Page 8 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls (Kissing At Work #2)

“What, are you in love? Is she your true love?” Thalia asked in a pivot so hard, Skye choked on air.

“Skye, spit it out!” June hollered as soon as a customer stepped in.

The three of them smiled sweetly, throwing in a wave and a welcome.

Then they huddled again. Skye caught Thalia up with what she’d told June, and continued.

“I drove behind her to head back into town, and we went the same route, all the way to my neighborhood. She’s staying at a mostly unused house, and I’m sure she’s my old friend.

” Skye fanned her face with a brochure; her friends’ stares were intense.

“Well. Friend may be too strong a word. We hung out for a few summers as kids.”

“Is she beautiful?” Thalia cupped her hands over her mouth. “Is she gay?”

“ Is she gay?” June echoed.

Skye shook her head; she hadn’t considered, really. “How would I know? It was dark.”

June blinked once. “You can see gay in the dark.”

In all seriousness, Thalia agreed. “It glows.”

The customer interrupted their laughter with fanboy questions about the artist. After doing the Big Reveal (“Skye’s the famous artist’s granddaughter, woooow.”), Skye and June left.

“I’m craving a juicy, rare burger.” June clicked her seatbelt into place as she backed a celadon green van out of the parking lot.

She would order a cold, raw beef patty if restaurant codes allowed; the pinker the better.

“Should I go to a drive-thru, and we eat on the way to the plant nursery? It’s about a fifteen-minute drive. ”

“Sure. I’ll take a black bean burger with everything on it,” Skye murmured, peering out the window at two women strapping a massive painting onto the back of a pickup.

If only she could send that customer flowers for interrupting her friends’ speculation. Talking about Celene’s beauty, so obvious even in the darkness, knotted Skye’s stomach so terribly that she denied June’s offer of fries.

After an on-the-road lunch, she followed June’s directions in properly packing the van with pallets and wooden crates of radiant flowers, many of them still in the tender bulb state.

She breathed in the greenhouse’s loamy soil scent, traipsing abundant rows of foliage, like verdant hands reaching for her.

June shut the van’s double doors, dramatizing labored breath.

While the work exerted energy, it had been pleasant.

A nice way to get their blood pumping. “All done. I could have done that alone, but it’d take double the time.

This nursery breeds really healthy plants.

” She lowered her voice as if the owners would hear her from inside.

“Their distribution, however, is inconsistent.”

Skye returned her grin, tugging her dirty gloves off finger by finger.

She felt eyes so familiar and once intimate on her.

Avoiding the stare, Skye searched the ground.

A shiny pill bug detoured over the toe of her shoe, dark gray scurrying over the scuffed tan.

She waited for him to make his way to the dirt before responding to the tap on her arm.

With a timid smile, June proffered a potted fuchsia. “For you. You’re off in the clouds more than usual.”

The fuchsia’s unopened blooms drooped as they should, pale magenta buds hanging like paper lanterns. “An adorable new friend. I’m okay, though.”

“You sure?”

She lit her phone for the time. Thalia wanted a full shift today; nevertheless, Skye would rather not leave her alone for too long. “Let’s get back to the shop.”

June caught Skye by the arm, brows low. “Hey, you sure ?”

Skye gripped the flower’s container. If only she knew why nothing felt quite right. “I’m sure.”

On the ride home, June synced her phone to bob her head to the trending songs.

When they’d dated, she’d do this. Fill the silence.

June grew up with four older brothers and one younger sister, so it made sense that a lack of noise bored her.

Cosmo, Skye’s older brother by four years, occupied himself with handheld games growing up, so they learned to exist in wordless accord.

When she wasn’t off in a forest, his babysitting consisted of cycling through his assortment of gaming systems while Skye played at his feet, narrating stories for her daily bounty of angular rocks and leaves.

As they passed the stone ‘Welcome to Yielding’ sign, Skye breathed a little easier. Although her sensitive fuchsia shook with every hard-hitting beat from June’s playlist.

“Look at ’er dance,” June cheered, imitating the tremors in her seat. “She loves music.”

Skye wasn’t so sure. She turned the volume down, so she wouldn’t have to shout out, “More like trembling. Or pulsing.”

