up in the grandeur of the sunset, but she could not help the warmth that spread through her. “It’s not stupid. I’m glad you can write around me, Juggie. I know you talked about having writing spaces and keeping it sacred. That I can be in it--”

“You’re more than just in it. It’s like you are.”

The enormity of his admission was not lost on her. She moved closer to him and tucked herself into the crook of his arm, partly to get as close to him as possible and partly to avoid staring into his beautiful blue eyes. “Well, then maybe you can finish your book here? Might be a few months, but I’d lo--I’d be happy to have you staying here.”

“That would be nice,” he replied, softly, with the slightest hesitation. “Maybe. I’m—I’m a little afraid that you’d find that exhausting.”

She felt a brick in her stomach, afraid that he was already trying to make excuses, but she chased those hurtful thoughts away, telling herself that it was her anxiety speaking.

“ Betts, you don’t have to keep treating me like a guest,” he said, quietly.

“We’re way past that,” she said, chuckling to drown out the insecurities that was trying to overcome her. “That’s been the case since you started helping out at the farm.”

He rubbed her back. “That’s for research.”

She looked up at him. “Is it? You almost have me convinced that you like it for real and you aren’t just being polite when you say it.”

He smirked, averting his gaze bashfully. “Maybe I do like it for real. It’s the truth of the work. Having something done for you to see and touch. Dad had a point, I guess. It’s the Jones in me.”

She made circles on his knee with her finger. “You should ask him to come over. Just for dinner, I mean. He’d like that, I’m sure.” She didn’t look at him, then. In ordinary circumstances, she never would’ve suggested a thing. Too presumptuous or too soon; it felt like pressuring him into something more of whatever it is they had now, but she’d always said her home was open to everyone, and she’d already extended that invitation to FP himself. This was just asking for Jughead’s permission to make good on her invitation to FP.

“I’m sure. Maybe next week. With dad, taking things slow always works better. The least likely for him to get any hairbrained ideas.” He smirked.

She wasn’t sure what Jughead meant about that, either. What ideas did he not want his father to have? But that felt heavy handed, and she didn’t want to ruin the perfectness of this moment.

After a while, she told him she had to go fix dinner. When he started to get up, she said he could stay here if he wanted to.

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” she said.

“Betts, what did I tell you about treating me like a guest?”

She chuckled. “ This is not it. Have you not figured out that I love to cook for friends and family? You can pry the kitchen knife from my cold dead hands.”

“That is a really macabre image.”

She grinned. It was, but those things hardly bothered her. She had that hint of darkness inside her. “Stay if you like. And don’t worry, I’ll disabuse you of the notion that I’m ‘treating you like a guest’ after dinner.” She winked and he blew a breath through his lips.

“Promise?”

She smirked. “Promise.”

*******

He watched her flit across the front yard, heading for the house to make dinner. He swallowed as his thoughts and anxieties over her created tension in both his stomach and his pants.

“Shit,” he breathed, running a hand down his face.

He felt like he had stared off the edge of a cliff and had been a hair’s breadth of jumping it. He had been so close to baring his soul, but he had hesitated and thought better of it.

This was not the way he did things. It didn’t make sense to jump into the middle of the ocean without anchoring the boat. It wasn’t a difficult choice.  Logically, you have to make sure you don’t drown.

But it was Betty. She was his siren and she made him want to say fuck the boat.

He picked up his phone and texted Veronica.

Moments later, his phone rang for facetime.

He picked it up and fell back against the hay. Her face came into view on his screen and she looked worried. “Hi, V. Why the look?”

“You alright, Jug?” she asked. “You never ask me to call unless you’re in trouble.”

He frowned. “Is that true? God, I’m a shitty friend.”

She sighed. “You aren’t. Tell me what’s going on.”

He bit his lip, feeling a blush coming on for what he was about to say. “So there’s this girl…”

Veronica looked like she was about to cry, her brows furrowing and her lips pursing, but she also looked happy for him, which was the way Veronica was. She was a sap by nature. “Oh, Jug! I knew you would come to me for this! You’re talking about Betty, right? I take it your date went well?”

He gave her a look, like that was the understatement of the year. “It went really well. Like really. Well as well could be. The wellest of the well.”

Veronica giggled. “That’s fantastic, Jug. What’s the problem, then?”

He sighed. “Too well? God, this is stupid.”

“Too…?” Veronica gasped. “Jughead, are you in love?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he interrupted quickly. “We’ve gone on one date.”

“Jughead. I fell in love with Archie on our first kiss. I married him a week later. Five years later we’re still going strong. You’ve known and lived with this woman for a month now. Don’t tell me you’ve ‘gone on one date’. She had you the moment she answered that door on that fateful rainy night.”

“Ronnie, don’t go all Nicholas Sparks on me. This isn’t Two White People on the cover Almost Kissing. We are flesh and blood. And it wasn’t fate. I booked a room at her B&B weeks before!”

“And don’t be so defensive. I recognize that your cold dead heart laughs at the romance of life, but you’ve been freaking living in a romance the last four weeks, you goddamn idiot. What the fuck did you expect?”

He sighed frustratedly. “Look, I don’t--I’ve had enough shitty things happen in my life to know that it’s the people you love that can hurt you the most. So I should be fucking smarter than this. I should know better by now. You don’t just let people in.”

Veronica looked like she wanted to reach through the screen and hug him, or strangle him. It was a fine line to tow or cross. “Oh, Jug. If you really thought that, you wouldn’t call Archie your brother and me your sister.”

“You guys have been tried and tested through years of my various fuck ups. Years, Ronnie.”

Ronnie shook her head. “And if you believe that, then you never would have forgiven your father.”

He glared at her a moment, contemplating telling her not to go there, but he could see the earnestness in her eyes and he couldn’t squelch it. “He’s my father. I fucking loved him when he was a deadbeat in jail. I left my own mother for him. It’s almost as if I needed him to work out.”

“That’s bullshit, Jughead. You loved him because he tried to be there for you no matter how drunk he was. And you didn’t leave your mother, you wanted to save your father, and you know how I feel about her. As happy as I was to have gained a brother, she never should have shut the door on your face like that. I have never forgiven her for being so cold hearted. So no, it isn’t that you needed FP to work out. Just like any person you love, you want for them to get better and do good. Now enough of this. Tell me why it’s so hard for you to let Betty in.”

He sighed again, resigned this time. “She was married to this guy.”

Veronica’s eyebrow arched. “Divorced?”

“Dead. He died two years after he married her. Two years, Ronnie. He died during the best years of their lives. And from what I’ve heard, this guy was great. He loved her like she walked on water, and she loved him. He got them this farm, which she loves, and he was a goddamn cowboy who bred horses and shit. Good looking and educated--got his scholarship playing the football team of Syracuse U. Like, he’s the nuclear bomb of dead spouses. His picture is on her dressing mirror in her room and they look so goddamn happy…”

His voice trailed off at this point, pain hitting him in the gut. His hand came up to massage his forehead and he was suddenly exhausted from expending that much emotion in one breath.

Veronica blew a breath and her bangs lifted from her eyes. “Yeah, that’s tough.”

“Your insight is astounding.”

“Don’t be a smartass. How long ago since his death?”

“Six years,” Jughead replied, miserably. It seemed like a long time and yet it didn’t.

She seemed for a moment quiet, and her eyes took on an emotional sheen. “God, Jug. I can’t pretend I know how she feels, but if it were me--if anything happened to Archie, I’d be fucking lost, and I don’t think I’d ever love anyone ever again.”

“Not helping.”

She gave him a smirk. “But I’d say that now. Life has a way of distracting me and you know I’m good at getting back up when life fucks me over. You know that. As much as I love Archie, I’m just stubborn enough not to let sadness bog me down.”

He couldn’t help but give a bitter chuckle. “I don’t know whether to worry about you or Archie.”

“Listen, I can’t pretend to have the answers here. Ultimately, you’re the one who has to figure it out, but from everything you've told us about her, she is capable of so much love, Jug. She takes care of her people, the kids who need it most, even people you would normally hate-- she loves. It just seems to me that a person like her has so much love to give, so it’s impossible that she would shut the door on romantic love permanently. Not after she’s had such a great love in the past. If her husband was as good to her as you say he was, she’s not going to settle for casual sexual encounters. She’d want more. She’d want that feeling again and I absolutely believe you can give her that. You’re the kind of guy who loves so goddamn hard it’s scary, even to you.”

He ruffled his hair in frustration, his fear and uncertainty still ever present, but Veronica always had a way of digging deep into her own understanding of human nature.

Jughead may have a way with words when he probed the dark, psychological recesses of the mind--he needed that to build characters and stories, and Archie had a way with music, finding the things in people’s hearts that needed to be talked about in song, but Veronica had pure, sharpened instinct. She threaded pieces of people together and it made her a master of persuasion. It was how she always got what she wanted and made her millions, after all. She wasn’t a con man. What made her so effective was that she spoke the truth.

He mused briefly that this was probably the reason why she and Cheryl respected one another, however brief their interaction. Where Cheryl ruled by fear, Veronica ruled by cunning, and however different their methods, the point is that the whole Knowledge is Power thing for both of them is real.

