Chapter 15 Bella
Bella
“Holy shit, I’m freezing my tits off.”
Parker glanced down at her chest and then back up, meeting my eyes with a horrified expression. The massive pom-pom crowning her chunky knit beanie bobbed with every move.
“Seriously, do they look smaller? I know guys have that whole shrinkage problem, but I didn’t think it affected women, too.”
“Honestly,” I told her, biting back a laugh. “I don’t know you well enough to judge your breast size.”
“Oh, c’mon.” She stomped her feet like a child. “They’re like icicles.” Her eyes lit up. “Titsticles.”
I shoved a ten-dollar bill into her hands. “Then go grab us some coffee and defrost.”
She didn’t need me to tell her twice, pom-pom bouncing as she dashed toward the coffee cart.
In our two class sessions, I had quickly come to realize that Parker dressed like she’d stepped out of a different decade every morning, all vintage knits and retro silhouettes, bright colors softened by wear and love.
Today it was a vintage 70s ski sweater in electric turquoise and hot pink zigzags, tucked into high-waisted corduroy pants that emphasized her generous curves.
Over it all was a sunshine-yellow puffy vest that should’ve clashed horribly but somehow worked on her.
It paired perfectly with her oversized enamel sunflower earrings that swung like pendulums.
Talk about a walking mood board for maximalist winter joy.
I loved her style. Envied the confidence of it, the way she dressed like her body was something to celebrate instead of camouflage. Just as it should be.
It didn’t escape me that somehow, without meaning to, I had surrounded myself with curvy, goddess-level women—friends who treated fat like a neutral fact, not a dirty word—and it had quietly rewired something in me.
Parker had a good four inches on my five-foot-six frame, her curves stretching longer, distributed in a way that felt effortless and statuesque. I couldn’t help the flicker of jealousy, but it was the good kind, the kind that made me want to take notes instead of shrinking myself.
By the time she got back from the coffee cart, clutching two to-go cups like lifelines, I had just finished restocking my table display.
It was a rare sunny day at the farmers market, the kind of February light that tricked you into thinking spring had shown up early.
Spoiler alert, it hadn’t. This windchill was no joke.
I had on three layers under my overalls, wool socks inside my boots, and fingerless gloves so that I could still handle the honey jars.
Unfortunately, in my haste to get out of the house on time this morning, I had left my favorite beanie at home, which made every gust of wind feel like daggers to the scalp.
I was two minutes away from yanking the knit cap off the greyhound napping beneath the neighboring table.
“PS: these labels are adorable,” Parker said, hands wrapped around a jar of my wildflower honey. “I don’t know much about honey beyond the fact that it makes one hell of a hydrating exfoliant, but this is the prettiest I’ve ever seen. It looks like you bottled sunshine.”
I laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s the goal. Though, right now it feels more like bottled freezer burn.”
She grinned, setting the jar back down with care. “Seriously though, the color gradient thing you do with your setup is genius. People are gonna walk by and buy three jars just because it’ll look good on their counter.”
I felt my face flame. Parker had this way of complimenting that felt more like she was just stating the facts. And it didn’t matter how well she knew the person.
Just yesterday, I had seen her lean over to another one of our classmates, mid-lecture, to inform her that she had “movie star eyebrows” before going right back to her notes.
“Aesthetics are everything, darling,” she added with dramatic flair.
“Well, thank you. And in case I forgot to mention it, thank you for being here.” I paused to readjust the little chalkboard sign with my flavors.
“My friend, Xan, usually helps me out, but there’s a big book signing event today at Smutty Buddies, and they needed all hands on deck.
Apparently, the line was around the block already at nine. ”
Parker shrugged. “Makes sense. Romance novels and Valentine’s Day weekend. Maybe I’ll stop by on my way out of town.”
She picked up another jar, this one fireweed, the deep rosy gold catching the light. “Have you ever thought about doing skincare with this?”
I paused mid-reach for a tasting stick. “I would love to. Believe me, it’s at the top of my list. I started with soaps, but as of now, I don’t have the bandwidth for more.”
Or the budget.
“And what would more look like to you? You know, if you did have the bandwidth?”
“Face masks, body butters, lip balms.”
