A Pack of Honey (The Omega Book Club #2)

1. Sunny

Sunny

The air is alive with the gentle buzz of bees. Their melodic hum weaves an aria that fills me with an overwhelming sense of joy. The sound is my sanctuary and my family's legacy. I sing along, low under my breath, just for them.

Nestled among the vibrant wildflowers and just before the rolling dunes of Lake Michigan, the apiary sits in a vast field surrounded by a few wooded acres.

Sunshine Apiary has been in my family for three generations, each corner steeped in history, life, and story.

I move slowly, inspecting each brood box with care.

As I sing to the bees, they dance around me in a lively swirl.

Music always seems to make them more personable.

Flitting close to me and then zipping away.

I'm dressed in a simple pair of pants and a cotton shirt.

I love being close to the hives, allowing the bees to see and smell my presence.

My protective suit is for more dangerous tasks that might aggravate them like harvesting honey, or during the late season when their temper can be unpredictable.

After I'm done checking the brood boxes, I go back to the farmhouse at the heart of the apiary, sit down at the big wooden dining table and open my laptop.

Here, I juggle social media updates, respond to emails, complete orders, and tackle the mountain of paperwork that comes with the territory of owning a business.

Sunshine apiary used to be a regular cow farm but my grandmother turned it into a bee farm and commercialized it as the Leelanau peninsula became more of a tourist destination.

Now its as much of a boutique tourist attraction as it is an actual honey producing farm.

A barn on the property is where products made from the hives are created, packaged, and shipped.

Specialty-flavored honey, organic soaps, lip balms, and royal jelly are distributed to businesses along the Peninsula or sold online and shipped.

I take a deep breath before clicking on one of the most recent emails.

My heart rate immediately rises. It's from Night Associates.

They've been hounding me for months about the farm.

Their persistent offers to buy me out are a relentless, throbbing headache.

It's a constant source of frustration. They plan to build a luxury resort just outside Starlight Point, near my farm.

They think my land would be a great addition to their property.

I've told them to varying degrees that it isn't going to happen.

It started with polite replies but had escalated to emails with some well-chosen expletives.

I type out yet another email outlining that I'm not goddamn interested.

This email has several more expletives than the last. I'm sick of being harassed by these people.

No means no, goddamnit. They can promise me the moon, and I'd tell them to shove it.

My family didn't build the moon. They sweated and sacrificed and loved for this place.

The moon doesn't have a beautiful field, a pond with ducks, or sunflowers growing along the fence.

My home is about half a mile from the dunes and gorgeous Lake Michigan.

This place holds my soul and nothing anyone can offer will tear me from it.

Once that's sent, I head into town.

Lakeside Point is the picture of a quaint town. Adorable houses lining the streets have been converted into shops. Baskets overflowing with colorful flowers hang from every lamppost and eave. At the end of Main Street, the road opens to a small beach, where the sun glints off gently rolling waves.

Tourist season is in full swing. The sidewalks are crowded, and cars glide up and down the street, searching for a nonexistent parking spot. Thankfully, I don't have to look. I slide into an employee space behind a store with a big, colorful sign that reads:

Dandy Stuff: Gifts, Home Goods, Nicknacks, and Fine Charms.

I'm not an employee, but the owner, Winnie, is a friend. Since I'm bringing her lunch, I know she won't mind.

I pull open the store's back door and carry two large Tupperware pasta containers. Cooking is my one chance to relax, and I wish I had more time to do it—or, even better, more reasons to do it. With just me in the farmhouse, getting out my pots and pans often feels more sad than fulfilling.

Winnie stands near the checkout counter, talking to a customer. Her curly dark brown hair is pulled into two buns, and black freckles pepper her dark brown skin. Though she's smiling, I can tell from across the room that it's brittle.

Slowly, it dawns on me that the customer is yelling at her.

It's not full-blown shouting, but the middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair is gesturing wildly and loud enough to raise my hackles.

Setting the Tupperware on a nearby display, I casually walk up behind the woman, catching the tail end of her rant:

"How dare you accuse me? Do you know who I am? I could buy this whole store if I wanted! I have no reason to steal a few cheap beads!"

Winnie takes a slow breath, her hands shaking as they clutch each other.

"Ma'am," she says gently, "I pulled out four beads for you to look at. After I finished helping another customer, two were missing. I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, but could they have fallen on the floor? Or maybe they accidentally mixed in with your things?"

Her voice is calm and understanding. She's trying to give the woman an out now that she's been caught.

We're part of a group in town known as the Omega Book Club, and of all of us, Winnie is the most gentle and caring—the most Omega-like.

Me, though? Not so much.

The Karen opens her mouth and starts shouting again. As she does, I grab what I assume is her purse—a manila thing with zero personality and a lot of rich-bitch energy—and flip it upside down onto the table near the bead display.

Out tumbles a wallet, lipstick, phone, and—yep—two shiny gold beads with delicate gems worked into the design. There's nothing cheap about these things. Because of them, Winnie has a state-of-the-art security system.

The woman gapes at me like a fish while Winnie slaps a palm to her forehead. She disapproves of my tactics, but seeing my friend get berated by a total bitch really made me see red.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" the woman screeches.

All the other customers in the store and Winnie's one employee have turned to stare.

"Catching a thief," I say casually, holding up the two beads.

Karen gawks. "How dare you touch my things! You planted those! You had them the whole time!"

I say nothing, but Winnie points to the camera mounted in the corner. The woman turns pale.

"I don't think anyone will buy that," Winnie says simply. "However, we can assume the beads accidentally rolled into your purse. You can leave my store—please shop elsewhere from now on."

Winnie's shoulders sag in relief as the woman snatches up her things and storms out the door.

She turns to me with an exasperated expression.

"What?" I ask innocently, placing the beads back in their slots.

It's like the combs of a beehive, and each slot has a label for a different charm. I know where they go from staring at them every time I'm here. I love the fine work and detailed art.

"That was a little heavy-handed, don't you think?" she asks, waving to her employee as we head to the small back office for lunch.

"No," I reply with a grin.

She snorts, then moans happily as she digs into the creamy mushroom pasta I brought. It sends a thrill of happiness through my gut—and then a slight plunge, as I wish I could make food like this for people I care about daily.

Winnie glances at me, and I brace myself. She wears her thoughts on her face, and I know exactly what she's thinking.

"Have you had any more issues at the farm?" she asks, aiming for casual. It lands far from it.

I also know that if she's asking, it's because she's heard.

"There was a little problem at the front entrance," I say, gauging how much she knows. My anxiety ratchets up at the thought.

She levels me with a flat look.

"You're gonna call a broken gate and a trashed front yard a little problem?"

I roll my eyes. "I don't know that it was them. It could've been teenagers. Or shitty, entitled tourists." I gesture toward the front of the store, referencing her recent run-in.

She just gives me the stare that says stop pretending to be dumb.

I sigh. "Yes, there was a problem. But it's been cleaned up. You can't even tell."

"What did Sheriff Robins have to say?" she asks, frowning at her pasta.

I reach across the table and take her hand. She squeezes mine.

"I'll figure it out. They can't keep this up forever. Eventually, they'll get caught."

She nods, but the frown stays.

"How's your gran doing?" she asks.

That one hits harder. She must see it written across my face.

"I'm sorry."

I don't want her to apologize. It's great she cares. I'm not alone. It's just hard.

I try for a more controlled smile. "She's about the same. She likes the home she's living in."

That's all I can muster before silence takes hold.

Lunch ends too quickly. Winnie heads back to the front, and I return to my happy farm—but lonely farmhouse.