And while Jughead appreciated Cheryl’s explosive truth bombs, he was more attuned to Veronica’s velvet hammer.

He cocked a smile gratefully. “You know, I like when you talk to me this way.”

“I know you’d be completely lost without me. Now, here’s what I want in return--”

“What?”

“You thought that shit was free?”

Jughead rolled his eyes. “What could I possibly give you that you couldn’t buy yourself? My first born? My soul?”

“Oh, quit being dramatic. I want to meet her. I want to know this chick who has you all dazed and confused.”

“Is Trula seeing anyone right now? Because unless that’s happening, I’m not setting foot in New York. Worst case scenario, the gossip mags are going to see Betty and think she’s the reason Trula dumped me. I don’t want TMZ labeling her as the ‘other woman.’ Betty is the only woman. Always has and always will be, if I can help it.”

Veronica laughed. “It’s still funny that you have to hide from TMZ. You, of all people.”

“Yeah, it’s fucking hilarious.”

She gave him proper side eye for it. “Archie and I will go there. You don’t have to bring her here. And I think it would be better if we met her in her natural surroundings.”

“She grew up a rich kid in New York City, you know. She isn’t a country bumpkin.”

“Whatever. It’s an easy drive for us.”

Jughead frowned. “You’re--you’re not staying here for more than a few hours, are you?”

“We’ll book a week!”

He groaned and shook his head. “We’ve talked about this!”

“It’s just a week,” Veronica said soothingly. “And this is just so we can get to know her. You’re our family, Jug. We want to meet this person, who is clearly special to you. How would you feel if she told you that she doesn’t want her brother and sister to meet you?”

“That’s not--” he sighed loudly. “You know it’s different! Betty’s siblings don’t come with an entourage and a shitload of paparazzi. I can’t have this place swarmed by fans. Again, we’ve talked about this!”

“I promise, that won’t happen!” Veronica said. “I’ll take every precaution.”

“And it’s not just me, Ronnie. It’s Betty. If this place turns into a circus, that could damage things around here and I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye--”

“I totally understand, Jug. I will make sure Archie and I are stupid low key. Nobody will know. We’ll make like Brangelina and no one will know where we are or what we’re doing. I’ll have my crisis management team start on it the moment you say yes. They’ll be on DEFCON 1.”

Jughead closed his eyes. Honestly, he wanted Veronica and Archie to meet Betty, but he was a little unsure of the risk. He couldn’t bear the thought of Archie’s fans coming here and trampling on everything.

Still. Veronica did know how to get them around without the rest of the world knowing. She’d done it before, and if she has the pros on it, he could breathe easier.

“Fine.” Jughead finally said. “Whatever. But when I’m writing--”

“We leave you alone. I know the drill. So are you going to tell her or should I--”

“Just email her.” He searched for Betty’s contact info on his phone and sent it by messenger.

“Got it, thank you! I am really excited, Jug. And Archie and I miss you like crazy. You’ve never been gone this long and I absolutely fear that you will never return to us.”

“It’s only 70 miles out of the city, you know. You can even take a bus to it.”

“Ugh! As if!”

He smirked. “I realize bus is a dirty word for you, but I had a flashback of 90s teen movies just now and that is never a good thing.”

“I’ll see you soon, Jug. Archie will be stoked to hear about this trip.”

“I’m sure he’ll let me know that. Bye, V.”

“Bye, JJ.”

Their call ended and Jughead fell back on the soft hay. He stayed there awhile, trying to uncoil the tension in his belly.

Three minutes later, Archie’s text came, telling him they were going to party like it was 1985. Jughead quickly nipped that in the bud with an ABSOLUTELY NO PARTIES ON THE FARM rule.

Archie then went on to call him, and Jughead had to make Archie promise that he was not going to bring the media down upon them while he and Veronica were there.

“Arch, I’m serious,” Jughead said. “If you want to party, you go to it. Don’t bring it here. I swear, if you do, I will end you.”

“End me?”

“End you. This woman is important to me. If you screw this up for me….”

“Okay, okay. I get it! Now I really got to meet this chick.”

Jughead closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and said, “I’m crazy about her.”

“I’ve been waiting my entire life to hear you say that, dude.”

Sometimes, Jughead couldn’t tell when Archie was joking.

Another text came in and it was Betty, telling him that dinner was ready. He told Archie he had to go and they said their goodbyes.

Cheryl was at the dinner table with them this time, and as vicious as she was, Jughead had miraculously learned to like her. Of her own merits. Not just because Betty seemed to have a tender affection for her.

After dinner, they retired to their rooms and Betty made good on her promise.

She knocked on his door, he opened it, and he had her in his arms, tongues tangling, hands moving, limbs and bodies crashing, and breaths mingling with whispered overtures of longing and need.

When they fell on the bed, naked in one another’s arms, it was a torrid worship with hands, lips, and bodies.  And whatever worries Jughead had about where his feelings were going, Betty blissfully chased them away, at least in that moment where he could think only of her pleasure and his.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Distressed Wood is My Aesthetic

“All distressed wood are not created equal. There is wood that is actually old and worn by weather and time, and there is new wood made to look distressed by various implements. I am not partial to one or the other. It absolutely depends on what you want your design to look like and what it’s for. I’ve used the worst distressed wood as accents to an otherwise boring wall decor, but I’ve certainly preferred artfully distressed wood for my kitchen chair and table, as it would distress me if I or any of my guests have to pick splinters from their bodies because I was silly enough to use an rickety old chair.

My island counter top is a block of beautifully distressed wood, a customized piece constructed from the top of an old, heirloom table, but sanded, treated, and cured to rid it of the fray on its edges, to preserve its integrity, and to keep its distinct, country crafted charm...”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

The words were flowing from his fingers. He was three thousand words in and he wasn’t stopping. He had refilled his cup of coffee three times and it was only 2 PM.

He had skipped lunch with the girls inadvertently, having said he would “be there in a minute” only to find Betty by his side, an hour later, with a bowl of Korean Beef stew, just for him.

He had looked at her apologetically, rubbing her arm as he took the bowl. “I’m sorry. I forgot the time. I’m just on a roll and it happens sometimes.”

She waved his apologies away. “I get it. It’s why I didn’t pester you. But here. Have some while you write. Do you know how to use chopsticks? I’ve got a spoon here for the soup, too.”

“Yeah,” he replied, giving her a small smile. “Thank you. You really shouldn’t have fixed me a bowl. I’m the douche who missed lunch.”

She chuckled. “You are not and never will be a douche, Jughead. And I wanted you to have some. Also, you’ve had way too much coffee.”

“Three cups is nothing. Five is when it starts to get dicey for me,” he said, picking up his spoon from the tray and trying the soup, which was, of course, delicious and spicy.

Betty started to get up. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He held her hand. “No, stay. I get this way when I go on a writing binge. I forget to do basic stuff like eat, sleep, walk, talk--it’s good to have a break. Better for my writing.”

“And your health,” she added. “How about I fix you a nice smoothie later? In lieu of coffee.”

He made a face and didn’t even say anything. She laughed. “Kidding. Or maybe not. Had to try.”

“Coffee is a health drink,” he said, trying the noodles in the bowl of Korean soup. He was hungrier than he thought and he was probably going inside for seconds.

She leaned back on the seat and put her feet up on the nearby wicker chair. “I love Sundays on the farm. The chickens and goats still need to get fed, but nothing else has to get done. I can just sit around and do nothing. Usually I do other projects here and there, but there’s nothing today.”

Jughead loved Sundays at the farm, too. He liked seeing her so relaxed, with her hair down, her sundresses, and her flip flops. She looked like she was ready to run barefoot in a field of flowers.

“Sundays in the City for me, particularly in the summer, is going to food fairs,” he said, grinning. “I eat my way through the trucks and then I buy something for someone--scarf, t-shirt, faux African art…”

“Who do you send the faux African art to?”

“Mostly Archie. Drives Veronica crazy.”

She laughed, playing idly with the curls of his hair on his nape.

“I usually end the day playing chess with the old folks in Bryant Park. Most of the time my ass gets kicked but every once in awhile I win a game.”

She smirked. “I have a board. We can do that later. I’m not terrible at it.”

He smirked and rubbed her thigh lightly. “Usually there’s a wager…”

“Well, I know what I want if I win,” she said, her eyes leaving no doubt to her intentions.

“We should probably just toss the game and pretend we both won.”

Grinning, she leaned over to hug his arm and lean her head on his shoulder. “Maybe not chess, then. Netflix? We’ll invite Cheryl to watch with us. Something scandalous, like How to Get Away With Murder.”

“I thought we agreed not to encourage her impulses?”

“Stop. You love her. I know you do.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She pecked a kiss on his lips. “Finish your lunch and get back to your writing. I wanted to finish your second book anyway. It’s even better than the first.”

“You trying to butter me up, Betts? It’s working.”

She chuckled and got up, leaving him to his work and what little lunch he had left in his bowl.

He did go for seconds and he did go back to work. He wrote a few thousand more words and he figured that by tomorrow, he’d have enough chapters to send to his editor. Shock was imminent since he’d never finished so much in such a short time.