“Bah-bum, bah-bum. Call her something like that—Bah-bum.”

Luckily, June’s partner named their dog, or else she’d be called Arf-arf. “We can go whimsical with Heart Palpington Germinatta, first of her name. Heart for short.”

“Heart. Good choice.” June shared a smile before jumping like, “Oh shit.” Seconds later, the Bluetooth speaker played a dial tone, and Zinnia answered.

“Hey, baby.” Zinnia sounded distracted, probably grading submissions from her online illustration students. “What’re you up to?”

“Riding back from the plant nursery with Skye.”

“Skye! Hello, my love.”

Zinnia was a delight the moment Skye met her. The relationship with June had been days old, and Skye knew they were a lock. “Hi, love.”

June drummed her fingers, checking every direction to turn the van. “I’m gonna drop Skye back off at the collective. Do you want me to bring you something to eat? A burger?”

“We had burgers yesterday.”

“Is that a no?”

“Are you on Main? Stop by the little market that sells horseradish cheese and the pretzels I like—sticks, not twists.”

“A cheese-and-cracker dinner. I’m marrying a mouse,” June muttered as she changed lanes. To Skye, she asked, “Mind if I run in real quick? It’s on the way.”

Skye allowed it, sending a text to check in on Thalia. Being the manager and Luce’s live-in grandchild gave her a ton of benefits, but she didn’t want to take advantage too much.

June pulled into a parking space, unclipping her seatbelt before stopping the van. “’Kay, what brand of ch— whoa , um, who’s that?”

The skin on Skye’s arms sizzled; her fuchsia fluttered under her touch.

She just knew. Yielding’s 9,500 population wasn’t minuscule, but their community was small enough to know .

“Zini, there’s an extremely good-looking woman outside the store, browsing the flower stand,” June said, her burnt cheeks shining.

While some couples fought through jealousy, June and her fiancée compared notes. Zinnia practically sang, “Reeeally? Who, who, who? Ask her name.”

June rolled her window down, then tutted. “She’s too far away.”

Skye’s eyes bugged at definitely Celene in mid-thigh workout shorts and a loose athleisure tank, holding a white checkout bag. The woman looked like a movie star on the go.

Zinnia barked like a drill sergeant. “Back that fuckin’ van up and park next to her!”

“What about your food?”

“We’ll figure that out later. Time is of the essence, and we need more friends.”

“Maybe she’s into women. That’d help her fit into our group,” June said, eagerly three-point turning. Then, she pressed at her console, effectively ruining Skye’s life by lowering the window on Skye’s side. “Move your head.”

Celene stepped back, alarm clear in her eyes as the big gay van parked precariously close, nearly tipping over a row of metal buggies. If Skye could sprout wings and flap out the window, she would.

“You’re not a Yielder,” June hollered, putting on some nonspecific home-grown accent. “You live here now?”

Yielding’s hospitality was aggressive .

Celene braced herself in her trainers, on edge from questions from residents all day.

“What brings you here?”

“You from the city?”

“Is this your first visit to Yielding?”

“It’s boring here, isn’t it?”

If this town’s diversity didn’t relieve her, she’d tally those up as identity-based or you-don’t-belong conjecture. She’d answered vaguely, anyway, as these types of interactions were nosy. Dull, too. But small talk had been inevitable on her outings today.

She’d chosen a family-owned market for her last stop, since Nadine had requested “authentic homemade, no-BS pie” baked by “a Poconos local” crafted with “real fruit and latticework.” Celene grabbed this specific souvenir from the frozen section, then stocked up on some groceries for herself.

The perennials outside interested her until the van ambush.

Pushing her sunglasses further up her nose, Celene peered at the driver, a grinning woman in a baseball cap.

And her counterpart, the passenger.

In the light of day, Celene narrowed her eyes, grateful they were hidden behind black lenses. She recognized this person.

“Well?” the driver asked, cheeks red from a hellish-looking sunburn.

Celene searched the exterior of the van for any rainbow paraphernalia because this woman set off all the bells and whistles of the gay department. Evenly, she answered, “No, I don’t live here.”

The bill of her cap shadowed a frown. “Why’re you visiting, then?”

