Chapter 6
Zander always did have problems with impulse control.
Whether he was stealing his grandfather’s tractor or clearing the Sullivan’s Glen rose garden of its blooms in a romantic gesture to a teenage Mallory, his tendency to act before he thought about the consequences had, well, caused some consequences for him over the years.
But adulthood, good ADHD meds, and a lot of therapy meant that it was mostly under control.
So why was he standing behind Penny Becker’s farmer’s market stand, shouting at a bunch of unruly townspeople to get in line if they wanted their damn honey?
“What are you doing?”
A pissed-off Penny was clearly wondering the same thing.
“I told you.” He shot a smile at a white-haired woman observing them closely. “I’ll help until you have a minute to talk about Winter and the bees. No offense, Penny, but your crowd management could use a little work, and you’re not expediting for shit.”
The flare of her nostrils made it clear she did not appreciate his feedback, but he wasn’t about to be scared off.
His alternative was to wait around for hours to catch her, and he was ready to get started on the house.
The sooner he made some basic improvements, the sooner he could get it on the market.
And he had to admit, while he should have enjoyed seeing the perfect Penny Becker treading water at her market stand, he’d had the ridiculous urge to throw her a life raft.
The chaos at Penny’s booth had him nostalgic for the kitchens where he’d cut his teeth as a line cook.
He started in the back of a crowded greasy spoon, where his booming voice, big stature, and determination to get home in time to catch a few hours of sleep before waking with his son had established Zander as a keeper of order.
Turned out he had a knack for finding efficiencies in a kitchen, and his bosses were happy to put him on task.
After an adolescence where no one ever listened to him, it was pretty great to boss people around sometimes.
“I see the prices on the table, how do we process payment?”
Penny looked at him like a gasping fish for a moment, then groaned. She glanced again at the waiting customers—now arranged in two orderly lines, thank you very much—and grabbed her phone.
“Here.” She shoved it at him. “My phone is already hooked up for card payment. Just use that since you don’t have the account set up. I’ll process cash.”
Zander shot her a big smile, the one Quinn promised him would clean up at bars if he ever went out, which he didn’t. “I think we’ll make a great team.”
Penny just rolled her eyes.
Before he got down to business, Zander allowed himself one look at the woman next to him.
She’d been enveloped in her bee suit for their last encounter, and now she was…
decidedly not. Instead she was in light denim overalls, which should have looked ridiculous given her freckles and honest-to-God pigtail braids.
But the tight red V-neck underneath hugged her curves and stopped just short enough to show a peek of skin along her waist, making her look less country bumpkin and more sexy farm girl next door.
Shit. She was the sexy farm girl next door.
“Hey.” Fingers snapped in front of his face, blocking his view of the line of Penny’s collarbone exposed by the neckline of her shirt. “Are we working or not? Because if you’re just here to sabotage me—”
“Yes.” He swallowed and looked away from the freckles on her throat. Far away. “I mean, no. Not sabotaging. Working, yes.”
So he worked, easing into the rhythm of handing over honey, or candles, or small pies with perfectly flaky crusts.
He knew his way around the garden produce and resupplied his part of the table from crates by his feet when needed.
When people had cash, he smoothly transitioned them to Penny and cut off extra conversation before it got started.
An efficient line didn’t leave room for socializing.
It wasn’t as fast-paced as some kitchens he’d worked in—not even close—but it was a nice change from the duties of his job lately, which involved a lot of arguing on the phone and adjusting budgeting spreadsheets. His body thrilled at the movement of the work.
Each time he passed over a jar of honey, he noticed the weight of it in his palm, the way it glowed in the sunshine.
It was a fitting product for Penny, all golden and glowing in her own right.
Now that she had some help, she was taking more time with each person at the table, smiling and making easy conversation, sometimes pointing to the pictures she had up on an easel that showed close-ups of bees on a honeycomb.
“We’ve got about thirty-eight acres total, most of it given to our apple orchards.” She handed off a bag of goods to a couple with two young kids. “We have five varietals of heirloom apples and a great U-pick season in the fall if you ever come back our way.”
From the entranced looks on their faces, this family would definitely be back for some apples.
Papou had loved talking about the perfect girl next door—your age, you understand?—who helped out at her family farm and still got straight A’s. Penny was the model by which Zander was intended to measure himself and his slew of failures.
By the time he was eighteen, the words Penny Becker made him cringe.
But here she was, managing thirty-eight acres, smiling at tourists and inviting them to come pick her heirloom apples. Perfect as could fucking be.
He shook his head and passed a bundle of radishes to a waiting customer, but his rhythm had faltered, and when he glanced again at their shortened line and the people mulling around the larger market, it hit Zander in the gut: he’d voluntarily put himself front and center in downtown Sullivan’s Glen.
Some people were watching him closely, not as subtly as they thought.
Whether they were confused about the stranger behind the honey stand or remembering the time he’d been caught climbing into the county pool with boxes full of food dye in his backpack was anyone’s guess.