Sometime late in the afternoon, Cheryl stomped out of the house dressed in a tight black dress, mile high heels, and some kind of body glitter.

“You going to church, Red?” Jughead teased as she walked by.

Cheryl didn’t flinch at the nickname. In fact, she seemed to like it. “There will be kneeling involved, for sure. God’s name will probably be invoked. You and I both know the drill. At least I hope you do. For Betty’s sake.”

Why does he never learn not to go head to head with Cheryl Blossom? He should know by now that unless he’s willing to plunge himself into the depths of hell, he will never win with her.

“Why don’t you go ask her?” he drawled, hating himself for it a second later. “Ugh, you’re a little shit, Cher.”

She waved over her shoulder at him with her $10,000 purse and an evil grin. “Tell Betty not to wait up!”

“We’re only one phone call away if you need anything. Be safe and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, young lady.”

“God, you’re such a daddy, Jonesy. And I mean that in the worse way!” she yelled as she got into her sportscar.

Cheryl left with dust clouding the air.

Jughead smirked and realized he did have an inexplicable affection for the She Devil.

It was around five when Betty emerged from the house again, made a motion to speak to him, then didn’t, turning away to go back in the house.

He wasn’t going to let her go like that. “Whoa, hey. You were going to say something. What is it?”

She seemed slightly uncertain, but she didn’t resist. “I got an email from Veronica Lodge-Andrews inquiring about a booking for two starting Tuesday to next week.”

Jughead was mildly surprised by Veronica’s expediency, not that she wasn’t capable of it, but a two-day turnaround to go where he was was disconcertedly quick.

Betty went on. “She also wants me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement.”

What to unpack, first?

“I’m assuming it’s her and her husband,” Betty said. “I know you mentioned that you’d prefer they weren’t-- erm, here--”

Jughead sighed quietly but did begin with a very mild, embarrassed tone. “First, I have absolutely no right to tell you who you should host. This is your B&B, Betts.”

“Yes, but you’re my guest first. I can turn away others in favor of the people in my care.”

He did not dwell on the fact that she called him a guest, focusing instead on “people in my care.”  He shook his head slightly. “I am completely fine with it. Veronica asked me first and I told her it was okay.”

She looked slightly relieved. “Okay. The NDA, though…?”

Jughead gave her a sheepish look. “Kind of my fault. I made Veronica promise that she will do everything to ensure that none of the madness that usually comes with Archie follows him here. She trusts you not to say anything, but the people she hired to keep this secret doesn’t know who you are. They like to have signed things.”

She looked surprised. “Oh.”

“Sorry. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not,” she said, sounding a little winded. “I have never hosted a celebrity of Archie Andrews’ magnitude before. I have no idea what that means. Mom’s a news anchor in a major station, but she really only gets recognized every once in awhile, and her fans are pretty regular folks. Nobody ever tried anything weird to talk to her.”

He shot her an ominous glance. “Trust me when I say you don’t want the world knowing where Archie Andrews is vacationing. He brings madness and chaos--fans, paparazzi, and they won’t care how beautiful this place is. The fans don’t mean any harm most of the time, but they get--” he searched for the word “--excited. The paparazzi won’t destroy anything, but they are vultures. So I told Ronnie that she had to make sure none of that followed them. I would be terribly upset if it did.”

She looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Cheryl has her own level of fame, too, but more of the Sheryl Sandberg variety, so her fans are more, I would say, professional. So she never had to worry about that stuff. Even Polly and Jason never had to think about fame. They’ve been featured in the business section of the New York Times and their house was in a magazine, once, but nothing like--”

“Impromptu mosh pits and half-naked crazy people blaring music from loudspeakers?”

Betty made a face.

Jughead nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. It’s why I get so prissy about sharing my writing spaces with them.”

She looked a little struck, like his words meant something. “Oh. Is that--okay, that makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“You not wanting them to come here. I just--” her face reddened. “I thought it was more a writer quirk.”

He was surprised by her assumption and chuckled. “Do I look like I have writer quirks?”

She shrugged, hand splayed. “I don’t know. I just thought you NYT bestseller guys all had them.”

He threw his head back and covered his face, embarrassed at the mere thought that she even thought he had those stupid, douchebag eccentricities. He stood and went to her, scooping her by her waist. “If I ever, ever act like a fucking douchebag, please slap me and then tell me.”

She laughed and slipped her arms over his shoulders. “Juggie… I respect what you do. I respect how you do it. I won’t judge you for whatever you need to do to write.”

Just for that he kissed her soundly. “God, what did I do to deserve you?”

She smiled into the kiss. “I mean I… I thought you just wanted to keep me, this farm , separate, you know? From your real life…”

He pulled back, looking at her. He was shocked by her wording. “Real life? This is my real life.” He didn’t know why, but a mild panic was rising in his chest.

She blinked, probably noting the change in his mood. “I meant… like, your life in the city. You came here to research, write your book. I wasn’t expecting… okay, look. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

He shook his head and held her in place. “No, I want to talk about this. Do you think of me as temporary?”

She looked scared and he had no idea why. “I… Juggie.”

“Tell me,” he insisted.

She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be,” she said slowly. “But things tend to be. For me. People come and then they leave, Jug. Nobody stays.” And there it was. Her heartbreak. He could see her eyes watering and she furiously tried to blink them dry “There is nothing in this place, except me. And I can only give so much, and I really don’t mind people coming and going because that’s what this business is about, but I’ve never--” she swallowed, gesturing between him and her, “--had this. I didn’t want to complicate anything but I guess these things just happen.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry I laid all that on you, but I’ve always been a bad liar so there was really no point in--”

He kissed her. His heart was bursting and he couldn’t take her tears. He couldn’t let her prolong that sadness. Those lonesome, selfless thoughts.

Veronica was right. Betty had so much to give and no one ever asked what Betty wanted. She always seemed so strong and self-assured, so seeing her vulnerable was completely disarming.

She made a sound of approval and he breathed into her, his hands sliding down her body to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

She said his name in a breathless whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere, Betts,” he said in her ear.

She sighed. “Don’t,” she moaned. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

It pained him to think that she’d been bracing herself this entire time. Preparing herself for some heartbreak he never thought of inflicting on her.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said, pulling back to look into her eyes. “I want to stay.”

And maybe he wasn’t saying exactly that he wanted to live here forever, because that would be a little absurd this early on, but she knew what he meant by stay. He wanted to use her words to tell her that this meant something to him. Something not temporary.

“Whether or not I need to live in the city again, I want to keep being with you,” he said, quietly.

She looked back, her gaze searching and hopeful. “Really? Because I would like that,” she said quietly. “A lot.”

He felt some of the uncertainties he had in this new relationship loosen and wash away. At the moment, it was enough to know that she didn’t just think of him as some passing traveler--some guy on a business trip.

There were still many things to talk about, still many things he was scared to bring up, but at least now he knew they can begin.

“Betts,” he replied, quietly, grinning lightly. “You made a morning person out of me. 29 years of waking up, sometimes in places where people weren’t meant to sleep at all, and I never woke up earlier than I had to. But here I am, getting up to feed the chickens, and you know I don’t like them.”

She looked like she was going to laugh. Instead she bit her lower lip, the corner of her lip lifting. “It wasn’t hard. Cook a mean breakfast and you’ve got Jughead Jones in the palm of your hand.”

He smirked and took her hand, kissing it tenderly. “You know I like my food.” And for a moment, he must have looked at her different when he said that, because she blushed and buried her face against his chest, giggling softly.

He didn’t take it back, thrilled at the idea that she could laugh at his innuendos and giggle during their most intimate moments. It felt right. It felt like being with someone special.

He pressed his lips upon hers again..

Kissing Betty always felt like putting a flint to kindling. There would always be sparks setting a fire, but where the earlier kiss was a comforting warmth, this fire was starting to blaze.

Her face cradled in his hands, he tilted her chin up with his thumb so he can deepen the kiss, lips upon lips while he dipped his tongue to touch hers. She gave a soft whine as she responded, rising up on her toes so she could curl her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer.

This was getting intense and he needed to take her inside.

He lifted her in his arms and she gave a yelp of delight. He brought them into the house and  slammed the front door shut with his foot. He went straight for the kitchen, putting her up on the island and pressing his open mouth against her throat.

She gasped, running her fingers through his hair and lifting her knees to pull him flush against his body.

He was rock solid and she surely felt it through the soft material of her panties. He hooked his hands behind her knees to hold her firm and rocked his hips against her.

She moaned and kissed him, her tongue pushing against his within the press of their mouths.

They would just have to worry about cleaning this island later. Right now, his desire was raging and it wanted this fantasy to come true.

The thought of doing her on this kitchen counter had occurred to him so many times in the past that if he let himself, it could be over in 5 minutes, but he was determined to draw this out. It was happening, and he’ll be damned if he let the practical considerations of reality dampen the experience. He wanted this to be epic for both him and her.

“Juggie,” she whispered heatedly. “I’ve dreamt about this so many times.”

“Baby,” he groaned, even more turned on by the thought that he wasn’t the only one. “I’ve wanted to. You know I have.”

