Page 62 of The Beekeeper

“I’m good, thanks,” Nox refused flatly.

I focused on my last throw—and completely missed the board altogether.

“You all right there, Harp?” Max teased.

“You distracted me.”

“Since when?” He chuckled and picked up the beanbags.

Aria talked to Blaze for the rest of our game, and even though it was only a few minutes, it felt like forever. But where was my right to complain? I was literally standing next to a man who’d been invited for the (almost) sole purpose of making Blaze jealous.

“You know,” Marc began, coming to stand by my side. “Sometimes I wonder what’s harder, stepping into the limelight after always orbiting the background, or trying to escape the light that’s been turned into a laser by the magnifying glass of public perception?”

“Trying to escape,” I said confidently, my eyes returning to Blaze who, now, didn’t turn his head in my direction at all. “For sure,” I added for good measure.

“You’re probably right, but I think both are hard for the same reason; no matter what side you’re on, everyone always believes they’re on it alone.”

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there until Marc put his hand on my elbow and when I turned, handed me a drink. Nice, Harper. I’d just been there gaping at Blaze for long enough for Marc to go over, get a seltzer, and come back.

If he was going to comment on my blatant fixation, he didn’t get the chance because Jamie hollered that food was ready and everyone funneled to the grill.

Burgers. Hot dogs. Buns. Aunt Ailene’s fruit salad. Violet’s macaroni salad. Lou’s potato salad. Everyone had their thing that they brought to family cookouts, and even a little bit of everything ended up requiring a forklift to support the weight of the plate. Even when I was no longer hungry, I found I kept eating—smaller and smaller bites just to keep my attention away from Blaze.

The way we avoided each other in close proximity, I could only describe as a waggle dance—the most famous type of figure-eight dance that bees did to communicate the location of something to their hive-mates. Except the only distance Blaze and I were marking was the necessary space between us.

For the most part, he continued to talk to Aria and Wade; I wished Nox would’ve taken Max’s advice and decided to talk to her, but I wasn’t that lucky. Instead, I was left to wonder why Blaze had really turned down the contract. Why it wasn’t enough. Why wanting me wasn’t enough.

“They’re just talking about real estate,” Marc offered, returning to my side. He’d been chatting with Jamie, and I’d overheard my other cousins wanting all their headshots updated.

I shrugged, trying to play it off. “They can talk about whatever they want. It’s really…” I trailed off and sighed. “Frankie shouldn’t have roped you into her ideas. She thinks because Blaze is staying with me that something should happen, and she won’t let the idea go.”

I realized how that sounded given that I was the one who kept staring at him.

“You think I’m not gaining anything by being here and flirting with a beautiful woman?” he returned, and I flushed, my eyes darting on instinct to Blaze as though my red cheeks were always a flag waved in front of his anger.

This time, though, I was surprised to find Aria watching us—watching Marc.

My brows lifted, and I looked back to the photographer who offered her a tipped smile.

“You should go talk to her,” I encouraged, knowing he hadn’t because he’d been trying to stay close to me. “Aria’s so nice. Plus, I’m sure she could use some new headshots for her business cards.”

Aria was two years younger than me, and I couldn’t help but admire her tenacity. She dove into the real estate market and wouldn’t settle for anything but success. While I was satisfied with my boutique business, she seemed like she wanted to take the local housing market by storm. It felt like I saw her face everywhere I went anymore. Ads. Listings. Yard signs.

“If I talk to her, I can’t be talking to you.”

I chuckled. “I think I’ll survive.”

“Ouch,” he feigned injury.

“You know what I mean,” I said and playfully swatted his arm.

“I do,” he admitted, and then I froze when he slung his arm around my shoulder and moved his head close to my ear. “But it’s also really satisfying to see my friend lose his mind a little bit.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Don’t look,” he warned. “He’s fuming, and he never fumes. At least, not for a woman.”

“He’s not fuming, he’s just…stewing. He’s got a lot going on.” Including having to keep turning down my apparent attempts to throw myself at him.