Tourism? Traveling through? None of her damn business? Skirting all those valid responses, Celene raised the paper bag holding Nadine’s blackberry pie and enough fixings to survive on for the next few days. “Personal reasons.”

“Personal. Neat.”

Someone yammering through the van’s speaker took the driver’s attention. Celene should’ve escaped during this downtime. Instead, she gave the speechless passenger another inspection.

Yes, she’d identify that long, windblown bob and those naturally pouty lips anywhere. The forager from the side of the road. Her brown skin had a lustre, as if hours spent gathering berries in the wild had left her glowing.

She didn’t move. Maybe so she wouldn’t be noticed.

But Celene could and did .

“You lookin’ at flowers?” the sunburnt woman yelled. Forager friend jolted in her seat. A comedy duo. “I have flowers in this van. My great aunt’s business does it all—painting and staining, repairs, renovations, landscaping, gardening, maintenance.”

Gertrude’s Home Improvement, Celene read off the side of the van in swooping text. That lettering was too professional to be a human trafficking ploy. “Do you have a card?”

The driver patted her pocketless shirt while the Bluetooth lady got louder. Eventually, she grappled with the glove compartment and retrieved a business card as green as their van. She elbowed the forager twice to pass it along.

More intrigued by this silent woman than the fix-it-all great-niece with the toothy grin and excitable friend on call, Celene took the card. But she didn’t read it yet. She waited until the passenger’s large, deep-set brown eyes reached her, asking, “Are the blueberries any good?”

Forager turned to the driver as if she’d have the answers, then to her lap, then back to Celene, who wouldn’t budge. Summer sun breathed hard on Celene’s scalp, and yet, she tarried, needing a reply.

Softly, she murmured, “Mhm. I’m baking muffins with them.”

Celene tamped her smirk into a firm line. Fuck, why were shy women so cute? Disappointed she had yet to learn her lesson, she relayed no emotion into her flat, “Yum.”

This imposition resulted in something constructive; Gertrude’s Home Improvement could tackle the Vale house’s biggest demands. Celene told her father where she’d woken up that morning, to get the info on two of his credit cards.

A grave mistake. Only a matter of hours until the entire family expected perfection from a Manhattanite whose extent of home repair acumen was negotiating with her apartment’s lackadaisical management.

Gertrude’s great-niece—June Christensen, according to the card—had the decency to accept the finished conversation when Celene stuck the card into her bag with a light tap of her pointer. Starting the engine, June waved despite the wattage in her smile reducing. “See you around, newcomer. Or not.”

Celene couldn’t be arsed to return a wave or facetious barb. June would probably be on payroll for her soon, so a terse nod sufficed.

In a cloud of dirt, they peeled off. Then, stopped short of the main road. And, most unexpectedly, the van zoomed in reverse as fast as it’d left, halting in front of Celene again.

June appeared as perplexed as Celene, shrugging and pointing at her passenger. Flowers rose into view like they’d sprouted themselves all over again—a plant studded with fair pink, hanging buds.

“This is a fuchsia. She requires partial shade, regular water, and feeding every couple of weeks,” the forager pronounced in a timbre far more confident than the last ten minutes, and certainly when she’d been bumbling through the grass for her keys.

“If you treat her well, she’ll bloom brilliant, pendulous flowers.

” Her arm, slim and sure, extended from the window, presenting the fuchsia in a small burgundy container. “Welcome to Yielding.”

Celene rearranged the bag on her shoulder to receive it. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Happy you’re back, Celene.”

Didn’t everyone know not to gift anything living? The idea of another thing to take care of should’ve frustrated her. Instead, Celene Vale stared after the van that departed for real.

A familiarity wrecked her concentration as much as the knowledge of being ‘back.’ They’d met some time in the past, beyond meeting last night.

Ah, that was it. Celene couldn’t help staring at her because she was familiar , not for reasons too heavy or ultimately, consuming.

Waiting for the vents in her car to blow anything cooler than hot, muggy air, she nestled the fuchsia in the passenger seat, cushioned by her designer jacket from yesterday’s meeting.

An actual present. When had a woman last given her flowers?

The forager addressed the fuchsia as ‘her,’ projecting personality onto this wobbly, delicate thing. Celene fixed her sunglasses on top of her hair, lips quirking into a smile. “Who are you, Nature Girl?”