The kitchen. A sacred place where she made magical things and he tasted them, where he’d first seen her dance and, quite possibly, fell in love with her, where she blossomed and made people happy and him want her desperately--the kitchen, for him, was his meccha and she was the goddess he worshipped.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promised.

He kissed her deeply and slowly, holding her face in his hands as he pressed his body between her legs. She groaned, telling him she wanted him. She reached for the buttons of his pants but he pulled back, lowering his hands to her thighs and reaching for her panties to tug them off her.

“Up, baby,” he said, which prompted her to lift her hips so he can pull off her panties.

He kissed her gratefully and grazed his fingers against the bundle of nerves between her legs.

She whined at his touch and he dipped his fingers inside her, gently. She gasped into his mouth and he kept touching her where she needed him most.

Her breathing had gone heavy and she was pressing against his hand, her hips moving for more friction.

“Jug,” she gasped, throwing her head back in a loud moan.

He captured her lips with his and dipped his tongue inside her mouth while he curled his fingers inside her. He felt her clench and her hips gave a jerk. She cried out against his mouth and she came, riding it out as he smiled lazily, drunk with satisfaction.

She leaned over to kiss him and presumably wipe the grin from off his face. But then she took the hand that made her come and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

He was hypnotized. “Fuck…”

She licked her lips and said, “Yes, please,” in the most impossibly demure way.

Captivated, he pushed her further into the kitchen island and gently on her back. She watched him with her curious, lust-darkened eyes and he grinned, hitching her legs over his shoulders.  “Dessert, first.”

And he went down on her.

*********

The moment he said “dessert,” she knew he wasn’t going to have to work hard for it.

She plunged her fingers into his hair of luscious dark curls as she felt his mouth and tongue on her. She canted her hips up at him unbidden, and she cried out breathlessly that this was going to make her come. On her kitchen island. A fantasy she had never been able to act out until now.

His hands wrapped around her thighs, and while his lips and tongue made circles in all the right spots at her center, she began to see stars and felt the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.

She was close. When his fingers dipped into her, accompanied by his tongue, she was gone, coming loudly and intensely.

For a moment, her mind was in a haze as she coasted that high, but she slowly came back to her senses and only then did she realize Jughead was watching her, again with that fascinated look on his face, as if watching her come undone was beautiful to him.

She smiled at him as she caught her breath. “Oh, Jughead…”

“Baby, I need you,” he said in a lust roughened voice. His lips descended upon her navel and started to work his way up, pushing her sundress up as he went.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and pulled her dress up overhead. He took off her bra with a deft twist of his fingers and palmed her breasts as he took each peak in his mouth.

The ache between her legs was intense, and as pleasurable as his mouth on her was, she moaned that she wanted him inside her. Badly.

He tilted her chin up and kissed her, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She bit his lip gently and he groaned as he pulled away to undress. He apparently kept condoms in his back pocket, because he took out a couple of them and dropped it on the counter before he began to grab the edges of his shirt.

He peeled his shirt off as she worked on unbuckling his pants. And for a while, he just watched her undo his belt, buttons, and zipper.

She was aware that she was fully naked, legs spread, hair down her back, and she felt absolutely and utterly sexy, feeling no self-consciousness whatsoever.

His eyes raked over her nakedness and instead of making her shy, she felt empowered by it.

“What’s the matter, Jones?” she teased in a smoky tone. “Never seen a naked woman before?”

“You are all of my sex fantasies right now,” he said, honestly. “You have no idea…”

She smiled up at him as she pushed down his pants and boxers to free him. She unwrapped a condom from its packet, pumped him a couple of times for no other reason but to drive him crazy, and rolled the condom over his rock hard cock. His tortured groan filled her with confidence and she leaned back on her hands on the island top, trailing her foot down to his navel.  “This better be one for the record books ,” she told him in a softly challenging tone, surprising even herself. She had never said and done these things to any of her lovers in the past. Not even Trev. This was absolutely new territory for her, but with Jughead, she felt bold and free. She felt no fear with him.

Jughead grabbed her almost roughly by the back of her knees and dragged her to him, sliding right into her as he capped his mouth over her shoulders and began to suck hickeys into her skin.

He drove hard into her, and she cried her approval, moving her hips against him. She locked her arms over his shoulders for more leverage and he sank his fingers into her thighs to pull her even closer. He braced himself against the counter with one hand, and both the pressure and rhythm felt fantastic.

She gasped his name, telling him how good it felt while he panted against her ear, his hips moving vigorously to meet hers without pause. He told her right back that it was just as good for him, that it was so goddamn hot. He kissed her, tongues tangling, drowning any other words that they could have spoken.

She wasn’t going to last long.  She came, locking herself around him as she rocked her hips in a torrid roll. The intense orgasm blanked her senses for a few seconds, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She had never been so loud.

She was barely down from her high when he pulled out of her, yanked her off the counter and turned her around. He bent her over the counter and she grabbed the edges of it. Poised to take him that way because she had wanted it.

He paused, his breathing ragged but his grip sinking into the skin of her hips. “Oh, God, I am such a fucking animal. Is this ok--”

“Oh, my God, Juggie, don’t you dare stop now.”

That did it. His groan of surrender had him going, hard and fast. She was screaming yes, and he was nailing her from behind, one hand on her breast and the other circling her clit.

It didn’t take much longer for both of them. They came together. Intensely. Betty couldn’t believe it was happening, because it felt phenomenal.

As she came down from her orgasm, she felt warm lips trailing down her back, followed by the blanket of his body. She could feel him catching his breath, his hands braced against her sides tenderly, in complete contrast to their rough lovemaking just seconds before.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the closeness, realizing in no small way that despite the intensely sexual way they came together, bodies crashing and profanities flying, she still called it lovemaking in her head.

She had many, many questions for herself regarding her feelings for Jughead Jones, and she didn’t know if she was ready to talk about them.

At the moment, however, she had just had the best sex of her life and she wanted to enjoy it.

Jughead pulled away with a sigh and swiftly righted himself, throwing away the condom. She grabbed the nearest article of clothing, which was his shirt. Her dress was just as near, but she didn’t want him to put his shirt back on quite yet. He looked so good with his jeans hanging low on his hips and she wanted to enjoy the view.

He grinned, seeing right through her. She winked at him coquettishly and he took her in his arms, scooping her in a damsel carry.

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Are you sure you can handle carrying me up the stairs? I’m no pixie.”

“Fuck, yeah! Right now, I feel like I’m Dwayne fucking Johnson.”

She giggled and let him figure this out. He did pretty well the first flight. He went a little slower in the second flight.

“Okay, so a little less like Dwayne Johnson,” he huffed, kicking the door to his room open.

She shrieked as he dumped her unceremoniously on his bed, laughing hysterically as he folded over and then collapsed on the mattress.

“I guess I’m going to have to start skipping those donuts,” she joked.

“Don’t you dare, Betty Cooper!” he says, rising up to crawl to her side. He slapped her ass playfully. “This is what I live for.”

She didn’t think she had ever gotten a compliment she loved as much as what he just gave her. She smiled at him covetously and dragged him down to kiss him.

He half-draped himself on her as he nursed her mouth with his, his tongue dipping in and out to lightly massage hers.

She hummed her approval and enjoyed the intimacy until they had to catch their breaths. “You know just what to say to me, Jughead Jones.”

“It’s just me telling you how I feel,” he said, pushing hair off her forehead.

She ran her hand up his arm, amazed at how attached she was so quickly to a man she’d only known a few weeks.

Was it just his looks? For certain, he was handsome. Gorgeous. And she couldn’t get enough from just looking at him. She touched his face, admiring the structure of his bones and loving the color of his eyes.

He had that demeanor, as well, of a guy who didn’t quite give a shit about his looks, or what other people said about the way he should dress or how to carry himself. That sexy sidelong look and that tilt of his chin when he was grinning a “Fuck off!” instead of saying it--it drove her crazy.

And yet he did care. He cared about doing a good job around the farm. He cared about the people around him--his father, Kevin, Farmer John, and even Cheryl. He cared about the kids, so good with them and their questions, and yes, he cared about her, too. Whether it was a sense of friendship or something far more, she felt him care. And yes, maybe that made her care for him, too.

And then there was that brain of his, manifested in his books. With those words he puts to paper, strung into lovely sentences that make compelling, riveting stories, or even just the way he expresses himself when he’s being sarcastic or silly. He could be saying the simplest things--in fact, he didn’t spout off intellectual bullshit like a special snowflake. He kept it simple, straightforward, and sardonic, and yet she could tell that there was a storm behind his eyes, like he had pruned his words down to their essence, because putting all of it out there could blow people away like a hurricane.

In his books, that hurricane was unleashed, and it was brilliant. It bent everyone to his will. No wonder his books held steady in the Times . His words would resonate forever.

Did he make stories in his head for everyone? What was the story for her?

The corner of his lips lifted. “What?”

“Just…” she breathed, uncertain about how much she wanted to say to him. “I am so very drawn to you, it’s crazy. I’ve--” she paused for a heartbeat “--never felt like this before.”

The word slipped before she could think of it. Never.

Something in his eyes flickered, like hope, actually. And he smiled as he hovered over her. “Never?”

