Page 88 of The Beekeeper

I stifled a chuckle when he signed his name so it looked like he just wrote ‘BS’ with little squiggles in between; it seemed like a very Blaze thing to do. Never taking anything seriously, not even his signature. Nothing except his daughter.

After that, the woman tossed her credit card at me like I could’ve charged her any amount as long it let her stand here and stare at him. This was why just sex was necessary. Because if Blaze and I were serious, and other women were constantly…like this around him, the feeling in my stomach would be catastrophically more unpleasant.

But was that how he had felt seeing me with Marc?

I shoved aside the thought, about to process the woman’s payment when she gasped and declared, “Oh, I want that one, too,” pointing to the next jar of honey in Blaze’s hand. We looked at each other and then at the jar.

“It’s the same as what you just bought,” I told her, uncertain if maybe she read the label wrong.

“Oh, I don’t care. Blaze touched it.”

I started to choke on the ridiculousness of it, quickly masking it as a cough and nodding, as I croaked, “Sure.” I processed the card, and when I handed it back to her, added, “I have limited quantities, so there is a two-jar limit for purchases.”

I wasn’t really saying it for her, but for everyone else in line, and to my surprise, she actually looked upset by it. As though, if Blaze were to touch every jar, she would’ve bought the whole table.

I never would’ve thought I’d have to impose an order limit on honey jars. Then again, if someone had told me a month ago that Blaze Stevens would be the poster child for my social media reputation regeneration campaign, I would’ve called BS.

The brunette stepped aside, and two blondes took her place and spoke in tandem.

“Do you mind⁠—”

“If we⁠—”

“Sure,” Blaze rumbled and then pinned a smile to his face as they pulled out cell phones and started snapping photos. Selfies. Individual ones, and then together. Some with my honey. A small piece of me felt guilty that he was here, on display like a lamb to the social slaughter, but I reminded myself that I hadn’t called him. He came here…somehow…on his own volition.

“So what will it be, ladies?”

“Which is your favorite?” blonde number one asked.

“The Cinn-sational or the blueberry,” he said without missing a beat.

Five minutes later, four jars of my cinnamon honey were autographed and sold. And that was just the beginning. By the time the first hour ended, I’d sold out of everything I brought with me. After that, Blaze still stuck around, smiling for photographs, signing my business cards and handing them out, and engaging with the crowd at my table. Other vendors took breaks to come over and see what my line was all about. It was incredible, and it was all because of him.

At one point, I managed to look over at Adam’s table, and imagine my surprise when I saw that first woman with the long, dark hair, standing in the corner of his tent, her arms folded, and fuming as she watched almost everyone congregate around my booth.

At least no one could accuse me of using AI to create a fake Blaze now.

At eleven, the market closed, and I thought they were going to have to call the police to clear out the square. Thankfully, with some pleading from Blaze, that wasn’t necessary.

“Thank you.” I turned to him. “You didn’t…this wasn’t part of our deal.”

“I know,” he said staunchly. “I wanted to help.”

“How did you even know? To come here?” I wondered.

“Pais and I were on our way to the beach, and I stopped in to my brother’s to pick up something for the case when I heard Lou take your call,” he explained, and I realized the insistent masculine voice in the background of the call hadn’t been Wade; the brothers sounded so much alike. “Lou told me your brother didn’t show up.”

“No…” The thought had me reaching for my phone. Still no message from Nox. “It’s not like him either.”

“And that your competition was here.”

Color warmed my cheeks. “Yeah.”

My eyes flicked to the Honey Trap Farms’ tent, a small flicker of satisfaction rolling through me when I saw his three helpers rebuilding broken-down boxes because they had a ton of unsold jars leftover. Behind them, though, Adam was having it out with the brunette from earlier. They were arguing, Adam’s arms whipping around wildly as he pointed to all his remaining stock and then out in my direction. The brunette said something back that only made him angrier, and suddenly, his shout echoed through the space.

“Because it’s your fucking job!”

Now, everyone was looking at them and Adam knew it. He kicked over one of the empty boxes and stalked out of the tent in a fury.