Page 13 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls (Kissing At Work #2)

She’d mastered this as a child—one who loved sleep, never fought a bedtime. Skye would experience mystical splendors—speak to the mountains and get answers, turn the sky gold, swim to the ocean floor—and wake up buzzing with adventure.

Last night, every turn of her dream brought darkness.

Not the calm, peaceful darkness that lulled her through calm fantasies.

Ominous fog masked gray, looming figures.

Skye struggled to run like her feet were tied to cinder blocks, her cries gagged by an invisible force.

Her sole recourse was waking herself, gasping, drenched in sweat.

Only for the same dream to follow her when she nodded off again.

Luce had been in rare form, fussing at her for dragging her feet to tape the proper delivery printouts on three orders. Skye generally enjoyed her job, so she drove with visions of wind chimes and Thalia’s bright energy on her mind.

Except Skye detoured onto Celene’s street. Big mistake.

There, she saw Celene standing on the deck with a rather tall South Asian guy. His license plate and attire didn’t give the impression of a Yielding contractor. Celene was speaking to him intently, like they were familiar. A pretty striking couple, if Skye were to put one and one together.

Well, now she could leave Celene and her cool-to-colder attitude behind her.

Bagging a five-by-five-inch relief, Skye’s fingers tingled to grasp her labradorite. Thalia called out of work that day, and her usual backup, Zander, couldn’t make it on such short notice. Monday hadn’t been the busiest, but doing everything by herself all day wasn’t ideal.

June came by not long after 2 p.m. to watch Luce’s while Skye ran downstairs for lunch, buying June a pepperoni slice.

A little fuchsia miscommunication couldn’t hurt their friendship. All in the past.

“Thanks for hanging out with me today.” Skye sighed, pushing at her oversized sleeves. “Hope your aunt isn’t too perturbed.”

Gertrude was always perturbed at the helm of a prosperous operation. Skye wouldn’t want any of that annoyance floating her way.

June shrugged shoulders less red than last week. “My perk is disappearing for hours. As long as the work gets done, she doesn’t hound me. Family businesses, right?”

Skye understood completely. Tilting in her cashier stool, she collected a white paper bag from under the counter. She’d been so preoccupied; she ended up eating the foraged blueberries before she could bake them into anything. Instead, she offered, “Two raspberry muffins. I baked them yesterday.”

“I knew I smelled something sweet.” June unfolded the bag and huffed, releasing a redolent burst of butter and brown sugar. “Hoo, heaven.”

“Give one to Miss Gertrude. She loves muffins.”

“Of course, and I’ll split the other with Zini. Get this—she told me she would’ve tried marrying you if she’d known you baked.”

They laughed; that was a complete lie. Skye had been right there a year and a half ago, when Zinnia first made eyes with June at the crowded farmer’s market two towns away. She could’ve stood butt naked, covered in muffin crumbs and neither of them would’ve spared a glance.

“Don’t let pastries break you up. I’d never bake again.”

“Sad. We’d all suffer.” June rested her long arms on the counter as she rocked on the balls of her feet, staring at one of Luce’s most sizable mosaics mounted above the checkout section: the greens and tans and dark blues of the Poconos Mountains under a pink sky.

“You’ve been back in Yielding for years.

Are you open to dating? Love? I mean...” She thumped the bag with her knuckles.

“I’m sure someone out there would appreciate homemade goods like these, not that my family and I don’t love them. ”

Skye blinked long lashes, her smile fading. “I’m open to love.”

“You’re not on the dating apps. You spend your free time running ’round for Luce or out in nature.

You can’t date the squirrels.” June’s grin came off pained, flakes dappling her healing cheeks.

“You expect to sit back, and a woman will emerge out of thin air to sweep you off your feet, doing all the heavy lifting to romance you.”

“Is that wrong?” Skye asked, vulnerable around all the beauty her grandma created while Granddad was still alive. She’d love to build something as beautiful with someone, someday. “I don’t expect her to do all the heavy lifting...”

“She would. If you’re sitting around.”

“You and Zini found each other easily.”

“Because I stepped outside my comfort zone. I left the house. I dated.” June exhaled, a little too exasperated. “It’s like you’re waiting for an idyllic love story. It’s unrealistic.”

