Page 56 of The Beekeeper

“What do you mean?” My hand slowly curled into a fist at my side.

“The marketing campaign for her business,” he answered, eyeing me skeptically.

“Oh, right.” I took the excuse to pull out my phone and open up the feed for Harper’s Honey, checking on the latest post. Two thousand likes since this morning. “It’s good. Her posts are getting a lot of visibility, and the response to her new flavor was great.” I knew because I checked up on every photo she posted.

“The cinnamon one?”

“Cinn-sational,” I corrected and then grimaced. I shouldn’t be the one caring if he got the name right. Clearing my throat, I added, “She mentioned most of the local sellers have sold out of the first batch she delivered, so I think they’re selling faster than she can jar them.”

“Good. She deserves it,” Wade said, and I heard a familiar big-brother protectiveness in his voice. “So, nothing from Eastwood or his cronies?”

“Nothing that can’t be handled.”

I didn’t give a shit what people said on my feed; I stopped reading comments years ago, but Harper still did. She cared about what every single person thought, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to stop. Few people cared like she did anymore, and I didn’t want her to change; I didn’t want them to change her.

So, I trolled anyone who left negative comments on her posts, and people were starting to get the message. Harper, on the other hand, hadn’t said anything about my interactions which I took as passive acquiescence.

“Model and white knight,” Wade muttered. “Impressive.”

I snorted. “We both know the only time I get to be a hero is on the big screen.”

“No, that’s just the only time you see yourself as one,” my brother returned without missing a beat, and I didn’t have the presence to argue with him. Not after this morning. My brain and self-confidence were flagging.

Wade pulled up next to my SUV in front of the house.

“Thanks. I’ll be over in a little to pick up Pais.”

“No rush,” he told me and as I slid out of the seat, added, “Oh, before I forget. Lou’s family is having a Memorial Day BBQ at Ailene’s this weekend. Lou asked if you and Pais were coming, and I assumed you were, but I told her I’d confirm.”

A sharp pain burned in my chest like the snap of a hot rubber band. I didn’t know why I always felt guilty going to their family events. Like I was some kind of lost puppy instead of technically (but distantly) related by-marriage.

“Yeah,” I croaked, managing a weak smile. “Of course, we’ll be there.”

I shut the door and stood outside until his SUV completely disappeared from view.

Maybe the guilt was because, by going, I further entrenched myself and my daughter into a place that was only temporary for us and a family that we didn’t really belong to.

A shower wasn’t going to cut it. Not when it felt like I had a Category 5 hurricane rolling through my veins. So, I threw on some shorts and a tee and headed for my running path that wound along the back half of the property. After moving in here, I’d managed to carve out some time to exercise every day when Pais went out to the hives with Harper.

It felt amazing to be able to run outside again rather than on a treadmill in the gym; that was the only way I’d been able to run before without being accosted.

Now, I had a well-worn path along the back half of the property, passing by the renovated barn where Nox lived and worked and steering clear of the wildflower field and hives. I figured Harper was up there with the bees since the truck was here but she wasn’t inside the house when I went to change. I was trying to work off my frustration, not work it up.

The loop was only about a mile and a half, but that was plenty to get my heart rate up if I pushed it. So, I did and ran the path twice, finishing with a couple sets of pushups. One after another after another. I kept going until it felt like every muscle in my upper body was going to give out, every seam burning with strain. Even my lungs couldn’t seem to drag in oxygen fast enough to sustain them. Good. This was what I needed. To force everything I couldn’t control out of my mind. This lawsuit. Harper…

Sweat-soaked and exhausted, I headed back to the house, approaching from the back. I could hear music playing as I got closer, but it was movement in the dining room window that caught my attention.

Harper was working…and dancing around the table, her music blasting loud enough to rattle the windows with Taylor Swift’s “Honey.” Of course. And I recognized it because the only thing that Pais liked more than Swift’s newest album was bees. But the music and the dancing wasn’t what stopped me cold—or hot—it was what she was wearing. Or not wearing.

Except for the conversation that we’d had in her bedroom doorway, Harper was always in jeans or leggings and a graphic tee. Don’t get me wrong, how she dressed made little difference to my Harper-horny imagination, envisioning her curves underneath whatever she wore. But this time, I didn’t have to fantasize.

She pranced around the kitchen, her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, in nothing more than a sports bra and the tightest, shortest shorts that I swore violated the legal definition of an article of clothing. All I saw was skin—shoulders, arms, legs—and what skin was covered by the pale-yellow fabric felt like it showed almost everything. The small curves of her breasts, her nipples hard where there was no padding to hide them. Her hips. The firm swell of her ass. The outline of her tiny thong.

Fuck. I choked on my own saliva.

I should’ve walked away. Made some noise so she knew I was here and would probably run to throw on something else. But I didn’t. I inched closer to the window like some fucking stalker, but I was powerless when it came to looking away from her. Powerless to resist the pull of her when I could pretend there were no consequences. My heaving heartbeat pounded like a runaway train, already speeding wildly before I’d just gone and torpedoed the brakes.

She danced and twirled as she filled up one honey jar after another. Her mouth moved and I wished I could tell if she was singing or just mouthing along with the words.