18. Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Wyatt
I'm in the honey house before the sun comes up, mostly because sleep wasn't doing much for me last night.
I keep replaying it—the town car, the hug, the half-second when his mouth landed on her cheek instead of where he'd intended.
I tell myself it's not my business what happened after that.
I tell myself a lot of things at three in the morning that don't hold up in the morning.
The worst part isn't Preston showing up.
It's knowing that twenty-four hours before he did, Savannah was in my arms. We danced. We kissed. For one night, it felt like whatever was happening between us was finally going somewhere.
That's the part I can't seem to get past.
I know what I saw yesterday. Preston hugged her. He leaned in to kiss her.
Then I watched Savannah get into his car.
Whatever happened after that is between them, and I have no right to ask.
Doesn't stop me from wondering. Or imagining things I'd rather not imagine.
I pull another frame and check the comb, forcing myself to pay attention to what's actually in front of me. Bees don't care about Preston Hayes or fifteen-year-old mistakes or whether a man ought to know better than to fall for the same woman twice.
Probably one of the things I like about them.
I'm setting the frame back when I hear tires on gravel.
It’s Savannah.
She gets out before I've even put the hive tool down and comes straight toward the honey house.
She stops just inside the doorway, less certain than I've seen her in a while.
“I owe you an explanation.”
I keep my attention on the frame. “Okay.”
“Wyatt.”
“I'm listening.”
“Please look at me.”
I turn to her.
“I saw your face yesterday,” she says. “That was Preston.”
“I gathered.”
“He came because he wanted to try again.”
She pauses.
“And I know what it probably looked like when he hugged me.”
“You turned your head.”
Her eyes come back to mine. “You saw that I wouldn’t let him kiss me?”
“I saw enough.”
She lets out a breath, but she doesn't look relieved exactly.
“I'm sorry, Wyatt.”
That catches me off guard. “For what?”
“For putting you in that position. For letting you stand across the square wondering what was happening after...”
She hesitates.
“After the night before.”
I know exactly what she means.
Her in my arms for that last dance, her head against my chest. The kiss beside her car that I replayed more times than I'm willing to admit. I'd gone home thinking we'd crossed some kind of line together.
Then Preston showed up the next day, and I had no idea where that left me.
I shake my head. “You didn't do anything wrong.”
“I know I didn't do anything wrong with Preston.”
She steps a little closer, and some of the uncertainty I've been carrying since yesterday starts to give way.
“That's not what I'm apologizing for.”
I wait.
“I'm sorry you had to watch it. Especially after I'd spent the whole day finding reasons to be near you.”
Relief comes fast. I'd spent most of last night wondering if I'd imagined the whole day between us.
“You were finding reasons to be near me?”
“Yes.” She gives me a small smile. “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”
“I was trying not to assume.”
“Well, you can stop.”
That's about the best thing she could've said.
“I tried to get to you afterward. Ellie got there first, and then half the town seemed to need you, and by the time I could get to you again...”
She shakes her head.
“I should've tried harder.”
“Savannah.”
“I didn't want you going home thinking I was deciding between the two of you.”
I hold her gaze.
“Were you?”
“No.”
It comes immediately.
“No, Wyatt. There was never a decision to make. He asked me to go back. To try again. I told him no.”
“Because of me?”
She thinks about that before answering, and I'm glad she does.
“No. Preston and I were wrong before I ever saw you standing on Main Street.”
Her expression softens. “But that doesn't mean you don't matter.”
That wasn't what I expected her to say.
“You matter a lot.”
I let out a quiet laugh, mostly because I don't know what else to do with how good it feels to hear her say it.
“I'm glad.”
It's not much of an answer, but it's the only one I've got.
“That's why you're here before six?”
A small smile finally appears. “I didn't get much sleep either.”
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I should've come over last night and thrown rocks at your window.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “You could've knocked on the door.”
“Rocks would've made the point better.”
“What point?”
Her smile fades a little. “That I was miserable, and I knew you probably were too.”
