Page 38 of The Beekeeper

Right.

I blew out a breath and attempted to quickly hand him the honey. Lightning whipped over my skin as his fingers closed over mine.

Why—why was he touching me? Blaze went out of his way to avoid contact, and I followed his lead. I wasn’t naïve enough to think his apology changed anything. Not like that. My eyes snapped up, confused until I saw where his focus was: the sting on the back of my hand.

Now, my hand burned for two reasons, neither of which was comfortable. His frown deepened and then my hand was free.

“All right, you’ll pose with the jar for a few. Then I’ll take some shots of you opening it, muscles flexed,” Marc said and with my throat tightening, I retreated back to a safe distance at his side.

The camera shutter applauded the show Blaze put on for us. Bulging muscles. Roguish smile. Sultry eyes. Adoration aimed at my Cinn-sational honey.

“All right, uncap it and I’m going to have you dip your finger in there and give that honey a good swirl.”

My breath caught, my wide-eyed stare ensnared in Blaze’s.

“Is that okay with you, Harper?” He caught himself. “If he fingers up the honey?”

For the first time all afternoon, I was pretty sure Marc hadn’t intended the double entendre. I waited for Blaze to say something or to cut him down with that impossibly sharp glare of his, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, and even more surprising, he didn’t look away.

“Sure. Yeah, it’s fine,” I managed hoarsely, anything to get Blaze’s focus somewhere else. On the honey. On the camera. Anywhere but my reaction.

“Sweet.” Another wink before his camera covered his face again. “All right, go for it, Blaze.”

Blaze clenched his jaw and pushed his finger into the raw honey.

That was when I was sure I was going to combust. The way Blaze looked…every muscle taut, his expression so intense. I salivated as my stomach coiled in an aching knot, my core clenched, dampness leaking between my thighs. If I had to give the image one word, I’d define it as temptation.

“Perfect,” Marc praised. “These are the money shots.”

My jaw snapped shut.

“Now lick your finger clean.”

Oh god. I couldn’t watch this. I had to get away. I had to— “I need to go put some hydrocortisone on my hand. I’ll be right back,” I stammered and beelined—no pun intended—for the house.

Five minutes and a cold glass of water later, I returned, completely forgetting about the cream I should’ve put on my hand. Mercifully, they looked wrapped up as I approached, the two of them reviewing the raw shots on Marc’s camera.

Blaze was the first to see me, but Marc was the first to speak.

“Come take a look. See what you think.” He motioned me over. “I don’t usually share before edits, but…anything for Blaze.”

Of course.

I stood on the other side of the photographer, careful not to look at Blaze—the real one—and focused on the images.

“What do you think?” Marc flipped through a bunch of his shots, and my brows lifted. They were amazing. I mean, Blaze was Blaze. Gorgeous. Rugged. Ripped. But the photos were perfect. I had no idea… “Is he the beekeeper you were hoping for?” he joked.

I was afraid to risk sincerity, and I didn’t dare to joke it either, so instead, I quipped, “Well, he’s no Jason Statham, but your photography did the best it could.”

Marc barked out a laugh, but Blaze looked less than amused.

“Not as handsome, but definitely as cranky,” Marc assessed, but refused to let it dull his demeanor. “And I know why and just how to fix⁠—”

“I need to wash my hands,” Blaze interrupted him and then just as he started to walk off, added, “I’ll be right back if you want any other shots.”

“Take your time. Unless Harper wants something else, I think we’re finished with you.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “These are great. Thank you.”