Chapter 2
Ever
With a huff, I haul out the last box from the storage room and set it next to the door at the front of the shop.
My muscles ache and my back spasms from all the bending and lifting, but a little pain is a price I’m willing to pay to get people excited about bees, honey, and bee conservation.
It’s the reason I started the Honey Bee Jubilee almost ten years ago.
Of course, the residents of Maplewood embraced the event.
If there’s one thing Maplewoodians love, it’s a festival.
And our bee festival has grown substantially over the years with more and more vendors and festival goers from all over Vermont spending the first Saturday of April celebrating and learning about bees.
“Is that the last one?” My assistant, Asa, stands in front of the boxes in a black tee with the Honey Spot logo on the front and black and white checked skinny ankle pants, holding her tablet in hand as she types something onto one of her many spreadsheets.
I don’t know what she’s typing and I don’t need to know, because since she started working for me full time two years ago, the business has increased tenfold.
“Yep.” I press my fingers into my lower back. Maybe this year I’ll get a massage after the festival. A year into my forties and I have more minor aches and pains than I’ve had my entire life.
The other day, I woke up and could hardly walk because I somehow hurt my foot while sleeping.
Sleeping. I hurt my foot in my sleep. And I can’t even say I hit it against anyone while I was asleep, since, other than a few hookups here and there, my bed has been empty for longer than I’d care to admit.
The sound of chimes sounds from Asa’s tablet.
She touches the screen and the sound ceases.
“Perfect timing.” She struts behind the counter in her platform Mary Janes and gathers her lavender mohair cardigan and the bag she calls a purse.
The thing is big enough to fit all five feet of her inside of it, and then some.
“I wanted you out of here by nine o’clock, and look, it’s nine o’clock. ”
“We still have—”
“Nothing.” She tosses my Honey Spot sweatshirt at me and I catch it before it smacks me in the face.
“Everything is done.” She flashes the screen of her tablet at me and all I see is a bunch of green.
“Everything we needed to do for tomorrow is completed. We’ll meet here at seven.
You’ll set up our tent and I’ll prep the volunteers for the activities and get them ready to spread their bee love. ”
I tug the hoodie over my head, then take another look around. Everything is in place, but in years past, I’d be at the shop until at least midnight getting everything together. “Why is this year so much smoother? Are you sure we haven’t forgotten anything?”
Asa pins me with a look that I’m sure is supposed to be intimidating, but with her big round eyes, is more adorable than threatening. “Because after seeing the chaos last year, I decided you needed an intervention.”
“Organizing my festival is your idea of an intervention?” I can’t hide the amusement from my voice as I follow her out the door and lock up.
She raises an eyebrow, and a glow from the streetlight bounces off the delicate hoop in her nose. “Are you complaining?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dare.”
“That’s right.” Her car keys jingling from her hand, she points to her Mini Cooper. “You want a ride?”
“Nah. I’m gonna walk over and harass Trevor. Thanks for your help today, Asa.” I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie.
She slides into her car and, with a grin that is this side of evil, says, “You know I love running other people’s lives.”
I toss my head back, my laughter ricocheting off the brick buildings, rowdy in the evening's quiet. I wait until Asa pulls away from the curb, then I cross the street and cut through the Maplewood City Park, enjoying the relative calm of the evening. Tomorrow, white tents of local businesses and those of out-of-town vendors will line Maple Street, and tables overseen by volunteers with activities for children and adults alike will fill the park. I pass the Playhouse, the lights of its old fashion marquee brightening the way as I stroll down the block to my best friend’s place.
The Red Clover Inn has been in the Casal family for decades, and I’ve known Trevor long enough to know he’ll be at the front desk instead of at his house, which is also on the property. The man should probably put a bed in behind the desk for as much time as he spends there.
I enter the inn with its brown- and gold-toned wallpaper, polished woodwork, and the scent of cinnamon in the air, and it’s like coming home.
As a kid, Trevor and I would run around the grounds, playing.