Skye gripped her labradorite, barely noticing she’d done so. “Says who?”

“Says anyone. Everyone.”

Harkening back to Luce’s short-lived excitement of a possible date, Skye deflated.

She batted back tears, or else June and her big heart would be crushed.

Yet, Skye had never been the most conventional; why should her love happen that way?

“I guess I can’t grasp everyone’s urgent need to be on someone’s arm.

What’s wrong with waiting for love to show up? ”

The wind chimes jingled. And in walked Celene, halting at the door.

Celene’s dark eyes widened, then she inspected her wristwatch. “Are you closed already? It’s only 3:24.”

June smiled as brightly as she did in their first encounter. “Hello again, newcomer.”

“Hey. June, right?”

Displaying manners nobody asked for, June stood at her full height, smoothing her hat-misshapen hair. “That’s right. June Christensen. And over here’s?—”

“Skye,” Celene interrupted. She fell into a slow gait to the relief display. Without looking away from the wall of assorted color squares, she added, “We go way back.”

“You do?”

“We do,” Skye hissed to June, begging with her eyes not to make it a big deal. They usually shared all sides of themselves, so she’d conveniently left this fact out. At store manager volume, she asked Celene, “Do you need anything in particular?”

“I’ll browse.” Though she moved slowly, there was a strictness to Celene’s movements.

The pin-straight posture, her short, deliberate glances at a price tag or the names of pieces.

It fascinated Skye, truthfully, to observe a person nearly as small as her exude the energy of someone of June’s height. Or taller. A giant in a 5’4 body.

Letting her feet take her to her daily tasks, Skye got a broom from the closet-break room and slid it across the floor.

As she swept, she acquired snippets of Celene’s shopping experience.

In a thin jacket, tailor-perfect slacks, and low heels, Celene would dedicate long moments to staring at items, quickly moving to the next.

And by the set of her jaw and how she folded her arms, Skye gained an inkling.

She propped her broom on a shelf and stepped in as closely as she could, an act of bravery unrealized. As measured as possible, she observed, “You don’t like anything.”

Celene’s scrutiny faded, replaced by an almost apologetic look. “I don’t believe I’m your grandmother’s audience. Her stuff is a little kitsch for my taste.”

June probably didn’t know what kitsch meant, but she came to bat for Luce despite that. “What do you mean? You can’t be too good for it—Luce sells big. Without exception. She’s a part of history.”

“She’s undeniably talented,” Celene replied with a dry, almost cutting ease. “I said I’m not her audience.”

Skye searched for outrage.

She should’ve been angry, right? For that snob-ass comment. Yet it wasn’t terribly off the mark. Kitsch was kind of harsh, but did Luce appeal to an older crowd and a different vibe than the Celenes of the world.

While Skye could apologize for wasting Celene’s time, she instead nodded toward the Candy Red Office. “I’ll show you more in the back.”

Ignoring June’s confusion, Celene followed Skye into the red room with the wrapper-deco walls, closing them in. Celene leaned her backside on the desk, as the room wasn’t large. “Is this where you beat up the customers who misbehave?”

Skye laughed as she unlocked her phone, opening a private photo album. After passing that off to Celene, she crouched to root around her messenger bag. God, she should’ve left the door ajar because Celene’s perfume made her dizzy.

“Okay, these are different,” Celene breathed. “Where does your grandmother store them? Are they exclusive?”

“Yeah, they’re exclusive.” Skye waited for Celene to stop swiping from image to image, simultaneously flattered by her interest. “Luce didn’t make them, though. I did.”

In the photos were mosaics, but as fully freestanding sculptures Skye hand-cut and chiseled to replicate natural sights native to their region.

Like a bunch of cardinal flowers, its vibrant red handmade mosaic petals Skye painstakingly soldered together onto hinges so that with a gentle hand, one could bend the pieces.

Or a sugar maple branch, its see-through leaves orange from the fall.

Her sculptures encouraged the viewer to interact with them, to touch things that looked like—or even could—break apart. Much like nature itself.

The album showcased eight pieces of similar quality with two things in common: a kind of swirly, dreamlike quality, and they were all in varying states of incompletion.

