Page 87 of The Beekeeper

“Thank you.” Relief flooded me as I ended the call.

The following minutes ticked by like a timer on a bomb. I did my best to distract myself, but my brain was so frazzled, any task seemed to end up only half-done. And then eight o’clock rolled around, and the market opened, and I was still alone.

My stare was so focused on scanning for any sign of Lou or Nox, I didn’t even process the girl running through the square in my direction until she almost crashed into my table.

Flattening her palms on the surface, she heaved a breath and demanded, “Is Blaze here?”

Blaze.

Here.

Oh god.

I watched in shock as a line suddenly swelled in front of me.

I fought to keep my smile steady. “No.”

She frowned. “But he’s in your photos.”

“For marketing, yes,” I said. Did she not understand the concept?

“Was it all AI?” another woman asked from somewhere in the crowd, but there were too many people for me to pinpoint who it was.

“Excuse me?”

“Someone said you used AI to make all those photos and that it wasn’t really Blaze.”

“Well, that’s not true,” I said, my throat feeling like it was squeezed to the size of a dime. “It was the real Blaze Stevens in those photos and posting those photos to his socials.”

Why would he post an AI photo of himself? Ugh. People were dumb.

She blinked almost vacantly at me and then looked over her shoulder at the small crowd that had gathered, and I caught the split-second smirk before she asked almost insipidly, “Then where is he?”

My jaw went slack as ripples of agreement murmured through the group.

“Well, it was just a marketing campaign. Mr. Stevens⁠—”

“Is right here,” a deep voice sounded from behind me.

Blaze nonchalantly strolled into my booth behind me. He looked every bit the casual, Hollywood playboy with his tight-fitting tee hooked behind his belt buckle, his fitted jeans sitting low on his waist.

A domino of gasps and squeals toppled through my line, everyone suddenly crushing toward my table—everyone but the woman who’d asked the question. Now, she looked distinctly…pissed off. With a huff and a ‘whatever,’ she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaze’s shoulder brushed mine as he stopped beside me.

“Blaze…Blaze Stevens…” The brunette at the front of the line couldn’t stop gasping. “You’re here.”

Behind her, a dozen phones were raised and taking photographs. So. Many. Photographs.

“I am,” he said, and I could hear the packaged quality of his voice. He smiled and picked up a jar of honey. “And I take it you’re here for some of Maine’s most delicious honey.”

Goose bumps rippled over my skin. Was it me or did he linger on that word? I turned away, watching the line grow as I fought not to think about that morning on my dining table.

“Oh my gosh, yes,” she blubbered, nodding so vigorously it was a wonder her head didn’t wobble right off her neck. He went to hand her the jar of Cinn-sational and she stammered, “Can you sign it?”

“Absolutely,” he drawled, his tipped smile returning as he looked at me. For a second, something hot smoldered in his stare, and I quickly turned away, scorched.

Reaching for my bag, I found a Sharpie, fighting my reaction when his fingers brushed mine.