When we got older, I spent after-school hours, weekends, and summers working at my grandparents’ store where they sold all things Maplewood and Vermont related, while Trevor worked every job imaginable at the inn.
Trevor and I used to spend hours dreaming of all the places we would travel.
Although, I always got the sense Maplewood would remain his home base.
I couldn’t wait to live my life outside of the prying eyes of a small town.
It wasn’t until my grandfather’s death that I realized how much I missed my friend, this inn, and Maplewood.
“I can’t believe Asa got you out before eleven, let alone before nine-thirty.” Trevor’s warm tone and matching smile are two of the reasons guests come back to the Red Clover Inn and Maplewood. There is no way anyone could feel unwelcome here. “Now I owe Jo ten bucks.”
“How dare you bet against me. What kind of friendship is this?” I fold my arms over my chest and try for insulted, but my quirking mouth gives me away.
He snorts and tosses a pen into the glass jar on the counter. “It was really betting against Asa and her organizational skills. I didn’t know she could rein in you, all your ideas, and get you out of the shop at a decent hour.”
“I have no idea how she does it, but I’ve learned not to question her ways.
” The chocolate in the crystal bowl calls my name.
It’s made by a chocolatier in New Island, a nearby town that thinks they’re better than Maplewood, but we all know it’s wishful thinking on their part.
Leaning against the counter, watching Trevor type something onto his tablet, I unwrap the gold foil and pop the silky dark chocolate into my mouth. I moan as it melts, coating my tongue.
“That’s exactly how I feel every time I put one into my mouth, too.” The smooth, unfamiliar voice behind me startles me into opening my eyes.
Filthy images filter through my head in a split second. The voice feels every bit as silky as the chocolate on my tongue. I spin around and find the man belonging to the voice. He’s sexier than I could have imagined.
Suddenly, my tongue is too big in my mouth.
I stare at the gorgeous stranger, dressed in a long-sleeve button-down shirt that looks like it was just pressed under a houndstooth sports coat, and a pair of black dress pants that hug him in all the right places.
He looks like he should be staying in New York City, not my best friend’s inn in small-town Vermont.
He reaches across me, his movements graceful in a way that seems innate. His forearm brushes my upper arm and a current strong enough to power Maplewood, New Island, hell, all of Vermont, surges through me. I stumble back a step from the connection.
I can barely hear the crinkling of the wrapper between the stranger’s fingers as he rolls it between them over the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
“How was recording today, Dmitri?” Trevor asks the stunning stranger, emphasizing his name, for what I know is my benefit.
Dmitri.
The name conjures old, pasty white Russian composers who never smile and music filled with commentary on the times they lived in. It does not evoke someone with an amiable smile, smooth tan skin, and eyes the color of the dark chocolate I’d bathe in if I could. My mouth waters and I lick my lips.
His gaze darts to my mouth, and he holds it, while I stand, struck mute. After a beat, he drags his gaze to Trevor. “We finished yesterday. Today, Rio was kind enough to walk me through the production side of things.” He raps the counter with his knuckles. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget to check out the Honey Bee Jubilee,” Trevor says to his guest.
I can feel my friend’s gaze on me, and I don’t need to peel my attention away from the fine man to know Trevor is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at me. But I don’t give him an ounce of consideration until Dmitri is out of sight.
I sag against the counter and glare at my so-called friend. “Why didn’t you tell me you had the sexiest man in Vermont staying here?”
“Why? You’ve always steered clear of tourists and visitors.” He holds out his hand for my wrapper, then drops it into the small basket under the reservation desk.
My gaze returns to the empty space where Dmitri was minutes before. “You’re right. No sense in getting worked up about someone who’s just passing through.”
Even as I say the words, my stomach squirms like it would whenever I tried to lie to my parents. As much as I want to know, I resist asking Trevor how long his guest booked to stay. It’s none of my business. But… Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll see Dmitri tomorrow.
With that thought, I part from Trevor and walk home with a pep in my step and a whistle on my lips. The bee festival is always my favorite, but now I’m looking forward to it for other reasons.