Parker set the jar down and rocked forward in her boots. “What if you had a little bit of help?”
I twisted my lips. “I couldn’t afford it.”
She grinned. “I’m doing an independent study this term in cosmetic chemistry and my advisor is letting me develop a small-batch line of products for my final project. I’ve got full access to the university’s lab, so if you’re cool with it, I’d love to do some experiments with your honey.”
My heart stuttered a little. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. Just think about it. Local, raw ingredients from a women-owned brand. People would love it.”
As she spoke, I found myself watching her more than listening—cataloging every shift in her expression.
The way her shoulders squared when she talked, the quick flash of nerves she tried to smooth over with enthusiasm, the brightness in her eyes when she talked about people loving a hypothetical product like it had already been decided.
“We could make a honey-based cleansing balm, maybe a massage cream, something luxurious,” she continued, hands moving now, sketching ideas in the air. “I would credit you, obviously, and you could sell the finished products, assuming you want them.”
I swallowed, excitement buzzing low and electric in my chest. She wasn’t just pitching a project; she was inviting me into it.
I looked around the booth—at the honeycomb display Xan had helped me build over the holiday break, at the rows and rows of jarred honey and my freshly printed business cards. It was small, but it was mine. And the idea of it growing into something more . . .
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out faster than I expected. “But I want to be involved in the testing phase, too. It’s been a while since I took a chemistry class, but I want to know exactly what’s going into every product.”
Parker’s smile went wide, the kind that made her pierced nose crinkle. “We can start small, just one or two products. And if it turns out well—”
“We’ll go from there,” I finished for her.
I slipped back into market mode when a small group of customers wandered over, and right at the front were Miles and Myron. I recognized them instantly, two of Rose City’s longest-standing residents, hands forever intertwined, smiles just as familiar.
The unlikely pair had been one of the first gay couples to get married in Oregon, and just recently, they had celebrated their sixtieth anniversary together. They also supplied the lavender I used from the field behind their house.
In between ringing people up and answering questions about the differences between orange blossom and wildflower, I caught up with them in fragments. They asked after the bees and my brother, and I listened intently as Miles regaled me with a saga about Myron’s latest cooking fiasco.
Eventually, we said our goodbyes, but only after they made me promise to join them for afternoon tea next week. Twist my arm. If Miles wanted to force feed me his famous lavender scones, who was I to fight him?
After that, they melted back into the crowd.
I wrapped my fingers around the latte Parker had brought me, which was, thankfully, still warm, and took another sip.
“You’re glowing, you know that?” Parker said.
I laughed, breath fogging in the cold air. “That’s the frost on my eyelashes.”
“Nope, it’s definitely more than that.” She paused, tilting her head like she was studying me under a microscope. “Though, I have to say, something has changed since the last time I read your aura. It used to be this soft golden color, and now it’s more red.”
“Is that bad?”
Parker’s eyes narrowed playfully, the kind of look that said she was about to drop a truth bomb and enjoy watching it explode.
“Like, bright, horny red,” she finished, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper even though the nearest customer was a good ten feet away. “The kind of red that says someone is getting thoroughly and enthusiastically railed. Or at least wants to.”
I nearly choked on my latte.
My face was on fire now, and it had nothing to do with the windchill. I glanced around instinctively, making sure no one—especially not Miles and Myron—was close enough to overhear.
“I, um—” I started, then stopped.
What was I even going to say? Before I had a chance to decide, a familiar, deep voice cut through the market noise.
“Arabella.”
I coughed again. This was the most dangerous latte of my life.
Bennett filled the space in front of my booth, along with two of his teammates. He was bundled up in a flannel, scarf, and beanie, like he’d wandered out of a catalog of Hallmark Christmas movie heroes.
There was something surprisingly wholesome about the look, which was especially hard to believe considering this was the same man who’d just last night, had called me a good girl while fingerbanging me.
I had to forcibly remind myself how to breathe.
Matty was right behind him, his strawberry-blond hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap. And Roman brought up the rear, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking amused more than anything.
Parker leaned over, her breath tickling my ear. “Mr. Red, I presume?” she whispered, smug as hell.
I elbowed her lightly, cheeks burning for real now, and turned to face the three of them.