And she knew it to be true. Never. Not even with Trev. She had loved her husband passionately, but she and Trev had been fairly independent of one another. It was a comfortable feeling, knowing that one had the other’s back, assured of the other’s support if needed, but they did things on their own, loved each other for their differences more than their similarities, and that was so because that way they fit. They were compatible.

But with Jughead, she felt connected to him, felt that pull to touch, to talk, to eat and be together. Their common interests were binding--he ate, she cooked; he knew fiction and she loved reading it; she made things, he wrote them down; she embraced life and he learned from it. Their differences brought stimulation and excitement instead of strain--she danced, he didn’t; but he liked how she danced. She didn’t like watching people fight professionally, he trained with them, but it made him athletic and strong, which turned her on, in spite of herself. He hated those chickens, which was totally understandable. He smoked and she didn’t. Generally, she wished he wouldn’t for the sake of his health, but damn if he didn’t look sexy when he lit up, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he spoke because his hands were too busy to hold it, or when he smoked between writing, his brain spent and eyes filling with thoughts that he had left behind for the writing he had to do.

She had never felt like this for anyone and it was making her both anxious and excited--happy, and yet…

“Never,” she whispered, playing with some of the hair that had fallen over his eyes.

She could see it, then, that overwhelming intelligence, and he knew without even her explaining, exactly what she meant.

He kissed her, his lips moving to a slow, languorous rhythm. His tongue parted her lips and she moaned as the fire in her belly started anew.

She thought briefly that he couldn’t possibly be ready to have sex again in so short a time, but as if sensing her doubt, he ground his hips against her thigh and she felt the evidence of his desire.

She giggled, softly. “What happened to ‘I’m not sixteen anymore?’”

“Baby, you just know what to say to me,” he said, mirroring her own words in a voice rough with arousal. “Take off my pants.”

She did, undoing his buttons and pushing his pants off with her feet. This was a slow burn, but a deep one. Starting with languid kisses, whispered words of encouragement, and tender, sweet admiration. His hands were gentle, sliding, squeezing, and tweaking, just enough for her to be pliant under him and beg him for more.

When he slipped into her, his mouth hardly left hers, open lips brushing even when they weren’t kissing. His hips rocking slowly and steadily, his hand cupping her thigh to keep her wedged around him. She moved with him, loving this closeness, his chest rubbing against hers, his body flush between her legs. It felt intensely intimate.

“Betts,” he whispered against her mouth. “This feels so good.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering closed as she felt that all too wonderful glimmer of her orgasm beginning.  “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“I’m going to come soon, baby,” he said in a tortured voice. He kissed her, groaning into her mouth as he began to move faster.

The friction became unbearable and she came with a cry, clenching around him and canting her hips to press him deeper into her. Her orgasm rising above her, then begin to ebb away in blessed completion.

“Betts,” he whispered, urgently, as his hips met hers once, then twice. “Fuck, baby…” He pulled out, pumping outside of her as he spilled on her belly with a deep, guttural groan.

He felt warm and she felt his . It was primal and real.

When he was done, he sighed and closed his eyes, kissing her neck. He reached for the tissues to help clean her up and then when all was tidied, she nestled herself in his chest, kissing the skin there in tender appreciation.

He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arm around her with a sigh. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get enough of you.”

She smiled and burrowed even closer, purring happily at his words. “Keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll always be happy to oblige.”

He chuckled, rubbing her back.

They settled into sleepy hushed tones, drifting slowly and quietly into sated slumber.

**************

The next couple of days, Jughead watched Betty preparing for Archie and Veronica’s arrival. It wasn’t a flurry of activity, as he had expected. It was Betty making lists for what dishes she’ll be serving, and Betty, getting a cleaning lady to freshen up the rooms, drapes, and some areas of the house needing dusting. It was also Betty (and him) cleaning the island counter with more than a few Clorox Wipes (maybe more than once) while exchanging sheepish smiles. And finally it was Betty, sitting at her office desk, making notes on her pad and doing research about both Archie and Veronica.

“You can ask me about them, you know,” he said, leaning against the frame of her office door, arms and ankles crossed. “Most of the things about Archie online are likely to be only half true.”

She took her glasses off and folded her arms over the table. “You do know that Archie’s personal assistant sent me a rider for him, right?”

“I think I tasted vomit in my mouth just now. Give it here and let me take a look.”

He sat across from her on the desk as she handed the sheet over. Betty had check marks beside the things she presumably had or could provide. The others, like Orange Bean Bag and a Marshall AS50D acoustic guitar amplifier, were crossed out.

She sighed. “How am I going to tell a rockstar that I can’t possibly give him most of these things?”

“Okay, stop,” Jughead said, putting his hands up to quiet her. He took the sheet and held it up. “See this?” He crumpled it and threw it in the trash.

“Juggie,” she said in a gently chiding tone. “I have that file in my laptop.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s ridiculous,” he said, taking out his phone to call Archie.

Betty motioned to protest but Jughead went to her, rubbed her shoulder gently and gestured to give him a moment.

Archie picked up immediately. “Hey, Jug! Can’t wait to see you tomorrow! Veronica and--”

“Arch, what the fuck? You sent Betty a rider? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Jug, I would never send Betty a rider! I sent it, she said? Ronnie, was I drunk last night?”

Jughead could hear Veronica’s voice in the background, and then it was her on the line.

“Archie didn’t send a rider. He hardly knows he has one. It had to be his assistant. Ignore it!”

Jughead sighed. “Ronnie.”

“Jughead,”  Veronica replied, her tone expectant.

“I thought you said DEFCON 1.”

“It still is,” she said soothingly. “Nobody knows where we’ll be staying--except maybe for our personal assistants, who are paid a fuck load of money to be quiet about it. Ginger’s just eager to please. Please tell Betty that I apologize for causing her any inconvenience.”

“And what is she supposed to do with the ten gallons of petroleum jelly sitting on her kitchen counter?”

“What!”

“Kidding.”

“I hate you.”

“No more riders.”

“Never should’ve happened in the first place. We’ll see you tomorrow, Jug!”

“See ya.”  He switched off his phone and sat back down.

Betty was looking at him askance.

“He didn’t send it. He didn’t want any of those things in the first place,” he said. “Problem solved.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being What the Hell Did I Get Myself Into? What kind of chaos should I be expecting?”

He looked at her sheepishly. “If this goes as well as Veronica said it should, I’d say 5. Archie and Veronica alone are kinda chaotic. Veronica is a tiny tornado and Archie thinks anything could be made into a party, but they’re not bringing an entourage so there’s not much they could do with a classy chick like you and a grump like me.”

She nodded, calmly, putting her glasses back on. “I can handle 5.” She turned back to her computer, typing something on a spreadsheet.

He smirked, leaning back on his seat with his long legs sprawled in front of him. “You look sexy in those glasses.”

She shot him a gently warning look, though her lips were fighting a smile. “I need to get this done, Juggie. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said mildly. “Just admiring what I see.”

Which was kind of a lie, of course. He didn’t quite have a moral threshold for what he wasn’t willing to say or do to get Betty to have sex with him. Time and place didn’t bother him quite as much as it used to, either. He didn’t know if it was because they were in a relatively secluded farm or because she just made him that horny.

She stopped typing and turned in her seat. “In any case, if we do have sex in this office, try not to knock over my computer. It is the only one I have.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, leaning over the desk to reach across it to get to her, his brain already working out the logistics of the how.

But they were interrupted by Cheryl and Kevin, which was probably just as well.

“So this NDA that we have to sign,” Kevin said. “If we don’t sign it, they can’t sue us, right?”

Betty shot him a glare. “If you don’t sign it, they will cancel their trip and not come here.”

Kevin pouted. “Shit fucking shit. Fine.”

Cheryl’s complaint was different. “I take umbrage at being made to sign this document. I am a guest and a Blossom. I’m not some two-bit plebe who shops at StockMart, taking selfies with cardboard celebrities. I walk down red carpets canoodling with these fuckers. I give money to filmmakers to create their shit indie films! Do your friends know who the fuck I am?”

Jughead assumed her attention had gone from Betty to him, and honestly, he didn’t know what to say, not because he wasn’t used to seeing celebrity fits. He’d been around a ton of them since Archie became stupid famous and he started dating, and broke up with, Trula, but he never ventured to appease them. It was just never worth the effort.

Betty sighed. “Cher, sign it, don’t sign it. I don’t give a shit. I can’t force you to do anything. If you don’t sign it, they don’t come here. Then we’re all miserable and you’re happy. Good news is that nobody dies. Your choice.”

And that , Jughead thought, is how you appeal to Cheryl Blossom’s better nature: give her the power.

Cheryl scowled. “I really should just say fuck it and punish you all for making me do this.”

“Punish away,” Betty said tiredly. “At the end of the day, it’s not worth strangling you for it.”

“But you’ll hate me.”

Betty shrugged, a resigned look on her face. “For a while , yeah. But I forgave Polly for getting me thrown in jail. I’ll forgive you for this one.”

Cheryl took a deep breath before giving a loud growl. “Fine. I’ll sign it. I hope you realize that I only do this sort of shit for you , Betty. Because you’re attractive and talented as fuck. And because you love me . If you were ugly and stupid, I wouldn’t even breathe in your general direction from a 100 miles away.”

