Page 3 of The Beekeeper

The way she talked to Pais was completely different from how she was with me. With my daughter, Harper was bright. Smiling. Warm. All the things I’d made it unsafe for her to be around me.

What the hell did she expect when she’d lied just like the rest of them?

When I’d met Harper, she’d been working at the reception desk of the Lamplight Inn in Friendship, a small town on the coast of Maine about twenty minutes south of Stonebar. I’d checked in under a fake name—standard protocol to avoid paparazzi—and when she gave no sign of recognizing who I was, I thought I’d finally found somewhere safe. Somewhere I could process the news that I had a daughter while trying to go cold-turkey on the drugs and alcohol I’d habitually fed my body for a decade.

Somewhere between misery, uncertainty, and recovery, I’d found myself in late-night conversations with the attentive and kind receptionist who never looked at me like a Hollywood playboy or pariah.

As it turned out, she’d known who I was from the start because she’d had the biggest crush on me in high school. Maybe it wasn’t a lie, but it sure felt like one. To go from trusting someone to questioning every interaction. Every motive.

Those weeks getting to know her, getting to know myself again, blurred together now. Some of it from the withdrawal, some of it because of my fall down the building’s old staircase, the one I still couldn’t remember taking but that had me waking up weeks later in the hospital. Nothing like a coma to jerk your life back on course.

Now, a year and a half later, with my brother married to Harper’s cousin, I’ve been around her enough to consider that maybe her motives weren’t selfish or exploitative, but the damage was done. And to try and fix it now…for what purpose? Paisley and I were only here for another couple of months, and it wasn’t like I had to see Harper all the time. It was easy to avoid her. Necessary.

Harper Hamilton might still catch my eye every damn time, but in this new world, all I was allowed was to catch and release. In this new world, there was only room for one woman in my life: my daughter.

Who was currently offering Harper a bite of her prized ice cream.

“Want some?” Paisley’s arm shot out, chocolate dripping from the cone onto her fingers.

I didn’t know what was more shocking—that Pais offered to share some of her most beloved snack or that the most in-fucking-decent image of Harper licking an ice cream cone launched instantly to the front of my mind like a goddamn Olympic pole vaulter.

“Ooo, is that chocolate?” Harper’s mouth rounded into an ‘o.’

Breaking News: the gold medal for pole vaulting goes to my dick that turned rock solid against my jeans.

“Aww thank you, but I’m okay. Miss Ella gave me a few too many Spanish donuts, so I’m stuffed.”

It was impossible to miss the look of relief on Paisley’s face as she scarfed down the last of her ice cream.

Harper straightened and wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans. “Thank you again.”

“Ask for help next time,” I scolded, lacking the capacity to be nice when my dick was this hard.

The color drained from her face, and she murmured, “I will.”

I felt like an ass, watching her practically run away, but it was better this way. It was better that she continued to hate me, or rather, think I hated her. Better that I continued to burst the bubble of her childhood crush on Hollywood Heartthrob Blaze Stevens because he was a fantasy. A figment. The real Blaze was a recovering fuck-up.

“Come on, Pais. We’ve got a science project to figure out.” I took my daughter’s hand and led her down the sidewalk, letting my eyes drift to the front window of the pastry shop as we walked by, not quite ready to give up the sight of Harper.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Paisley gripped my hand, shifting back behind my arm.

I blinked, confused for only a split second before the fear in her voice snapped me back to reality, and I saw what she was talking about: outside the Mainestems flower shop—above which was the loft apartment where Paisley and I were staying—was a crowd of people, all of them holding cameras.

“Daddy,” she whimpered, fear cracking through her tiny voice. “Are those the camera monsters?”

Shit.

In one smooth movement, I scooped Paisley up into my arms, walking swiftly back along the sidewalk until we were out of sight.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I set Paisley’s feet on the ground, but still her arms clutched me like I was dropping her into a pool of lava. “It’s all right, pumpkin. They didn’t see us; they can’t see us here.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and for the eighteen-millionth time in the last eighteen months, I felt like the worst father. A failure.

“It’s okay. Remember what I told you? I won’t let them anywhere near you,” I repeated as those tears spilled down her cheeks, each one felt like someone was slicing a layer off my heart.

It gutted me to see her cry like what I said didn’t seem to make a difference, but it killed me to know I was responsible; I was the reason the paparazzi were here. They wanted a story, and Degenerate Blaze had been so good at giving it to them. Even now, a year after I’d released a statement that I was stepping away from Hollywood to focus on my daughter and our life, they still came hunting.