Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
The men nod with a sense of heavy duty sinking in.
“The flood of movie stars and CEOs has slowed down since the last round of trouble, at least,” Lucas points out. “Xavier prefers to do his business elsewhere, and I hear Aleksander’s got himself a hometown girl.”
“Yeah. About that.” I grind my teeth. “If y’all see them around—just fucking watch them, okay? I’m real worried Rosalind Sanderson’s in over her head. Might be in trouble.”
“Rosalind? Abusive relationship?” Micah asks.
“Probable substance abuse,” I reply. “Look, I don’t wanna have to arrest her and give her a drug test, but if she looks like she’s in trouble, don’t hesitate to intervene. I’d rather have to apologize than end up being too late.”
Lucas salutes crisply.
“You got it, Chief.” Then he frowns. “By the way, how’s Ophelia settling back in?”
“She’s staying with me for now,” I say, ignoring the slow grins turning my way. “Whatever. Mind your own damn business and get to work. Dismissed.”
10
ONE STOLEN KISS (OPHELIA)
I don’t know if I can handle a fight right now.
Which is why I’m standing outside of Nobody’s Bees-Ness with my hands stuffed in my pockets, huffing cold air and very seriously pondering turning around and just walking off until I find somewhere to buy a decent coat.
A little comfort shopping.
A little escape.
A little doing anything I can not to create a rift in a family that’s lost so much. I’m so afraid we’re going to face that kind of loss again far too soon.
God.
The thought of fighting with Ros while our mom is dying absolutely guts me. I never once thought we’d be facing this apart.
But I don’t think confronting my sister over avoiding me is going to go very well, either.
Who knows, maybe I’m being pessimistic.
There’s still a chance it’ll be fine.
And if it isn’t?
Well, then I’ll just save that comfort shopping trip for later and take out my feelings with a little impulse spending.
Okay.
I suck in a deep breath for courage and push the door to the shop open.
The familiar jingle of the bell rips me back in time.
Ever since I was a little girl, this shop was a magical place.
The shelves are dark mahogany wood and mirror glass, with more mirrors paneled along the walls. Everywhere you turn, it’s glinting reflections and the soft amber light from paper lanterns dangling throughout the store.
True to the name, this place is like stepping into a beehive.
It even smells like warm honey in here, eternally shrouded in the thick scent of fresh beeswax.
Faint ambient music pipes through the store, floating over shelves lined with my mother’s handmade honey and beeswax products.
The little signs are still lovingly written in her handwriting like she only put them up yesterday.
It’s all here: lip gloss, soaps, shampoos, lotions, ointments, candles, little honey candies, fresh dripping honeycombs, bottled honey, and royal jelly supplements. Several more shelves hold tiers of gift baskets bulging with sweet delights.
There’s a beekeeper on the edge of town who sells his products almost exclusively to this shop, giving Mom the freedom to experiment with new ideas. Whether it’s cooking up new scented blends of beeswax fragrance melt cubes or creating milk and honey blends for soothing lip scrubs, she’s always got something new in the works.
The close, dimly lit space always seems like it demands whispers.
Almost like it’s some kind of secret library of warm, cozy things meant to be taken in with reverence for all the delicate objects crafted with such care.
That feeling of familiar wonder goes cold as I draw up short just inside the door, letting it swing shut behind me.
The noise is jarring.
So is seeing someone besides Mom standing behind the counter and realizing that strange woman behind the glossy glass display case is my sister.
She doesn’t look like the Rosalind I remember at all.
My baby sister was always a shy, bookish thing, sweet and romantic with a bit of a dorky introverted side.
When we’d take day trips to the beach, she was always the girl who wouldn’t even take off her t-shirt to go swimming, wearing it over her bathing suit instead.
That’s always been Ros. Once Mom and I realized she was comfortable that way, we just let her be herself.
Now, I do a double take.
What the...?
She’s wearing a see-through light coral cardigan over—not much of anything.
There’s a single button fastened between her breasts while the rest hangs open over her bare stomach. Underneath, she has a magenta push-up bra in lace with wired cups that lift her breasts into the kind of straining, full mounds that make me think that underwire’s got to be cutting so deep. I cringe in sympathy.
Her jeans are pure street princess, low and tight and ripped, showing the little creases of flesh along the bottom curve of her stomach that dip down toward her crotch. There’s even a hint of the tiny ladybug tattoo stamped just over the curve of her hip bone.