Page 39 of The Beekeeper

He grunted and walked away as Marc smiled at me and said, “All right, sunshine, your turn.”

“Me?”

“You don’t want any photos of yourself for the campaign? For a website? A bio?” He rattled off suggestions. “I’m here, you might as well use me.”

He winked again and I couldn’t help but smile back. “Okay, yeah. That would be good.”

Marc didn’t ask where I wanted the photos, he just started directing me, and I was happy to follow orders. He did a few headshots by the hives, helping me to hide the reddening welt on the back of my hand, and then led me into the field of wildflowers, wanting to capture some shots that were more natural.

“Good. Right there, and now smile.”

I followed Marc’s direction without thought—turn. Smile. Tip your head. Angle toward me. Bend and smell the flowers…Maybe he didn’t ask for my input because he knew my mind was elsewhere. Hopefully, it wasn’t that obvious that it was stuck on Blaze, but maybe it was.

I just didn’t understand why he was so cranky. He was the one that suggested it—offered to pay for it. He was the one who picked Marc and asked him to come here. Then he’d gone and acted like he regretted it the entire time. I wished I didn’t care. I wished it didn’t bother me and make me wonder.

I wished my unrequited crush on Blaze Stevens hadn’t been as traumatic as a bee sting, my attachment embedded in him, the consequence of my own slow demise.

“Beautiful,” Marc cooed, and I blinked, unsure even what expression I wore, but I doubted it was a happy one. The shutter fired a few more times and then he lowered his camera. “Okay, that’s a wrap. You did amazing, Harper. A natural.”

I grimaced. “I don’t know about that.”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, lifting his fingers up solemnly. “Unedited, but take a look for yourself.”

He showed me the screen on his camera, but because he didn’t remove the strap from his neck, we had to stand close—touching—in order for me to see it. I looked at the photos as he started to flip through them, trying to focus on the images.

“Look at that.” I could hear the appreciation in Marc’s voice as he zoomed in on one. “The light on your face. Your smile. So gorgeous.”

I stared at the photograph. It was from the set he’d taken of me sitting cross-legged with the wildflowers at my back. When he’d taken the shot, I’d been looking off to the side and smiling at a memory of Blaze and Paisley from the other day, remembering how happy they were—how happy I was to have them here. Even after everything that had happened.

“If you say so,” I said with a small laugh and looked up at him.

“I do.”

I bit my lip, swaying slightly on my feet. It would be so easy to flirt with him, especially because it would be harmless. Meaningless. My cousin, Frankie, would say I’d be a fool not to. After my last failure of a—I hesitated to even call him a boyfriend after those couple of dates—I hadn’t even bothered to dip my toes back into the dating pool and that had been three—four months ago.

It would probably be good to flirt with a guy and enjoy a man’s attentions. Especially when the only man I encountered regularly acted like it was painful to be in my presence no matter how gallantly he tried to hide it.

I looked up, finding Marc’s eyes, and my heart started to pound, but it wasn’t the same. The anticipation fell flat compared to the way everything bubbled and fizzed when I stared at Blaze.

Without prompt, I searched for him—not having to search far. Over Marc’s shoulder, I caught Blaze’s stare watching us—watching me, and I realized the hum over my skin wasn’t from the flirty photographer. It was because of Blaze. Every time Marc looked at me, Blaze did, too, as though I belonged to him.

Yeah, right. I doused the thought that caught like kindling on even the slightest spark of hope.

Blaze was just looking out for me because I was quasi-family, and Marc lived in New York and photographed fashion models for a living—textbook for Heartbreak 101.

Apparently, my favorite class to keep failing. Actor. Photographer.

“So, I don’t fly back to the city until tomorrow morning,” Marc said, drawing my attention back to him.

“All set?” Blaze’s voice cracked into the conversation as he joined us, his arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah.” Marc flashed a tipped smile, his eyes darting back to me. “I was just telling Harper I don’t head back until tomorrow⁠—”

“I was going to see if you wanted to grab dinner and catch up, just the two of us. It’s been a while,” Blaze interrupted.

“Sure. I’d love to,” Marc easily pivoted.

Looking at the two of them—perfect male specimens—I realized Blaze probably wanted to go out with a wingman. To have a night out with an old friend, grabbing dinner and drinks. And women, the little devil on my shoulder whispered right before it encouraged me to refuse.