Chapter 3 #4
Five minutes later, I discover that there is a gift shop that’s an exception to my rule.
Putting my hands on my hips, I look around in disgust. This is shit.
The interior of the shop is nice, featuring a large, hand-carved wooden counter and racks and shelves made of the same wood, but they’re largely empty.
There’s one rack of tea towels, and the five shelves in a corner display a range of honey pots, their contents glowing gold in a patch of sunshine.
I drift closer and shake my head in disapproval.
They’ve just been set there with no information other than their labels, and nothing inspiring people to buy them as far as I can see.
I turn slowly around. Where’s the other stuff? The vital elements like pens, pencil cases, and scented rubbers? Where is the tut that children delight so much in buying?
An old man sits at the counter doing the crossword. He’s probably got time to do a whole year’s worth because nobody is spending any money in here.
Offering him a smile, I drift out and head over to the outbuilding Zeke pointed out earlier. The sign says Honey Factory, which makes me laugh. Like he’s the Willy Wonka of the golden stuff.
I duck in and find myself in a large room with rows of bench seating and a glass partition that separates a row of stainless-steel machinery from the rest of the space.
Zeke is standing at the front, obviously completing some sort of tasting. He has open jars and taster sticks in front of him. I blink when I see that the benches are all completely full of people. Who the hell comes for a honey tasting at nine in the fucking morning?
I edge around the room.
Zeke hasn’t seen me yet, as he’s still waxing lyrical about heather honey, his big hands waving in the air and his handsome face alight.
I glance at his audience and have to bite my lip to hold in a laugh.
They’re all women, ranging in age and appearance, but united by their dreamy expressions.
Two women sigh, and I follow their gazes to Zeke.
He’s now bending over the counter, his firm bottom lovingly showcased by his faded jeans.
The mystery of honey enthusiasm has been solved.
Offering the women a smile, I sit on the edge of a bench at the back and watch as Zeke winds up the session.
It seems to take ages because each woman has a question, but eventually, he finishes talking and the crowd drifts from the room.
He fiddles with the jars, putting their lids back on.
He spins towards me when I clear my throat.
“Hey,” he says, a wide, affectionate smile on his face, making my heart flutter. “Enjoy your walk?”
I edge up next to him. “I did. It’s a fantastic place.”
“Really?”
“Apart from the odd building otherwise known as the gift shop.”
“Ah.”
“There were only a few measly pots of honey in there. It’s a working farm so why aren’t you selling your products to your captive audience?”
“You talk as if the security gates are going to come down if they don’t buy a tea towel.”
“It’s utterly crap,” I say sternly. “How could you, Zeke? A gift shop is essential to a satisfactory visit of any venue.”
His lip twitches. “Yes, I do remember your enthusiasm for them. You would end up with more tut than anyone I ever knew. Stuff you’d never use in a million years.”
“Hey. I used everything.”
“What about that decorative thimble set you got at Killerton?”
“They were very pretty.”
“You can’t sew.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, laughing and elbowing him.
He grins at me and then goes back to setting the jars back in the box. He gathers more tasting sticks, adding them to the box before hefting it up.
“Are you putting that away?”
“Nope. I thought we’d do a tasting session just for you. You missed it while you were rating the gift shop.”
“It’s bloody dire. How come it’s not as lovely as the rest of the place?”
He shrugs, leading me out of the building. “We had a lady who was sorting it, but she left to travel Europe, and I haven’t got round to replacing her yet. There’s just so much to do here. We do sell at farmer’s markets, though.”
“Your gift shop would be a valuable source of income. The markup on stuff is immense.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve worked in a few in my time. The prices they charge would make your eyes water.
Plus, it’s a chance to showcase local artists and your honey.
There are only a few dusty jars. You should have them out with information about the honey and the taste.
Oh, and have a tasting station in there.
Perhaps a range of honey-based products.
People are going mad for natural products now.
Like it’s incredibly freeing to use a bar of soap that takes the outer layer of your epidermis off.
” I stop talking, becoming aware that I’ve been banging on too much.
He smiles at me, though. That’s one thing I always loved about him. I could talk and talk, and he’d never grow irritated. Instead, he seemed to like it. He’d said once that because he’s quiet, he liked to hear my voice.
I shoot him a shy smile, and he pushes my hair from my face. “Ready to go back to the house?”
I nod, waiting as he puts the box in the boot of the Land Rover.
I wander over to the edge of a big field, turning as he joins me.
Without thinking, I slide my arms around his narrow waist and lean into him.
For a second, I wonder if he’s going to push me away, but I should have known better.
He gathers me to him, my body melting into his like butter on hot toast, and we stare out over the fields.
The sky is blue, and the only sound is the cawing of the crows as they circle overhead.
“Where are the bees?” I ask suddenly.
“Eh? Oh, the hives are all in one of the fields. We keep them away from the general public, but we do beekeeper courses over the year.”
“Now I know the meaning of the saying, ‘a hive of industry.’ Why bees, Zeke?”
He smiles down at me. “I like them,” he says simply. “They’re incredibly clever and busy little insects. They keep their hives clean, and all the bees work together towards a common goal. What’s not to like?”
“The sting.”
“That usually only happens if you’re waving your hands around like a windmill when they come near.
They’re only checking if you’re something that could be valuable to the hive, and then they think you’re threatening them, which, given their size, is a valid assumption. Leave them be and they’ll buzz off.”
“Are these sunflowers?” I ask, nodding at the plants in front of us, and wanting to keep his arm around me. It feels nice—like home somehow.
“Yes.” He puts out a hand and touches one of the leaves. “Did you know the French word for sunflowers is tournesol? It means turning to the sun.”
He pulls me around until our fronts touch, and I’m looking up at him. He brushes my hair back and then traces a gentle finger down my cheekbone. “Like you, Georgie. I always turned to you.”
“Really?” I whisper.
His eyes twinkle. “Yes, always. You were like the sun to me. Warm and so full of life.”
“That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever had said to me.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” He hesitates. “Do you date much in London?”
I shake my head. “Dating’s not the word for what I did.” His mouth quirks. “I didn’t want to date anyone.”
“Why?”
The afternoon seems suddenly hushed. I take a deep breath and summon my courage. “Because none of them were ever you, Zeke.”
He blinks in disbelief. “Pardon?”
“I always liked you far too much for my peace of mind.”
His smile is my reward. It’s larger than the sun and twice as hot.
“Same,” he says softly and kisses me again.
This time, the kiss goes deep, and I go up on my tiptoes, twining my arms around his neck and opening my mouth to his tongue.
He groans low in his throat, and his hands cup my arse, pulling me tight against him.
I can feel his cock like an iron bar against my stomach, and I push hard against his thigh, searching for pressure against my dick.
When he pulls away, his eyes are heavy-lidded, and his mouth swollen. “Let’s go home,” he says huskily.
“Ezekiel Taylor, I thought you’d never ask.”