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“Take your time. I’m glad I’m getting my money’s worth,” he says, leaning against the kitchen island, his tie hanging crooked over his very large chest.
My toes scrunch. They’re very good at doing that when he’s up in my head.
Or maybe it’s just the thought of why he’s here, armed with so many lame excuses and small talk.
Is he nervous like I am? But why?
He made it crystal clear he isn’t interested.
I open a cabinet over the sink and pull out a jar of purple honey. Every time I see it, I’m amazed justhowpurple it is. The stuff really glows at night.
Not like that chemical solution inside a glowstick, but it’s there, more like a cozy candle with a dim flame.
“How do you mean? I’m sure you’re still taking a loss on me, no matter how much this stuff brings in long-term.”
“You’re organized. You don’t slack off. That’s a nice start.”
“I’d better not.” I shake my head. “You’re giving me free shelter and letting me mess around with bees. It’s the least I can do when it doesn’t feel like real work.” I tilt my head as I look at the honey. “Did you think more about that lab we mentioned? They can analyze this stuff and pinpoint anything that’d be good for natural supplements or research. Of course, you might need to bring in somebody who knows about that sort of business if that’s the route you decide to go, but stranger things have happened.”
“Good point. I’ll have a sample sent off.” There’s something warm in his eyes as his face relaxes and he gives me a small smile.
“Right. Yes.” I hand him the jar and our fingers brush.
God, it’s like static on steroids.
The shock jolts up my arm so fast I rip my hand back, making a small noise in the back of my throat.
And now he’s staring.
Awesome, awesome.
That means we’ll have to talk about it, the hundredth awkward conversation I never needed with this man. But I figured that was coming because he’s here, all piercing eyes locked on mine and his big hand wrapped around the honey jar.
That’s probably why he decided to show up at all, to clear the air so we won’t suffocate in each other’s presence.
“Archer, look, about last time,” I start, “The kiss was—”
A knock at the door stops me mid-sentence.
Honestly, I’m a little glad. Maybe Colt came along and got tired of sitting in the car.
Or maybe it’s my dad—finally sniffing me out and paying me a visit—ready to roar his demands to come home or wind up forever penniless.
My stomach hurts at the thought. But if I have to face him, I won’t be alone.
“Hang on, I’ll get it,” I say, holding up a hand.
Archer stays silent and watchful as I hurry to the door. I pause and pat my hair again because it tends to frizz when I’m stressed in this midsummer heat, then I throw it open for the second time this evening.
One look turns me to stone. Medusa, eat your heart out.
It’s definitely not Colt or even Dad standing on the front step. I can only wish it was just my father.
It’sHolden.
He’s scowling, his ice-blond hair slightly ruffled in the evening heat and his suit crumpled. His eyes are dark with resentment, deep shadows carved underneath, and something else moving on his face.
…is that sadness? Overus?