Betty made a gesture indicating that she knew all that already. “Yes, I understand all that. Thank you, Cheryl.”

Cheryl tapped on her phone for a few seconds and then said, “There, it’s done. Sent and delivered.”

“Mine, too,” Kevin said, still pouting. “Did Farmer John--”

“Did his this morning.”

“Ugh, what a nerd.”

Cheryl glared at Jughead. “I hope you know that I did it for Betty, not you, but it helps that you meet my standards of beauty and that you’re smashing Betty good, which makes her happy.”

Jughead pursed his lips and nodded. He really didn’t know what to say to that, either.

Kevin scowled. “Yeah, which reminds me--Betty, can I talk to you? Alone?”

Betty sighed and smirked apologetically. “Of course. Juggie, Cher, can you vacate?”

Jughead rolled his eyes. He resisted the urge to say that he got there first, so why should he leave, but he supposed that might be unsexy enough for Betty to rethink her good opinion of him.

Cheryl stomped out, dragging him by the arm and taking him to the porch.

*******

As soon as Jughead and Cheryl left the room, Kevin closed the office door and sat across from Betty on the seat that Jughead had vacated.

Betty leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Betty.”

“Kevin.”

She could hear him tapping his foot impatiently, but she refused to throw him a line.

“So you didn’t text me after your date with Jug,” Kevin finally said.

“Oh, was I supposed to?”

Kevin arched an eyebrow. “Bitch, I always text you after my dates. We live for this shit and you need to stick to the formula!”

Betty stifled a grin. What he said was true. Kevin went on dates and practically wrote book report length texts about it to her the very next day. Kevin was never explicit about the things he did with his date, but there was certainly a lot of metaphors and vague descriptions to make the telling more colorful and possibly titillating.

“Kev, how many of those dates became your boyfriend?”

“That’s totally beside the point.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s everything to do with the point. The reason you can text me about Boy Toy 1 and Boy Toy 2 is because they were all just hookups for you.”

It was Kevin’s turn to roll his eyes.

Betty put her hands up. “I’m not judging you. Your Post Date texts have and always will be my guiltiest of guilty pleasures, but Jughead,” she paused and looked at Kevin shyly. “He’s not a hookup, Kev.”

He sighed. “Please. I know that. And I would never think so little of him that I would ask for details. Just general stuff.”

“Kevin!”

“Girl.”

She shook her head, turning back to her laptop and hoping she could find something to do. She didn’t know how much of it she can talk to with Kevin. It was all so new, and yet she felt like she was suddenly dating an old friend. She didn’t even know “comfortable” and “exciting” could mix, yet here she was.

“So is he, then?” Kevin asked. “Your boyfriend?”

She felt her face warm. “We hadn’t talked labels yet.”

He frowned. “Well, did you talk about him leaving or staying?”

Betty heard the testy note in Kevin’s tone and she had to appreciate her friend looking out for her. “Kind of. He’ll likely have to go back to the city, but he was pretty clear about keeping what we have going. He doesn’t want it to end if he has to leave.”

Kevin’s carefully sculpted eyebrow arched. “So he is leaving, but he’ll—say, come back on weekends or something, or you’ll go to him?”

“We haven't gone into any specifics,” she replied, stubbornly keeping her tone steady. They hadn’t talked about it, but she trusted Jughead. He wouldn’t flake out on her.

“And you? How are you feeling about all this?”

Betty looked at Kevin sharply. What the hell did he mean by that? “What do you mean? I feel great. I’m happy being with him. You should know this, Kev. I’ve wanted this since he probably got here.”

He looked a little taken aback. “Whoa, there. Didn’t realize I had a nerve to hit. What’s going on there, girl?”

She pursed her lips, hating herself for going off like that. “There isn’t—“ She stopped and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s not anything to do with you or Jughead. He is amazing and I have—“ She didn’t know why but she looked at the door, as if she were afraid Jughead would overhear. “I feel things for him that I’ve never felt before. He makes me want to do things I’ve never thought of doing with anyone else. Anyone. Get what I mean?”

Kevin reached across the table and encased her hands in his. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Does it involve handcuffs?”

“Kevin!” Her face felt warm, and she didn’t know why until a second later when she realized that with Jughead, it may as well involve handcuffs.

He laughed but did not let her pull away. “Honey, why do you say it like it’s a bad thing? This all sounds wonderful to me!”

“And it is,” she said, nodding. “I promise I think so, and I want him to stay for as long as possible, like physically, but, you know—that’s not entirely up to me. I have all these feelings but I feel like we’ve only just started and what if I come off as completely psycho? ‘Stay here forever, Juggie. Don’t ever leave me.’” She said that last part in a creepy voice.

It made Kevin giggle. “I don’t know if that’ll scare him, honestly. That boy’s got a dark side to him.”

“You know what I mean, Kev. And besides that, I feel like I’m going into uncharted territory here. I want him so badly—for everything, and I—” She sighed and fell back on her seat, closing her eyes. “It’s so soon that sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my mind. And this is coming from someone who married her college boyfriend of two years, Kev. It didn’t even feel this way with Trev.”

And there it was. She said it and she had a burgeoning need to take it back. “I mean, not that I compare or anything. Jughead and Trevor are completely different and really, it’s like apples and oranges…”

Kevin was scowling now. “Betty, Trevor’s been gone six years now. You’ve done your spousal duty to mourn him and I know what you’re feeling isn’t heartbreak anymore. God Forbid, it’s some of that Alice Cooper neurotic obligation shit she’s bred into you. I think you told me once that Alice thought seven years was an appropriate time to mourn a husband. You’re not actually thinking about that, are you?”

God, if only it were that simple. “No, Kev. It’s nothing like that, and if she did say that, it was probably some ancient tribal ritual that she unearthed during one of her news features—“

“You need to let this guilt go,” Kevin said firmly. “You need to talk this out with Jughead. You never talk about it. You hardly talk about what makes you unhappy. This is your problem. You are deathly afraid of making anyone uncomfortable and you will keep everything nice and cushy at the expense of your own well-being. Now I don’t know whose feelings you’re sheltering here: Jughead’s or your dead spouse, but the choice should be pretty clear, and I’m sorry if this is harsh, but Trev ain’t feeling anything anymore.”

She stared at Kevin, mildly shocked.

Kevin sighed when he saw the expression on her face. “Look, hon, this is not a crisis. This is a good thing. Jughead is amazing and he is so gone on you—it’s beautiful. It’s not complicated, really. And honestly, I just wanted to know how the sex was. Good, bad, medium—“

She gave him a look.

“Well? How is the sex?”

She pursed her lips for a second but the smile she was trying to keep at bay pushed its way to the surface. “Mind. Blowing.”

“Hallelujah! Now I won’t ask for details, but if you do feel like sharing the dirty deets, you can text my burner phone. I promise I will get rid of all evidence afterwards.”

Betty couldn’t help but laugh, but then she felt Kevin’s hand on hers again.

“Betty, hon,” he said gently. “You know I’m here for you, right? If you need to talk about this more so that you can talk to Jughead, just give me a holler. We can drink, dance, or we can build something completely useless. Whatever it takes to get past those roadblocks in your head, we’ll do it, okay?”

She squeezed Kevin’s hand gratefully. “Thanks, Kev.”

“No problem. Now let’s go out there and save your man before Cheryl skins him alive.”

*******

Cheryl snapped her finger at Jughead the moment they stepped out on the porch. “Cigarette!”

He gave her a sliver, and when she had it tucked between her lips, he held a flame out for her. He lit his own cigarette and leaned against the porch railing, waiting for what Cheryl had to say.

“Are your friends coming here to meet Betty?” she asked, getting right to the punch.

“Yeah. And they miss me.”

She gave him a fierce glare. “On a scale of one to ten where one is Entourage: The Movie and ten is a Nicholas Sparks film, how do you see your relationship with Betty right now?”

What was it with today and scales? And since when was Nicholas Sparks the standard they all went by? “Definitely not Entourage: The Movie.”

“Wow, that almost wasn’t an answer! Picked up a thing or two from your ex-girlfriend?”

“Do you get a kick out of tearing down flesh and bone to stare into the souls of your victims before you suck their blood, Red?” He was getting irritated. He should probably be used to that with Cheryl by now.

“I protect my investments ruthlessly. You should know that by now.”

He scowled. “How is Betty your investment? Last I heard, she hasn’t accepted any of your money beyond your bookings here.”

“Her feelings for me is an investment. My friendship and trust in her is an emotional investment. She is the only true friend I have. If you break her I will fucking end you.”

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth so he can hold his hands up. “Breaking her is not even a quark in my mind. I’d break myself first before I allow a thought like that in my head.”

“So you’re not just going to up and leave with a ‘thanks for all the fish’ letter.”

He arched an impressed eyebrow. “Why, Red. Do my ears deceive me or did you read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”

She stiffened. “Please. I saw the movie.”

He smirked. He didn’t believe her.

“Don’t change the subject! Are you sticking around or are you just gonna bail on her?”

“I’m sticking around. For as long as she’ll let me. Even after I have to leave this place.”

“Does she know that?”

