Page 2 of Silk and Honey

Maybe it’s the excitement of being able to work for my fashion idol, combined with the thought of maybe seeing Gideon again, but something tells me I made the right choice moving here. In this moment, nothing can get me down.

The final cardboard box lands on the hardwood floor with a thud. I wipe a layer of sweat from my forehead and look around my new home.

It’s a small, sunlit apartment located directly above Beauty and the Boutique. Ezra owns the entire building. The space has exposed brick walls, big windows that look down onto Main Street, and a small kitchen that already smells faintly of the lavender candles from the boutique downstairs. It’s much smaller than my place in Olivia Cove, but it feels peaceful.

A soft knock sounds against the open front door. I turn around to see Ezra leaning against the frame. He has his sleeves rolled up, and his expression is uncharacteristically serious.

"Settling in okay?" Ezra asks, stepping into the room.

"Just finished the heavy lifting," I say, offering a tired smile. "The apartment is perfect, Ezra. Thank you again for letting me rent it. Being right above the shop is going to make the morning commute incredibly easy."

"I’m glad you like it," Ezra says, but he doesn't smile back. He holds up a heavy white envelope with the distinctive, glossy gold stamp of Dee Rama Magazine across the front. "However, we have a slight complication. Ella called me an hour ago, and this arrived by courier shortly after."

My stomach drops a little. I step closer, eyeing the envelope. "Is everything okay with Ella? She was so supportive when I left."

"Ella is entirely on our side," Ezra explains, his voice calm but tight. "She wants to give Beauty and the Boutique the main feature for the Fall issue. It would put this boutique on the national map. But because of the magazine's strict editorial bylaws regarding objectivity, Ella cannot choose the reviewer herself. The assignment went to the senior creative director."

My breath catches. A sudden chill runs down my spine. "Scott Woods."

"Yes," Ezra says, handing me the letter. "Scott."

I pull the thick paper out of the envelope and quickly scan the elegant cursive. It’s a formal notification of a site visit. Scott is personally coming to Foggy Basin in eight weeks to critique our Fall launch collection.

I know exactly how Scott operates. He was my direct supervisor at the magazine, and he was absolutely furious when I quit to work for Ezra. Scott has always viewed me as a rival, and he thinks moving to a small country town means my career is dead. If we give Scott a collection that looks even slightly generic, he won't hesitate to write a mediocre review. He won't have to lie; he’ll just use his professional status to label us as outdated and uninspired. A boring review from a top critic would ruin the new line before it even gets off the ground.

"He wants to embarrass us," I say softly, the paper crinkling slightly in my grip. "He wants to prove that leaving the city was a mistake for both of us."

"Exactly," Ezra says, his eyes flashing with a sudden determination. "Ella will have to print whatever honest critique he writes to maintain the magazine's integrity. Which means we cannot afford to be average, Avery. We cannot give him standard city couture. If we do, he will say the valley has made us soft."

I look out the window, staring at the dusty main street and the distant yellow fields shimmering in the heat. The initial excitement of my move suddenly morphs into a hard, driving focus. I’m not just here to work retail and organize fabric. I need to help Ezra create something completely revolutionary, something that captures the literal soul of this town so perfectly that even a cynical critic like Scott won't be able to find a single flaw.

"We need a brand-new textile concept," I say, turning back to Ezra, my mind already spinning with ideas. "Something unique. A technique he has never seen on a runway before."

"Agreed," Ezra says, a small, proud smile finally touching his lips. "Get some rest tonight, Avery. Tomorrow morning, we go to work. We have eight weeks to show Scott Woods exactly what two passionate designers can do."

Chapter two

Gideon

The scent of melted beeswax and sweet sunflower honey fills my apiary’s workshop. I scrape a block of raw, yellow wax down the side of the metal melting pot, the steady scrape of the blade is the only sound in the quiet room. Outside the screened window, the steady hum of thousands of honeybees fades into the background.

After years of touring stadiums, dealing with aggressive paparazzi, crazy stalkers, and managing the chaotic lifestyle of my favorite rock band, Arcade Lake, this quiet routine is exactly what saved my sanity. I traded adrenaline for agriculture, and I haven’t regretted a damn thing.

Mostly.

I set the scraper down and wipe my hands on a heavy canvas apron. My boots thud softly against the wooden floorboards as I walk into the small office adjoining the workshop. I don’t mean to look at the desk. I tell myself I’m just checking my order logs for the week. But my eyes gravitate to the top drawer anyway.

I pull it open. Resting right on top of my ledger is a square of rainbow paper. It’s a ridiculous, bright contrast to the dark wood and heavy leather of the office.

Five months.

Five months since Foggy Basin’s first Pride. Five months since a whirlwind of sunshine and bright laughter stumbled into my life. Where is Avery now? Has he thought of me at all?

I still remember the way he looked in that tiny crop top, dancing out in the open with all the partygoers from the Pride parade. He was flushed, wide-eyed, and entirely too vibrant for a dusty farm town. After I asked him out, we took our time chatting and just enjoying each other’s company. He could have spent the whole evening talking about color theory and fabric swatches, and I would have just listened, completely mesmerized.

But then we went back to my place, and the memory of his soft skin and eager, breathless gasps still makes my blood run hot if I think about it for too long.

I pick up the bright stationery. On it, he’d drawn a tiny, lopsided bee, followed by his neat, loopy handwriting.