Chapter 2 The Honeybee Café
The Honeybee Café
Jas
Coffee nourishes more than the body. It feeds the soul.
The café and I wake together each morning.
I unlock and push open the door in the soft morning light from a storm-kissed sky.
The bell above the door chimes a happy jingle meant for me.
The scent of my lemon cleanser lingers in the air with the fragrance of roasted coffee beans.
Notes of the baked goods—cookies, breads, and pastries—wrap around me in a sugary embrace.
This place has good bones and has stood the test of time.
Hexagonal shelves cluster on the wall, some forming a honeycomb, their cells displaying handcrafted trinkets and jars of honey with price tags dangling from twine.
Trailing ivy and flower bushes hang over the walls, stretching their leaves toward the light streaming through the windows.
The light reflects off the pastry display case into the soft yellow booths that surround empty wooden tables, ready for customers.
Aaryn and I created this place with love from our hearts and hope from our dreams. It still holds those gems close within, but there’s also a sense of heartbreak intertwined with good memories.
The beehive-shaped lanterns flicker to life above each table. They cast a gentle glow and mingle with the natural light spilling through the window.
I round the counter, pushing through the swinging door. My leather bag slips from my shoulder, and I fish out my keys from my jeans to tuck them into my bag before hanging it and my raincoat on their hooks.
The cool spring air still carries a damp bite seeping through the pores of my olive-toned skin and settles within my bones.
I love that it’s still sweater weather. The season of cold rainy days, drinking a hot latte, snuggling on the couch with a swoony, spicy romance novel. It’s for listening to the rain through an open window, breathing in the scent of the moss-covered earth, drinking every drop.
I think I was always meant to be here.
I pull the apron over my head, a few curls slipping free from my messy bun. After tying my apron into a neat bow, I check my phone. Dominik’s texts went unanswered while I wrestled Seren into her school clothes this morning.
My almost six-year-old inherited my unruly curls and deep green eyes with her father's pointed ears and freckles, scattered like cinnamon sugar across her cheeks. Her smile, now missing two teeth, always lights up everyone who sees her. That’s Seren, a beautiful, sweet summer child, learning to be brave and absolutely determined to move at the pace of her own music.
I quickly type a reply to Dominik's text.
Dom: Friday night pizza night?
Me: You know I wouldn’t say no to a meal I don’t have to cook.
The bell dings.
“Hello,” Blythe singsongs, walking through the door. I hired her at the beginning of the year for part-time help, and she has been a Goddess-sent. It's time to prepare for a morning of delectable treats and hot drinks. Let the day begin.
Steam hisses from the espresso machine, a constant and familiar sound, filling the café like a pulse. Chatter fills the air alongside the aroma of the coffee orders and fresh pastries.
I press the portafilter into place, and the rich scent of roasted beans wraps around me. I finish and slide the cup gently across the counter for the customer—a seawater faerie with large iridescent wings fanning out behind her through the slits of her teal raincoat.
Her boots create a small puddle of water on the floor despite the clearing skies outside.
She nods gratefully, accepting the steaming mug into her webbed, blue-green fingers, and leaves a coin on the counter.
It shimmers with the iridescence of her pearly wings.
I pick it up, with a smile, and drop it in the till.
Next in line is Mr. Toade, who is not a toad.
That would be Mr. Knolls. Mr. Toade is a grumpy old gnome, and not a garden-sized gnome either.
He always insists on triple foam in his cappuccinos, one pump of honey, a pump of vanilla, and a dash of kosher salt.
Something about the salt brings out the flavor of the beans more.
We get his order right every time, but he never smiles.
If he does, I'm not sure we'd notice with the thick white beard and mustache anyway.
The milk pitcher is cold in my hands while I work the steam wand, letting the froth thicken to the consistency I like.
“Here you go,” I say after I add the finishing touches on his drink, setting the mug in front of him. His beard twitches as he takes his mug and turns, heading to his usual spot, the last booth near the back window. When he settles, his shoulders release a smidge of tension after the first sip.
Morning regulars arrive, and a small clan of gargoyles in construction gear shuffle in. They approach the counter and order their usual: lemon blackberry teas and honey buns. Before paying, they pivot, scanning the space for an available table to claim.
From the hot water spigot, steam rises as Blythe fills mugs for the tea orders. Her hooves click against the floor, tapping to the beat of the music playing before balancing a tray of pastries. She's quick on her hooves, gliding from counter to shelf, booth to booth, delivering orders.
She’s a beautiful satyress, with rich russet fur, and a head full of voluminous black curls.
Her pointed ears are covered in soft white fur, with taupe antlers, smooth and elegant, rising from her head.
Her eyes are a soft lavender grey, the color of the light when storm clouds brush with dawn.
They are striking enough to make even the most impatient customers forget what they ordered.
She’s been a calming presence here, and I appreciate her help.
“How far did you get into the new book?” Blythe asks. She’s anxious to discuss what I think so far since she won’t be attending the upcoming book club meeting. She opens the display window of treats, adding more cinnamon buns, honey buns, and Moon Lily berry loaf to the near-empty trays.
We always talk about books or life at work.
She’ll tell me about the college boys, and it’s like I’m listening to a smutty audiobook.
I’m a sucker for smut. I’m gobbling this book up.
Normally, I go for romance with different tropes, a definite on the spice, but I need the passion as well.
I want to see and feel the love lifting off the page.
But this book is a dark romance. My first dark romance.
The characters, the spice, the darkness of it all…
Goddesses have mercy. Raene suggested it for the book club, and I’m loving it.
I spray the counters with cleanser, scrubbing in circles with more force than necessary. “It’s…interesting.”
“Only interesting?” She leans in, voice dropping. “Is that why you're blushing and your thighs are practically pressed together?”
My jaw drops.
I snap upright, wiping the final speck of imaginary dust. “I am not,” I say, lips twitching upward despite my best efforts. She laughs, the sound sticking to me after she turns to the next customer.
Reading books like these doesn’t help when I’ve opened myself up to dating again. The books make me want. Need.
My vagina is so bored it’s writing its own memoir.
I lose myself in the books I read, living vicariously through the characters. I’m not desperate for sex, but I miss being touched. I hope one day to find love again. A love like my friends, Raene and Oriana.
Raene has an amazing career as a romance author and found love with Sylas, a male fae who owns the Autumn Leaf Bookshop and is obsessed with the fall season. Nim, the miniature dragon bound to Sylas, has even earned a special place in her heart.
I was so excited when she said she was moving here from the city. Vera, her grandmother, practically glowed at the news her granddaughter would soon be just minutes away.
Oriana emerges from the sea—a siren in human form—as if she was a real-life princess of the tides.
Her hourglass silhouette and turquoise eyes catch the attention of most along with her long, flowing hair the color of the deep blue ocean currents.
And when she sings, her voice can lure anyone to their endings.
Her fiancé, Malik, is a vampire and the owner of the bar, Four Lanterns. He has a sharp jaw, and his raven-black hair is slicked back like dark silk, contrasting sharply against his pale skin. He has the dangerous elegance of a Peaky Blinder. Their love is an obsession.
I see their love, their relationships, and I want the same. I want intimacy. I want sex. Goddess, I miss sex. I miss the connection of it. The kissing, the touching, the gazing into each other's eyes, and the gasp you make when he first slides in.
But more than anything, I want to be loved and adored, in and out of the bedroom. I still long for a love that takes my breath away again.
What Aaryn and I had can't be replicated. I'm not looking to copy and paste our love story. If I ever find love again, it will be special too, but different.
I’m ready to open my heart again. I’m ready for my second chapter.