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gravity reading measurement of sugar concentration in the mash

THE GRAVEL road wound through rolling hills dotted with wildflowers before opening into a valley where Jett's farm spread out like something from a postcard.

But it was the wooden sign at the entrance that stopped me cold: "Flannery Apiaries - Pure Kentucky Honey.

" My hands tightened on the steering wheel as the implications sank in. Jett was a beekeeper?

Jett was a beekeeper.

Did I mention one of my phobias is bees?

I parked near the farmhouse, a white clapboard structure with a wraparound porch and hanging baskets of green ferns. In the distance, I could see him working among what looked like white wooden boxes scattered across a meadow, wearing the distinctive white suit and veiled hood of a beekeeper.

My stomach clenched with dread. Bees had terrified me since childhood, an irrational fear that made my pulse race and my palms sweat just thinking about them. I stayed in my van, watching through the windshield as he moved calmly among the hives, smoke drifting from a metal canister in his hand.

After what felt like an eternity, he noticed my van and began walking toward me, pulling off his hood as he approached. His hair was damp with perspiration, and there was something almost medieval about the way he moved in the bulky protective suit.

"Welcome," he called out with a grin, stopping a respectful distance from my van. "Sorry about the getup. Monday's inspection day."

I rolled down my window but didn't get out. "I didn't know you kept bees," I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

His expression shifted as he read my face. "You're scared of them."

"Terrified," I admitted, embarrassed by the admission. "It's completely irrational, but—"

"Not irrational at all," he said kindly, waving away my explanation. "Most people are nervous around bees until they understand them better. But we can save the bee education for another day. Come on, let's get those cabinets built."

He led me to a large metal garage behind the farmhouse, its interior cool and shadowed after the bright morning sun.

The space was organized with the precision of someone who actually used his tools—pegboards lined with implements, a workbench scarred from years of projects, and the lingering scent of sawdust and paste wax.

I watched, somewhat mesmerized, as he began peeling off layers of the beekeeper suit.

First the outer white jacket, then the pants, revealing jeans and a gray t-shirt that clung to his torso with perspiration.

The shirt was soaked through, outlining the muscles of his shoulders and back as he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

For a moment, he stood there bare-chested, reaching for a clean shirt hanging on a nearby hook, and I found myself staring at the play of light across his skin, the way his chest rose and fell as he caught his breath from the morning's work.

When he pulled on the fresh shirt, I quickly looked away, heat flooding my cheeks.

"Alright," he said, seemingly oblivious to my momentary distraction. "Let's see what we're working with."

He helped me unload the boxes from my van, and what followed was a master class in efficiency.

His hands moved with practiced confidence as he sorted hardware, read diagrams, and began assembly.

The sound of his drill filled the garage as he worked, occasionally asking for my help holding pieces in place or looking for a particular piece of hardware.

"You've got a good eye for layout," he commented, studying the measurements I'd sketched out. "These are going to fit perfectly."

Within two hours, we had three sturdy cabinets assembled and installed in my van. The transformation was remarkable—what had been empty space now offered organized storage and even a small workspace where I could sit and write.

"This is incredible," I said, running my hands over the smooth wood surfaces. "I can't believe how different it looks."

"You've got yourself a real home on wheels now," he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

I fumbled in my purse. "Let me pay you for your time. This was way more than just borrowing tools."

He shook his head firmly. "Absolutely not. This was fun for me."

"At least let me buy you dinner," I offered, then immediately regretted the forward suggestion.

"I was actually going to invite you to stay," he said with a smile. "But I can see you're still thinking about those bees out there."

He was right. Even inside the garage, I could hear the distant hum from the hives, a sound that made my skin crawl despite its probably harmless nature.

"Rain check?" I said, backing toward my van.

"Of course. I'll see you tomorrow at work."

"Yes," I said, climbing into the driver's seat. "At work."

"Because we work together," he said, as if to remind himself.

"Right," I confirmed with a wave.

As I drove away, I caught sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing in the garage doorway watching me.