Something warm and soft pressed against his shoulder. “Can I, sorry, just—” Penny leaned across the table, cutting across Zander’s body so her blond braids were just under his nose, filling his head with the coconut scent of her shampoo.
She snapped up a pie from his side of the table and evacuated his space, leaving him a little dizzy.
“You could ask,” he said, sounding angrier than he intended. But he did not appreciate the way his body responded to the softness of hers, and he wanted his brain clear of that coconut. “Just ask me to pass something to you.”
“I can reach just fine.”
“Yeah, but I’m right here—”
“Zander. I didn’t ask for your help, and now you’re just—”
“We-ll,” a smarmy voice interrupted. “If it isn’t Zander Bouras. Everybody lock up your daughters, am I right?”
The owner of the voice was a medium-size puffy white guy, the kind Zander knew well. He was the diner who complained that his lettuce was too wilted and demanded a full refund after clearing his plate, or the investor who thought putting in seed money for a restaurant meant free dinners for life.
His white polo was stained on the shoulder, his cheeks a splotchy red because he probably thought he was too good for sunscreen. And he was staring at Zander like they knew each other, but for the life of him, Zander couldn’t—
“Brad.” Penny’s voice was flat. “Do you need something?”
The memory unfurled like the flick of a tablecloth. Brad Preston. Daddy’s boy, dipshit, high-and-mighty Brad Preston.
“I just wanted to see for myself that the rumors were true.” Brad’s eyes lingered on Penny’s V-neck as he leaned his pasty hands onto the table. After a beat too long, his attention swung back to Zander. “Finally come slinking back this way, huh? Hope your right hook has gotten better with time.”
Zander white-knuckled a jar of honey. “I don’t know, Brad. I recall it was pretty effective back then.”
Zander wasn’t a violent person, except that one time. He’d been seventeen, walking down Main Street in Sullivan’s Glen with his head down when he ran into Brad Preston. Brad bumped his shoulder and said something seriously shitty about Zander’s mom.
Yeah, his mom was a total mess. But she was his mess.
So he’d left Brad with a bloody nose, a black eye, and—most dangerously—a wounded ego. After that run-in, Brad tried to rile Zander up every time they crossed paths.
Wow, how great to be back in Sullivan’s Glen.
“You know,” Brad continued, his voice slimy like oil slicks on a parking lot, “I heard the funniest thing. I heard that ex-wife of yours showed up to town with a girlfriend. What, did you turn her gay?”
Activity at the table slowed like molasses as people either watched openly or from poorly concealed sideways glances.
“Brad.” Zander put the honey down gently and flexed his fingers a few times to get his blood flowing again. He didn’t miss Brad’s gaze watching the movement of his fist. “I’m glad to see you, actually. Gives me a chance to apologize.”
“Apolo—what?”
“For when I punched you when we were kids. It was so long ago, maybe you don’t even remember. I had some anger management issues back then, stuff I’ve addressed in therapy over the years. Do you do therapy?”
“Do I—” Brad shook his head. A drop of sweat trailed down his forehead. “No, I don’t do fucking therapy.”
“I can’t recommend it enough.” Zander pulled a twig of rosemary from a bundle of herbs and rubbed the thick leaves between his thumb and forefinger.
“Especially for men. Very healing to examine toxic masculinity. I think it could help you sort out why you were always so desperate for your daddy’s approval. ”
Somehow, Brad’s face went even redder. “What the fu—”
“But the point is”—Zander rubbed his thumb just above his upper lip, taking in the sweet, earthy aroma from the plant—“I realized how wrong it was of me to punch you that day, when you were obviously so much smaller and weaker than I was. I imagine that was very scary for you, and I’m sorry.
” He kept his gaze on Brad’s narrowed eyes. “Do you accept my apology?”
“Do I accept—” Brad choked on his words. “What the hell do you think—”
“That’s a no, then? I understand.” Zander leaned forward, just an inch, but close enough to watch the drop of sweat land on Brad’s stained polo. “Then I’ll have to ask you to move along. We have a lot of people here waiting to buy some honey, and Penny and I are very busy.”
Zander held his breath and waited to see if the gamble would pay off. Only when Brad shook his head, mumbling, “Whatever,” and a few choice words not suitable for mixed company as he stormed off, did Zander exhale.
“All right, folks.” He let his voice boom again as he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Show’s over. Next in line, please?”
Like someone had flipped a switch, activity restarted at the table.
But even as Zander worked to slow his heartbeat by rearranging the jars of honey, he felt the weight of Penny’s scrutiny.
She probably never had ugly confrontations rear up from her past, never had to cycle through therapists before finding someone she could be vulnerable with.
She didn’t have to fight between past and present versions of herself, or look at other families and swallow down ugly envy.
When he finally got to ask her about showing her bees to Winter, she’d probably tell him to fuck off.
“Hey, Zander.”
He jumped at the sound of her voice, knocking a jar and sending it rolling. It tipped off the table and landed in Zander’s upturned palm.
“Pass me a blueberry pie, will you?”
When he did, Penny’s chin tipped up so her blue eyes looked right at him.
“Put your number in my phone. I’ll text you later about finding a time to bring Winter over.”