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He jerks his head to a cabinet above what looks like a cutting board table, and I open it to find a rusted-looking white box that looks like it was pulled right out of my early nineties childhood. The stuff inside looks pretty decent though, and there are a couple of burn packets with lidocaine marked in the small print.

‘Sit,’ I order.

He gives me his bitch-face—and God, that should not be sexy either, but it is—and he obeys. There’s a rickety metal chair and a two-step stool side by side. He takes the chair, which is probably for the best because his gorgeously lush ass wouldn’t fit between the rails of the stool.

I can barely squeeze onto it, but I make it work, then take his chin gently and turn his head to the side. His breath is short and shallow—panic, probably. Before I can stop myself, I stroke a gentle touch over his jaw, and his entire shoulders just…relax.

Like I hit a button on him and his anxiety powered down.

His head’s turned so far that I know he won’t be able to read my signs, so instead of trying to talk to him, I get busy with treating the stings. There are only two, and they’re very red and swollen, but nothing he needs a hospital for.

I swipe them clean with the antiseptic wipe, which makes him suck in a sharp breath, and then I smooth a layer of the lidocaine cream over the top. It won’t do much, but it should help a little. Balling up the wrapper, I make the toss into the trash can in one shot and internally cheer.

Mellie’s head turns toward me just as I hear a sharp knock on the side of the truck. We’re obviously too far for him to feel it.

‘Customers,’ I tell him.

He licks his lips, looking almost confused, and then he rolls his eyes. ‘Tell them I’m closed.’

‘Voice?’ I ask. I’m not going to make the mistake of assuming again.

He looks irritated, and his expression reads, ‘What else would you use?’

Putting my hands up in surrender, I nod and then stand and peer over the edge of the counter. There are three students—none of whom I recognize, which is a blessing. “Sorry, technical difficulties. We’re closed.”

The blonde looks affronted. “But your window is, like, open?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. Then I reach over and shut it just as she starts trying to lean in to look around. Probably not my best move. This is his business, not mine, but I look over, and he’s covering a laugh with the palm of his hand. ‘Did you understand that?’

‘I understood that you closed the window in the person’s face.’

‘Bad?’

He shakes his head, and his gaze darts back to the stool I vacated. My feet move almost like he’s drawing me there with his mind, and I find myself sitting across from him again, this time our knees brushing.

He stares at the contact, then looks back up at me. ‘How’s your hand?’

Is he serious? ‘I didn’t get stung.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asks, then grabs it without waiting for an answer and runs the tips of his fingers over my palm. Only it’s the wrong hand. I’m too fucking selfish and greedy to correct him right away. Instead, I let myself bask in his touch. It sinks under my skin, sparking like a wildfire, and it takes every ounce of my control not to close the distance between us and kiss the absolute fuck out of him.

I know he doesn’t like me, but it’s very obvious he wants me.

‘Wrong hand,’ I finally sign. I say it because I want more of his touch, and his strokes have begun to slow.

He holds my gaze as he takes my other hand and feels along my palm. He swallows so heavily I see it click in the back of his throat. ‘You’ll live,’ he finally signs when he pulls one hand away. He hasn’t let me go, and I don’t give him any indication that I want him to.

The moment lingers, hesitates—honey-thick and full of tension—and then it passes. Just like before.

His hands fall into his lap for a second before he says, ‘I don’t know why that scared me so much. I shouldn’t be afraid of bees.’

‘That was a wasp,’ I remind him. ‘The evil cousin of the bee.’

He laughs and rolls his eyes. ‘My brother tried to cure me of my fear of flying things that sting. But apparently, I still panic like I’m four.’

Grinning, I lean in, bold as I’ve ever been, and gently run my fingers around the stings. They’re already looking less angry. ‘Does he like bees?’

‘He just started beekeeping.’ He spells the word, and I’m not sure if there is a sign for that. If there is, I’ve never seen it. ‘The only thing I don’t hate about it is the honey I get for free. Have you seen how expensive it is these days?’