That takes the humor right back out of me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was.”
“I know.” She looks down for a second. “That's why I should've come.”
She takes a breath.
“He's back in New York,” she says. “It's done. Completely done.”
I nod.
“Okay.”
Her eyebrows go up.
“Okay? Is that all I get?”
She's standing three feet away, after driving out here before six in the morning to make sure I knew she didn't choose him.
Maybe Dad was right about getting out of my own way.
I step closer and settle my hands gently along the sides of her face.
I don't kiss her right away.
I give her time to understand what I'm asking. Time to step away if she wants to.
She doesn't.
“You get this,” I say softly.
I lean in and kiss her.
Soft at first. Careful. Giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn't.
Savannah's arms come up around my neck, and she kisses me back.
And that careful kiss doesn't stay quite so careful.
I draw her closer, and for a few seconds there's nothing but Savannah in my arms and the fact that she's kissing me like she's waited for this too.
Fifteen years.
That's how long it's been since I kissed this woman.
But I remember.
The familiarity of her. The way she fits against me.
Some things don't need relearning.
When we finally pull apart, her arms are still around my neck and my arms around her waist.
Neither of us moves.
“Better?” I ask.
Her smile comes slowly.
“Much.”
I smile back.
Savannah finally lowers her arms from around my neck, but she doesn't step very far away and I still have a hold of her hand.
“So,” she says.
“So.”
“We just did that.”
“We did.”
“Okay.”
“Aren't we supposed to be taking honey somewhere?”
“Nashville.”
“Right. Nashville.” She takes a breath. “We should probably do that.”
“Probably.”
She laughs again. “Wyatt.”
“I'm getting the crates.”
I let go of her hand and reach for the first crate.
Suddenly, a two-hour drive to Nashville doesn't sound nearly long enough.
Ten minutes outside Stonebridge, Savannah reaches for the radio.
“Don't.”
Her hand stops. “Don't what?”
“Change it.”
She listens for maybe five seconds. “Wyatt, this man has mentioned his tractor four times.”
“Good song.”
“It's a song about a tractor.”
“Still good.”
She changes the station.
“My truck.”
“My ears.”
“That's not how ownership works.”
“It's how friendship works.”
“Friendship?”
She catches it too.
“Drive the truck, Wyatt.”
I grin.
She leaves the station where it is.
A few minutes later, she looks toward the crates behind us.
“So how many hives do you actually have?”
“Twelve, right now. Used to be eight. Added four last spring.”
The drive takes a couple hours, crates rattling gently in the truck bed, and she spends most of it asking questions like she's genuinely trying to understand the whole operation instead of just making conversation.
“So, you have twelve right now. And each one makes — what, how much honey a year?”
“Depends on the hive. Depends on the season. Good year, maybe sixty, seventy pounds per box. Bad year, you're lucky to break even after what you leave them for winter.”
“You leave them honey?”
“Have to. Take too much, they don't make it through the cold. Whole thing only works if you don't get greedy.”
I add, “Grandpa used to say that's the first rule. Take what you need, leave enough for them to survive on.”
“That's a pretty good business philosophy, actually.”
“Wasn't meant as one. Started as a hobby.”
“After everything with Casey, I needed something that made sense. Something with a rhythm to it. Bees don't care what else is going on in your life. They just need tending. Gave me somewhere to put my hands when nothing else made sense.”
“That's not nothing, Wyatt.”
“Didn't feel like a big decision at the time. Just felt like the next thing to do.”
“You know you're not just selling honey, right?”
“That's what I'm doing at the market every Saturday, pretty sure.”
“No, I mean — the story's the product. Grandpa, the hand-labeled jars, Ellie stacking them just right. People aren't just buying honey. They're buying into something real. That's marketing gold, and you're not even trying.”
She says it like she's genuinely a little frustrated on my behalf.
“You could scale this if you wanted to.”
“Don't want to scale it. Want it to stay exactly the size it is.”
“That's very you.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.”