He scowled. “Of course she does. She and I have talked about it. Now if you’re done poking your fangs into something that is entirely none of your business--”

“Why do you have to move out? Just, like, stay here forever.”

“As I was saying,” he said, his voice louder. “Something that is entirely none of your business--”

“And then what? You’ll rent an overpriced apartment in the city, then come back here on weekends? In a few months, you’ll probably be moving in together, and it sure as hell won’t be Betty living in New York. Unless, of course, you’re thinking it won’t ever get to that.”

He was getting aggravated. “Have you never been in a relationship where you know exactly how you feel about a person but still be uncertain about your future with them? Because nobody is really psychic, Cher, and you never know what the other person is thinking.”

Cheryl frowned, and he cursed himself for letting her rile him up enough to say too much. Again.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, why?”

“Have you not talked to her about Trev?”

“It hasn’t come up in too much detail! This is new and I don’t want to fuck it up so soon. I’ll take what she gives me. I don’t want to ruin it with my stupid insecurities.”

“How does a treasure like you have insecurities?”

“That is the dumbest question I’ve ever heard in my fucking life.” He was surprised at the venom in his own voice.

She paused, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Fair.”

“Things are really good,” he said, candidly. “I’m not going to ruin it by rushing a discussion that can be had over time. And we have time. It’s not like we don’t.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m not one to keep things bottled inside, is what I’m saying. I don’t do things in halves. It’s go big or go home for me, particularly with relationships. Sure, it means I get dumped in Paris after buying her a $3,000 bag and then have an emotional breakdown in Louis Vuitton, but that’s how I roll. I understand that you’re more deliberate. Must be a writer thing.”

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Why do you all attribute the way I am to my being a writer?”

“Be grateful for it. The rest of us just get called crazy and unbearable.”

Cheryl could be such a bull in a China shop.

By the time Betty and Kevin emerged from the house, Jughead was on his third cigarette and Cheryl had managed to get two dates with two different women by text.

Rebound girls, as Cheryl called them.

“All set?” Jughead asked Betty, putting his cigarette out.

“Why do you never smoke around Betty but you never hesitate to light up around me?” Cheryl asked.

Jughead wanted to point out that she asked for the cigarette first but did realize anyway that was kind of true. He had smoked around Betty, but often with her permission first. He shrugged.

“He cares more about Betty’s health than yours,” Kevin pointed out, plopping on a chair.

Betty shot Kevin a gently scolding look and settled beside him on the couch. “That’s not true. Tell them Juggie.”

“Cheryl has a point,” he replied.

“See!” Cheryl cried.

“Juggie!”

“You’re my girl. What can I say?”

Kevin laughed and Betty blushed.

Jughead loved that he can do that to her. He loved calling her his girl straight to her face. He was a little thrilled she didn’t deny it. Then again, she wasn’t going to embarrass him either by telling him no in front of other people.

“Hey, Betts. Want to walk over to Farmer John?” he asked.  

“Sure,” she said.

They made their way down the porch, and when they started walking, he took her hand and twined their fingers. She seemed a little surprised, but she didn’t hesitate.

He smiled, maybe slightly apologetic. “I didn’t mean to put a label on you.”

She looked at her feet as they walked. “You didn’t?”

“I mean, not without asking you, first,” he explained. “I want to be able to define what I feel about you to others, but I guess I forgot to talk to you about it.”

She stopped him in his tracks, and when he looked at her, she was staring up at him with an amused smile on her face. She kissed him, softly, and he felt a warmth spread from his chest to the rest of his body.

“I like the way you said it,” she said. “Like I’m special, instead of--you know, in a territorial way.”

“You are special,” he said quietly. “And I’d like to think I’m not a bonehead.”

She chuckled. “I don’t think you are.”

“So…” he arched an eyebrow questioningly.

“We can use labels,” she said, simply. “If necessary.”

“Like… when Reggie asks you out on a date?”

She stopped and looked at him in mind surprise, laughing. “I thought you weren’t territorial?”

He laughed, too, slightly embarrassed. “I’m not. I just--” He shrugged, putting his arm around her. “I can’t keep letting him ask my girl out and expect me not to say something.”

“How about I say something to him?”

He pretended to think about it. She pinched his side lightly for it.

“Ow! Okay. Sure, fine. That works, I guess.”

She chuckled and hugged his middle. “So Veronica and Archie must miss you a lot to go through all that trouble to come here.”

“It’s not really a whole lot of trouble for them. For the people that work for them, maybe, but all they have to do is not talk about it on Twitter and keep a low profile when they’re around here.”

“All that just to see you again.”

“They can afford to act on their whims. Also, they wanted to meet you. And see this place. I guess considering you and your farm are all I talk about with them.”

“They must be thrilled.”

He laughed at her flat tone. “You are the only one who thinks this place is boring.”

She sighed, chuckling. “I don’t think this place is boring. I love it, but I do think other people think this place is boring and I don’t blame them.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I love this place?”

“Well,” she said, hugging him tighter. “You’re my kind of weird. And a writer.”

“There’s that writer thing again. I swear to God. It’s not the writing thing, okay? I just enjoy the life here. Is that so hard to believe?”

She cocked a smile. “But you’re a thinking man, Juggie. You like places that make you think--libraries, museums, vintage shops, bookstores, and book readings.”

“Those things will always be accessible to me,” he said. “By car, train, or motorcycle, wherever I come from. And I bet you like those things, too. We can go together, yeah?”

She seemed pleased by the suggestion and she nodded.

“Listen, our last date went pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Mmm-hmm. It was fantastic.” Her eyes sparkled.

He smirked. “Let’s have a day out this time. Maybe not to the city quite yet, because Jesus, I need to make sure TMZ’s moved on to the next sordid news cycle--”

She stifled a laugh.

“--but somewhere different. Maybe the shore? That way, I can see you in that swimsuit again, because damn, baby.”

“You liked that, huh?”

“I had to smoke Reggie’s weed. It was that intense.”

She reached up and cupped his face as she kissed him. “I like it when you call me baby.”

He smiled, pulling her closer to continue their kiss.

They never did get to Farmer John.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Harvest to Home , Small Plates and Spanish Tastes

“I love it when food is presented in small plates and eclectic tastes. It gives us all the opportunity to take our palates on an adventure without having to commit to an entire dish. With little portions of flavor, we can broaden our horizons immeasurably, because one little taste can open our minds to an entire cuisine.

This is possibly why I find Spanish tapas so clever and unique. The range of flavor between one Spanish small plate to another can be a perfect pairing or a complete contrast. Either way, everybody wins, because each plate is delicious in and of itself.

Here are my favorite Spanish tapas...”

--Betty Cooper, Riverdale Farms Bed & Breakfast

Archie and Veronica arrived at lunch the next day.  

As promised, there was no entourage, no bodyguards, and nothing to indicate that a rockstar was coming to Riverdale Farms.

They drove into the farm in a black Escalade, which was relatively low key since most Ubers used that car.

They pulled over to the side, and they were barely parked when the passenger’s side door flew open and a petite brunette, whom Betty assumed was Veronica, hopped out excitedly and rushed into Jughead’s arms.

Grinning, Jughead hugged her back and lifted her off the ground.

“Jug!” Veronica cried. “I’ve missed you so much!” She kissed his cheek and then let her eyes take in the entire place. “This place is beautiful!”

“I knew you’d like it,” Jughead said.

“My man!” cried an impossibly good looking, redheaded guy, rounding the SUV and going straight for Jughead. He took Jughead into a bearhug, followed by hearty slaps to the back. “I missed ya, buddy!”

Betty looked at this strangely odd couple: Veronica, with the pearls, a dark purple dress which looked like it came right off Dolce & Gabbana’s runway collection, the expensive shoes, and a harrowingly expensive bag. Then Archie, looking exactly like a rockstar on vacation--ripped jeans, wide-necked shirt with a designer leather jacket, which Jughead wouldn’t be caught dead in, and interesting brown lace up boots.

They didn’t look like they belonged together, and yet they did. The moment they moved away from Jughead their arms were around each other, and they were smiling at one another, clearly in love.

Betty couldn’t help smiling at their happiness.

“This is Betty,” Jughead said, gesturing for her to step forward.

She did, holding her hand out to give a polite, “Nice to meet you,” but she was immediately accosted by Veronica in a warm hug.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Betty. All of them good. I am so happy to finally meet you! I’m Veronica. Jughead has probably referred to me as Ronnie!”

“I’m glad to finally meet you, too!” And Betty meant it, because she felt that Veronica was absolutely sincere.

Archie came over to hug her next. “I’m Archie! Finally, I get to meet the woman my best friend wouldn’t shut up about! You are gorgeous! And that hair! Such a beautiful blonde.  Seriously, like wow! So Hitchcock!”

Betty touched her hair self-consciously.

Jughead scowled. “Arch.”

“Amirite, babe?” Archie continued, turning to Veronica.

“Umm-hmm,” Veronica drawled, crossing her arms over her chest with a knowing, lopsided grin. “Putting the slick in Slick Jack?”

“More like putting the ick in slick,” Jughead said, rescuing Betty from his best friend. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to be clever.  

Archie chortled, pleased with himself as he directed a wink in Jughead’s direction.

