Chapter 4
Ever
I take Dmitri’s offered hand. A jolt rushes up my arm and down my side, detonating in my groin when his palm presses to mine, and I swallow back a moan.
“Dmitri Fairchild.” His voice is smooth and rich, almost melodic, and a vision of falling asleep in his arms while he reads to me pops into my head.
I push the random—though incredibly specific—thought aside and croak out, “It’s nice to meet you, Dmitri.”
He’s close enough that I spy tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. My mouth waters at the way his close-cropped beard frames his full lips. Lips, I want to feel on me. Around my cock, on my mouth, on my stomach, thighs… I’m not picky. Anywhere would be fine.
“You too,” he says.
Unable to respond because the very unexpected fantasy refuses to go away, I stand there gawking, held captive by eyes the color of dark chocolate.
But the brush of his thumb over my knuckles brings me back to my senses and I release his hand.
The corner of his mouth ticks up and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to lean in and press my lips to it.
To feel the scratch of his beard and know what he tastes like.
But if there’s one thing I have loads of, it is willpower.
Slowly, I remove my hand from his grip and hide my shudder when his lightly callused fingertips trail over my fingers. His rich scent swirling around us makes me lightheaded with want. When I don’t move out of his space, he steps back.
My smile widens as my gaze roams his body. Under his sports coat, I note the stretch of his button-down shirt across his chest. No one in Maplewood wears a sports coat to a festival, or anywhere, for that matter. Even though I know the answer, I ask anyway, “Are you here for the festival?”
“Not specifically.” He picks up one of the beeswax candles and brings it to his nose.
“I’ve been working on a project in New Island, but you can’t go far without hearing about the Honey Bee Jubilee.
” He returns the candle to the shelf and lets his fingertips trail along the porcelain teacup and saucer. “So here I am.”
I tip my chin to the set Dmitri is fondling. “Look inside the cup.”
His hand freezes and he peeks inside to find the purple flower at the bottom and two bees on the sides, making it look like the bees are circling the flower. He looks up at me, a grin forming on lips that I’m unable to tear my gaze from. “My mom would love this.”
“Mine has the entire set.” I step closer. My arm brushing his as I point to the three other teacups. And yes, the spark is electric. “See.”
Inside each cup is a different flower. Bees decorate the insides and outsides of the delicate china. Each cup is unique and would be lovely on its own, but as a set, they create something more beautiful, much like an orchestra.
“Well, I can’t in good faith not get them for my mother now.” His flirty tone sends a garden full of bees buzzing in my stomach.
“Of course not.” With as much seriousness as I can muster while fighting a grin, I nod as light dances in his eyes like moonlight over the midnight water.
“I’ll box them for you.” I pick up the first teacup and saucer and bring it to the long wooden table I use for wrapping the more delicate products.
If I happen to get a glance at the way his dark denim jeans hug his backside when he bends to look at the jars of honey moisturizer on a low shelf—which just happens to make my dick twitch—it’s no fault of mine. The man has an ass that was made to be admired.
“Do you have honey samples?” He looks over his shoulder and stands. I dart my gaze away from his deliciously round ass to focus on wrapping the teacup set. “If a Greek restaurateur wanted them for his restaurants, I feel like I need to try it.”
My shoulders shake with my head at my parents and their over-the-top support. You’d think I was curing cancer, not making honey for the way they tell everyone they meet. “My parents are a mess. I don’t even know how they manage to smuggle my honey into other countries.”
“So it wasn’t the first time?” Those luscious lips widen and he leans his hip against the table.
I pause my wrapping and pull out four jars from under the table.
With great precision, I focus on lining them up from lightest to darkest instead of focusing on his lips.
“Sadly, no.” I set a miniature plate in front of him with four silver spoons the size of something you’d use to feed a baby.
“I have a fear that one day I’ll get a call from them from their prison cell in a foreign country. ”
“Re-offenders are bound to get caught eventually.” He slaps his hand over his mouth as a bubble of laughter bursts out.
“This is what I try to tell them.” I shake my head and exhale an exaggeratedly forlorn sigh, enjoying the playful banter. “Parents these days. They think they know everything.”
Sounds from the festival filter in, but under the canopy with Dmitri’s teasing grin and serene smile, we’re in a cocoon of confection.
I remove the lid from the first jar and dip a spoon into it.
As I raise the spoon, strings of the nearly transparent syrup pull.
With a twist of my wrist, I swirl the strands around until they are neatly wrapped around the bowl of the spoon. “This is our acacia honey.”
I hold it to his mouth. Yes, I should have given the utensil to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He leans in and wraps his lips around the spoon.
