Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WILLA
Beau:
You alive over there?
Willa:
Yeah, sorry. Just been prepping for the Strawberry Festival. You know how much work that is.
The Strawberry Festival always made Starlight Cove feel like we were living in a picturesque postcard.
Fairy lights were strung overhead, creating a canopy of magic.
It smelled like sugar, sunscreen, and ocean air.
Residents strolled Main Street, where dozens of booths were set up.
A band played in the gazebo at the park with families strewn on the lawn, soaking it all in.
While the farm had participated in the Strawberry Festival every year for as long as I could remember, this was the first year our stall wasn’t a simple white tent.
Instead, we were stationed in a wooden stand Lincoln built with his bare hands along with the help of a friend from high school, Ford McKenzie.
Instead of working at One Night Stan’s today, Lincoln had gotten up with me at the crack of dawn and helped me set up here. Wooden crates were filled with our wares—fresh strawberries, strawberry syrup, honey, and my latest jam batches.
I’d brought every last jar of jam I had on hand—less the crate I’d dropped last week when I’d had my back spasm. But even without that, we had way more than I could hope to sell.
We were also stocked with fresh honey stored in old whiskey bottles and our newest addition—mini honey sticks my child of a husband had decided to name things like Bee-hind Closed Doors, Spread ’Em, and Honeypot.
He’d suggested Drizzle Me, Daddy, and I’d told him if he ever said that again, I’d drown him in honey and make it look like an accident.
I’d been focused on getting everything laid out just so that I’d let Lincoln handle the signage.
But I about tripped over my feet when I stood out front and glanced at our booth.
The wooden stand—lined with stacked crates that overflowed with jars, berries, and bottles—looked downright professional.
Rustic and polished all at once, like something out of a farmers market ad.
The only problem was he’d priced everything like we were selling our items out of a boutique in Manhattan and not on Main Street in Starlight Cove.
“You think you can get twenty-five dollars for this tiny thing?” I asked, holding up one of the four-ounce glass jars of jam. “Are you out of your mind?”
Lincoln flashed me a grin, his dimples winking at me and making my traitorous stomach flip. “I actually think we can get thirty-five, but I didn’t want to give you a heart attack.”
I strode behind the booth, rolling my eyes. “I can’t wait to watch you explain to every person who asks that there is, in fact, no edible gold in these recipes.”
“What you’re going to watch is me selling you out, wife.”
“Selling me out?” I huffed out an incredulous laugh and shook my head. “You think you’re going to be able to sell us out of strawberry tomato and strawbanero jam? Be serious.”
“I don’t just think. I know.” He stepped close—closer than necessary—placed a hand on my hip, and lowered his head until his lips brushed my ear. “Then I’ll collect my thank-you however you wanna give it to me, wife.”
My brain short-circuited from his words and his nearness and that maddening path his thumb took under the hem of my T-shirt. And by the time it was back online with a retort, the line was five people deep.
And Lincoln’s brother was leading the pack.
Atlas stood at the front of the line, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, those massive arms crossed over his chest, and a don’t fuck with me scowl carved onto his face.
He jerked his chin toward the booth. “I’ll take all the jam.”
Lincoln didn’t even blink. “I’m afraid the limit for pain-in-the-ass older brothers is two.”
Atlas’s jaw hardened. “Ten.”
“Three.”
Atlas braced his hands on the table and leaned toward Lincoln, his teeth clenched as he bit out, “Five.”
“Best I can do is four.”
“Are you shitting me? I can’t even get one of each flavor? That’s bullshit, Linc.”
Lincoln just shrugged. “Take it or leave it, bro. You’re holding up the line.”
There was a long, tense pause before Atlas growled, slapped a hundred-dollar bill in Lincoln’s palm, and snatched four jars before stalking off in a cloud of irritation.
I didn’t know what surprised me more—our very first customer asking to buy us out, or Lincoln turning him down.
“Why didn’t you just sell everything to him?” I asked. “You could’ve proven me wrong in the first five minutes.”
He exchanged a jar for cash with another customer and shot me a smile. “I’m building demand. Bet I can get him to pay fifty bucks for the next jars. Hell, I can probably charge him a hundred.”
I snorted and shook my head. “Now you’re just delusional. Maybe I should take over.”
“Not before I can get some honey sticks from my sweet little honey!” Mabel strolled up, her red-sequined jumpsuit sparkling in the sun, along with her matching lipstick, stark against her pale skin.
Her short gray bob was curled loosely, and a strawberry hat sat perched on her head.
The self-proclaimed Starlight Cove Strawberry Queen.
“There’s my favorite sex toy dealer.” Lincoln winked as he handed her a mini honey stick. “You’re looking good enough to drizzle, Mabel.”
“Don’t you tempt me, sugar. Besides, George gets first taste.”
Lincoln grinned, his dimples flashing. “Well, second in line ain’t so bad.”
Mabel eyed my husband head to toe, her lips pursed to the side. “Boy, I’d break you in half.”
I sputtered out a shocked laugh as Lincoln’s smile only grew.
With a shrug, he said, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Quit flirting with me, and give me a dozen of those little honey sticks. Gonna conduct some…research tonight.”
“Research?” I asked, brows raised as I grabbed a few of each flavor.
“Of course. Meltability, stickiness, which flavor pairs best with skin… The usual,” Mabel said, her tone deadly serious. “Any interest in exploring a wholesale partnership? These would fly off the shelves at Wicked Little Things.”
I blinked at her, then at Lincoln, then at the long line forming behind her.
We’d been open fifteen minutes. Fifteen.
And somehow, with Lincoln by my side, we’d been offered a booth buyout and a wholesale deal.
Him standing here with that apron wrapped around his waist, luring customers in, was obviously witchcraft.
Either that or my husband was some kind of farm-stand Casanova.
“You know what, Mabel?” Lincoln said, handing over her purchase. “We just might be. Let me talk to the missus, and we’ll be in touch next week.”
“Sure, sure. Oh! Speaking of the missus…” She winked at me, reached into one of her bags, and pulled out a handful of small square packets.
“For the newlyweds. George’s personal favorite is the chocolate strawberry, but I prefer the strawberry vanilla.
You two try them out during your abundant evening—or daytime—activities, and let me know what you think! ”
With that, she strolled away, passing out strawberry lube samples to every adult she came across like she was the fairy lube mother of Mardi Gras.
And I tried not to remember, in great detail, how it’d felt to come apart in Lincoln’s lap.
I also diligently ignored the look he sent my way as he pocketed all those samples, clearly recalling the same.