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Betty whispered to Jughead.

“Nothing, Betts. It’s perfect.”

Kevin and Farmer John were introduced. Cheryl wasn’t there at the moment, having had a previous engagement, but she would be by before lunch was over. She hadn’t, in fact, been back since last night.

Kevin was clearly thrilled to be talking to Archie and Veronica, admiring Veronica’s shoes and bags, loving stories from fashion week and the red carpet--basically all the things Kevin could have talked about with Cheryl if Kevin weren’t so terrified of her.

Archie and Jughead, in the meantime, caught up, and Betty was fascinated by their dynamic. Archie was gregarious and large, punctuating everything with big gestures and the optimism of a puppy. Jughead served up hilariously sardonic commentary, sometimes teasing Archie into admitting the flaws of what always seemed to be a grand plan.

Betty was also intrigued by how Archie and Veronica seemed to want to bring her in all the time, asking her opinion, adding her to the narrative, or just looking her straight in the eyes even in a group discussion.

They were, to Betty’s estimation, either very inclusive people or was prompted by Jughead through whatever he had told them. She hoped it was the latter.

Betty served lunch at the formal dining room this time, just because the kitchen was too small for all of them, especially if Cheryl actually got there.

Betty had been eager to make an impression, and knowing Veronica’s Latina heritage, she went with some Spanish cuisine--gazpacho, ceviche, and tapas: Albodingas, Patatas Bravas, Gildas, and Gambas al Ajillo.

Veronica was completely in love with it. “Todo lo que amo está en esta mesa!”

Betty felt delight bubble up at the sound of Veronica’s words. “But of course you speak Spanish! I’ve been wanting to learn the language forever. I’ve been trying to do it online but it’s hard when you have no one to speak it with regularly.”

“You can practice with me, hon,” Veronica said decidedly.

Betty clapped her hands. “Oh, can I? I only know the basic stuff at this point.” She rolled off  the beginner phrases she’d learned so far and Veronica encouragingly said she sounded really good.

Jughead sighed with a goofy grin. “I don’t even care what it means. She can talk to me like that all day.”

Archie laughed. “So whipped.”

Betty felt her cheeks warm even as she tried to stifle a giggle.

“Learning a new language is wonderful, Betty,” Farmer John said, spooning some food onto his plate and picking up some bread. “I’m trying to learn French, myself. ”

“And how’s that going, Farmer John?” Kevin asked, piercing a shrimp and sticking it in his mouth.

“So far, the goats have been unresponsive to ‘avant, chèvres!’”

“I’m a little surprised Mama Cooper didn’t make you learn 10 languages, Betty,” Kevin pointed out.

“Kevin, my mother isn’t like--well, I suppose she was,” she said, shrugging. “She did send me to Spain for two summers. Then she hoped I would learn French through my ballet, but I only really learned the ballet terminology: sautés, jetés, entrechat, cabriole, assemblé .”

Jughead’s eyes trailed over her, and they had a glint that suggested unholy things to come, which gave her those damn flutters again.

“Well, thank you for thinking of me when you set your menu,” Veronica cooed, redirecting the conversation back to the food. “This looks amazing. I definitely feel so at home right now.”

Betty was well pleased with the success of her first impression. The food was also as good as it looked, and of course she paired it all with Sangria.

Archie and Veronica talked animatedly, asking so many questions about the farm and how Jughead’s been living in it. Kevin had questions about the music industry and about celebrities, and Archie easily answered those, with Veronica adding her perspective on both business and style. Kevin was rapt and even Farmer John looked intrigued.

Betty noticed that at times Jughead spaced out, probably because he had heard some of these celebrity stories already, but when she felt Jughead’s hand on her thigh, she tried her hardest to pretend everything was normal.

He leaned over, pressing his lips to her ear, and said, “You gonna speak French to me later?”

His breath on her neck was enough to send goosebumps rippling through her body. She brought some sangria to her lips as she nodded at him casually.

“Oui,” she whispered back.

His eyes darkened so quickly and his hand flirted with the hem of her skirt, inching it up her thigh. All she could do not to respond was laugh at a funny story that Veronica was telling. She didn’t even know what was funny as she missed the first few seconds of it, so occupied was she by Jughead’s amorous advances.

He was definitely murmuring sweet obscenities in her ear, and while no one heard the words, everyone saw how close he was leaning in.

“Like, seriously, Jug? Ronnie and I just got here! Can you remove yourself from Betty for--like, two seconds?” Archie cried. “I’m gonna get pregnant just by looking at you two.”

“Archie!” Veronica cried, screaming with laughter.

Jughead looked up, mildly. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the years of me having to deal with your PDA”

This, of course, sent the table in a small uproar, and while Betty felt her face imploding, she felt a thrill at the fact that he wasn’t hiding his desire for her in the least.

Of course it was at that moment Cheryl walked in wearing the tightest leopard print dress ever known to man.

“Hello, sluts,” she said, taking her seat at the head of the table like the queen she was. “Are Jughead and Betty eye fucking again?”

Betty felt a little bit like dying, Jughead rolled his eyes, and Farmer John looked scandalized, but everyone else seemed to love it, and Archie and Veronica happily introduced themselves to Cheryl, who immediately went for the kill.

“I can see why you like taking off your shirt all the time,” Cheryl said, giving Archie the once over. “But you don’t hold a candle to your wife, who I am undressing this very minute with my eyes.”

“Oh, dear God,” Betty breathed.

“I am happily married to Archie,” Veronica replied haughtily. “But I’ll allow you to look.”

“God, I can’t with the bis!” Kevin gushed exasperatedly.

Cheryl winked and raised a glass at Veronica. “I think we may have been smashing in another life.”

“I’ll tell you to quit flirting with my wife but I am finding this extremely hot,” Archie said as-a-matter-of-factly.

“They’re not flirting for your pleasure, Arch,” Jughead drawled. “Let’s be clear.”

Veronica grinned. “I love it when Jughead done goes feministing on you, Archiekins.”

Encouraged, Cheryl upped the spiciness of their lunch discussion and conversation at the table became uproarious and filthy.

“Did anybody invite Reggie?” Kevin asked. “Because Reggie feeding off all this is my religion.”

Jughead popped an olive in his mouth as he said, “Can’t. Archie and Reggie meeting will be a singular event creating a vortex of fuckboy-ness that will suck us all into the bro-verse. It’s not a good place to be when, like me, your favorite color palette is dark to black.”

Betty thought that so deliciously geeky and sarcastic that she cast Jughead an adoring gaze.

Kevin spoke above the laughter. “Seriously, I think Reggie and Archie may get along famously. Please, Jughead? Please, Betty? May I text him?”

“Why are you asking Jughead?” Veronica asked, her eyebrow quirking.

“Because Reggie has held a torch for Betty for years now and always asks her to go out with him,” Farmer John explained. “Loudly.”

“Drama! I love it!” Veronica gasped. “Do it, Kevin!”

“Now hold on,” Jughead said, scowling. “That’s a little mean. He’s a nice guy and I’m not comfortable playing with his feelings.”

Betty smiled at him, pleased. She felt exactly the same and she kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Juggie. I agree.”

“Oh, please,” Cheryl said. “It’s not like Reggie’s in love with her or anything. And I happen to know that he sleeps with a new girl every other week! Do it, Kevin!”

“Texting!” Kevin said as he tapped on his phone.

“Lord,” Betty said under her breath. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Jughead shook his head. “It’s okay. We’re not gonna play. It’ll be fine.”

******

“B. Coop!” Reggie boomed from the backyard door, arms open as he made his way to Betty. “C’mere and give me a big wet one! Guaranteed something’s gonna get big and someone’s gonna be wet!”

“Dammit, Reggie!” Betty cried exasperatedly.

Whatever compassion Jughead had for Reggie went flying out the window.

“This is about to get ugly,” he growled, fist clenching and shoulders tensing. Would Betty be very mad at him if he maybe clocked Reggie in the fucking face?

Jughead rose from his set, Archie tackled him from behind, and things were just about to go down, when a stream of high pressure water came out of nowhere and sprayed Reggie indelicately, sending him sprawling and slipping on the lawn grass.  

There was a scream. Maybe from Cheryl. Of delight, for sure.

As the water died down and Reggie sputtered from the ground, dripping wet, they saw Farmer John, wielding the hose he used to clean the goat pens. He turned the hose off once he was satisfied that Reggie had been properly doused.

“For God’s sake,” Farmer John said in an annoyed tone. This was clearly years of getting scandalized by Reggie’s obscene overtures towards Betty. “Show some respect for the lady!  She is our queen and she doesn’t deserve such shabby language! And by the way, Betty and Jughead are together, so your chances went from zero to nil.”

Farmer John left in a huff, shouldering his hose as he uttered profanities as he went. He was probably going to tend to his goats.

Jughead, for the most part, stood there assessing the degree in which that humiliation was payment enough for what Reggie had just said. He was considering that it was.

Reggie blinked, wiping the water from his eyes. He stood up, sopping wet, and looked at Betty like she had slapped him then plunged a knife through his heart. “Seriously, Betty? Six years I’ve--you just went and started dating Jughead?”

“Reggie!” she gasped, shocked. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”