Page 120 of The Beekeeper

And then there was nothing. Not thoughts. Not words. Not even sounds as my release swelled and took me under. My heart stampeded into my veins, want galloping through my body as I bowed up and around him. Blaze swallowing down every sound that came from my throat like he wanted to take those with him, too as he thrust into me only a few times more before he couldn’t hold out either.

I felt the rush of his cum inside me, the way he buried himself deep like he needed to touch every part of me—leave a mark on every part of me before this was over. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to try. I wanted to tell him he’d already marked every part of me that was or ever would be. Instead, I said nothing. I did nothing but drift down from my release into the shelter of his arms.

I didn’t know how long it was before we moved. It was like neither of us wanted to break the bubble. But we did. We had to.

He pulled out of me and carefully cleaned me up. I know how much that killed him to do—how much he loved to keep me filled. But our agreement had struck the proverbial midnight.

“Harper…” he finally spoke.

I swallowed and it felt like a knife going down my throat. “Our time’s up,” I said. “Good night, Blaze.”

He stood there, in a losing war with himself, and then his head dropped. “Good night, Harper.”

He let himself out of my room, closing the door firmly behind him. The worst part was, we’d both said good night, but we knew it was really goodbye.

Chapter 29

Harper

Honey Trap Farms: Support Local Honey for Real People

I rolled my eyes at Adam’s week-old post, one of many in his ‘real people’ campaign to counter my celebrity-filled feed. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous that his account hadn’t posted anything for days. Was he preparing for some new kind of attack on my business? On me? On Blaze? Dealing with the press was bad enough.

“Harper.”

“Sorry.” I clicked my screen off and dropped my phone back into my bag; it wasn’t helping to keep seeing what he said—implicitly—about me, but apparently, my algorithm was a glutton for punishment.

“What is it?” Frankie walked over to me, tape gun in hand. We were in the storage corner of Nox’s barn, packing up a bunch of his colorful creations. He’d been invited to do a showcase in Boston at the last minute and had called and asked for some help getting his stuff together.

There was a time when I would’ve said nothing, but Frankie would know it wasn’t nothing, and she’d assume it was about the wrong thing. Blaze.

“Just Adam and his stupid posts.” I grabbed more bubble wrap and carefully picked up the blue-green sculpture.

Frankie angrily tore off a piece of tape. “He’s a little shit. Why don’t you have Wade contact him and just put an end to all of this?”

I held the bubble wrap tight while she taped it in place, thinking about the folder still sitting in my kitchen drawer. It would be so easy, yet, no matter how bad it had been those first couple of days after the photo was leaked, I’d never opened that drawer.

An end to all of this.

“Shoot. Who is calling me…” She set down the tape gun and pulled out her phone, her brows furrowing for a second before she answered, “Hello?” Her eyes lifted to me. “Yeah, she’s right in front of me.”

“Who is it?” I mouthed.

“Okay, yeah,” Frankie said to the caller and then angled her phone to tell me, “It’s Lou. She said you have to check your phone.”

“What?” I went back to my bag for my cell, my mind already flipping through worst-case-scenario options. Was it Blaze? Paisley? Did the press publish something else about us? Was it Adam? Had he⁠—

“Oh my god…”

“Call you back.” I heard Frankie tell her sister before hanging up and planting herself at my side. “What is it?”

Lou had sent me a link to a social media post, and when I clicked on it, I instantly recognized the woman in the photo; the brunette from the farmers’ market that Adam had been yelling at. Natalie Vachon.

According to the post, she was his marketing manager for the last four years.

“‘When I was hired by Adam Eastwood, I bought into his charm and the story of his dream, and for the last four years, it’s been my job to make you buy into it, too. It didn’t take long for me to realize the story I was selling was a fake and the man I worked for was a bully,’” Frankie began reading the caption out loud. “‘For a long time, I was too afraid to say anything because I knew how he attacked and discredited anyone who went against him. I knew because I was the one he’d send to do it’—holy shit, Harper,” she exclaimed and then quickly continued, “‘So here is the truth about Honey Trap Farms: it’s a honey trap.’”

It was a good thing she was reading it to me because my eyes struggled to focus on the tiny print, my frenzied pulse scrambling my brain’s basic skills.