Included in the visuals were her simple watercolor pencil renderings—acceptable for a woman with no formal training but loads of family exposure. These pieces required long hours and attention she couldn’t provide, not with Luce’s business as a priority.

Mingled in the Florentines’ mostly free-range parenting style were Luce’s pearls of strictness. She’d tried to teach Skye not to stare. It came with the territory to zone off into other worlds.

And her current world was gliding through the depth, the complexity that many people overlooked in dark hair.

Some of Celene’s spilled over her face, and Skye wondered if it felt the same all these years later.

Then, she swiveled her gaze to her own hands, remembering the tall dude in the button-up on the Vale property. “I work on them in my downtime.”

“They’re incredible,” Celene stated with a drabness only tempered by her soft smirk and the next question. “How much do I pay for one?”

“Oh.” All over the place, she’d started these projects over the past two years. And Skye loved them so much—as incomplete as they were—that they’d become her babies. “They’re not for sale.”

Standing this close, Skye noticed an imperfection on Celene’s diamond-cut features. When she spoke, one side of her top lip kinked upward more than the other. And as pointed as it peaked, it reminded her of a curious cat.

“Then why did you show them?” Kinky kitty lips accused, “You’re a tease.”

Seriously, why did Skye show them? “Well, these pieces...” Her mouth went rogue again. “Are mine. They’re experimental. Anything for you would be brand new.”

“Like a commission.”

“Exactly, yeah.” Skye snaked hair behind her ear in two twisty strokes, dropping her arm when she noticed Celene watching. That type of restlessness undercut the appearance of a confident artist selling her work.

But Skye wasn’t confident. She’d been formally trained as a data analyst, not a sculptor. And she’d never sold anything personal before.

Her interactive statues fit the pointless category more than priceless—an expensive, time-consuming hobby. A secret one at that. Revealed not even to June, whose shadow darkened the sliver of light under the door. Skye smacked the door to scare her off, and Celene didn’t question it.

“I can tell by their intricacy they’ll take weeks, maybe months.

Here’s what we’ll do.” Celene took control of Skye’s phone, exiting the gallery to open the contacts.

“Text me your rate. My dad’s covering the costs of the renovations, but this is my own expense.

I’ll want to keep it for myself after the house is sold. ”

One spring ago, a customer—Teresa, she recalled—gave Skye her number. Teresa’s life sounded fascinating, and she’d been cute, but Skye’s texting attention span fluctuated. It led to meandering exchanges Skye thought went naturally, but turned out to be shitty for the other party.

However, this was business . She’d worked in mid-rise offices and navigated monotonous performance reviews. Chats on compliance, pipelines, and metrics. Soul-crushing, but Skye had corresponded competently. “Okay, I can do that.”

“I’ll leave Wednesday evening, so I expect your contract before then. You have a sophisticated, polished style. It’s refreshing.” Celene dedicated several seconds to scrutinizing the creased candy wrappers giving the room its flair. “I don’t understand extremely, uh, eccentric art.”

Skye whirled her pinky into her necklace, blown away by this many sentences out of Celene, uninterrupted. Positive sentences at that. “I want everyone else to perceive the outdoor world the way I do. This is the only avenue I could come up with.”

“Am I your first customer?”

“You’re my first anything.” She clarified to skeptical eyes. “You’re the only one who knows I make this stuff, as it’s a new-ish discovery about myself. I’d respect your discretion.”

Celene pushed herself off the desk, hooking her handbag on her shoulder. She held out a hand. “I excel at discretion.”

Skye smiled despite herself during their handshake. “Thanks. I’ll type up a contract.”

“I anticipate it.” And instead of pulling away, Celene lifted Skye’s hand to her face, lightly swiveling it under her nose. “You’re making me hungry. What are you wearing?”

Croaking her words was so pitiful, and Skye did it anyway, picking up on the content of the question on a delay. “Honeysuckle. Uh, body cream.”

“Mmm.” Celene confirmed in another drift, nodding. Their fingers slipped apart when she turned to let herself out.

“Hey, wait, what do you want me to make?” That should’ve been Skye’s first inquiry. Man, her spacey mind, brought to life by Celene’s shockingly warm hands.

Celene wavered and, before opening the door, replied, “A fuchsia.”