My cock stiffens and I’m thankful to be standing behind the table, so this visitor to our town doesn’t witness my body’s reaction.
When he unwraps his lips, he closes his eyes, and I wonder if he’s able to pick out the floral flavor or the hint of vanilla.
He opens his eyes and says, “It’s almost too subtle to be honey. Delicate.”
“Yes.” A huskiness washes over my voice because watching him taste my honey was hotter than porn, and I swear I feel an invisible current zap between us.
I open my mouth to say… I don’t know what.
Maybe I was going to ask the sexy man for his number.
Maybe I wanted to see if he was interested in meeting for a drink after the festival.
It doesn’t matter because before I can say anything, a gaggle of giggles pierces the protected shroud as a group of school-aged children in varying bee costumes rushes in.
“Mr. Ever.” With her red hair in braids and her freckled nose scrunched in distaste, Cara pushes to the front of the group and points an accusatory finger toward Penelope. “Penelope didn’t dress up as a bee.”
Penelope crosses her arms and lifts her chin, glaring at Cara. “Because I didn’t feel like it.” Her black and orange butterfly wings jiggle as she whips her head to meet my gaze. “It felt like a butterfly day.”
I nod in understanding. “When it feels like a butterfly day, you have to be a butterfly.”
“I told you, Cara.” With the moxie of someone just vindicated, Penelope sticks her tongue out at Cara.
I catch Dmitri’s gaze. His teeth bite into his lip to keep from laughing.
The urge to whisk him away to spend more time with him is strong.
But I learned long ago, getting involved with tourists isn’t worth the hassle.
The last thing I want is someone trying to trash my business by leaving scathing reviews just because I didn’t think a weekend fling equaled a long-distance relationship.
So, I quickly turn my attention to the group.
“Butterflies are pollinators, just like bees.”
“But they don’t make honey,” one of the other bees pipes up.
“Correct, but can you imagine how sad we would be without butterflies’ beautiful wings?” I clap my hands together. “Who wants a honey maple cookie?”
Ten hands shoot into the air with shouts of, “Meeeee!”
“I’ll come by later and settle up,” Dmitri calls over the commotion.
“Can’t wait.” I pull out a basket filled with cookies, then don a pair of rubber gloves, and start handing them out to the group.
Dmitri turns to leave, and my gaze stays glued to the attractive visitor even as the members of Brownie Troop 742 clamor for my attention.
The dark denim hugs his bubble butt in a way that is sophisticated and sinful at once.
But the way he moves… Every step, every shift, every motion elegant and conducted with the same confidence I’ve seen in performers.
With the shop, my hives, volunteer work at the elementary school, and my gigs at The Striped Maple, I don’t have time for distractions, but Dmitri Fairchild is a distraction I wouldn’t mind.
“Mr. Ever.” Cara, the self-proclaimed leader of the group, tugs on my sleeve, forcing me to drag my attention away from Dmitri and his perfect backside.
I smile down at the future mayor of Maplewood. Hell, she’ll probably end up being president one day—of the country or a company, probably both. “Yes, Cara?”
“Is it true that bees hibernate?”
“Hmmm… It kind of looks like they hibernate because they stay in their hives, but they’re not sleeping like bears do to conserve energy.” I hand the last girl a honey maple cookie in the shape of a honeypot and covered in pale yellow icing. “They’re busy vibrating to keep warm.”
“How do they do that?” Veda, one of the quieter girls, asks between bites, cookie crumbs sticking to her chin.
I tuck the box of cookies on the shelf under the makeshift counter.
“They scoot together really close around the queen.” I motion for the girls to come in closer.
“Then they pump the same muscles they use for flying.” Elbows tucked near my sides, I make short, quick movements like wings flapping.
The girls follow suit, giggling. “They’re like a furnace, keeping themselves and the hive warm. Kind of like when we do jumping jacks.”
At that, the girls start doing jumping jacks, so I join in.
Cookies fly into the air, then back down and laughter fills the tent as the troop bumps into each other.
Penelope wiggles her bottom and the rest of us do the same.
Smiles grace the faces of festival goers as they pass the tent, and a few stop to watch.
A younger patron of the toddler age runs in and joins the silliness.
Cara shouts, “Arms,” and we all wave our arms in the air.
The toddler’s parents join in, and before I know it, at least twenty people are hopping on one foot, then sashaying hips from side to side. My breaths come faster and my cheeks ache from laughter. Moments like this reinforce my decision to move back to Maplewood over a decade ago.
Where else would you have a chance to participate in an impromptu mini mosh pit with a bunch of honeybees and a butterfly?