“No,” I replied much too quickly. “Because what if someone sees marionberry next to mesquite and assumes they’re complementary flavors?”
“Society would crumble, bees would unionize, and dogs would walk themselves?”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “I’m being serious.”
“I know,” they said, voice gentling as they ran a hand through their shaggy bob. “And that’s why I love you. But I promise that nobody is out here performing flavored honey calculus. You’re doing great.”
I let out a slow breath, forcing my shoulders down.
“You’re right.” I clicked the pen in my pocket out of habit, silently counting each click until my breathing evened out. “And thank you.”
They smiled. “That’s what I’m here for. At least until one, when I need to clock in for my shift at Smutty Buddies.”
Damn, how do they do it all?
Most days, I was lucky if my brain allowed me to do one task from start to finish without spiraling into seven unrelated ones. Meanwhile, Xan juggled their MFA program with part-time work at Nessa’s romance bookstore and an online side hustle selling handmade acrylic nail sets.
On top of that, they also had that effortlessly cool vibe that most people envied, me included. Their pink bucket hat had been carefully selected to match their latest nailset—pink-and-white gingham with 3D fruits on each nail—making them look like the patron saint of queer cottagecore.
“Okay,” I said decisively. Well, decisively forme, at least.“Let’s go with size. Minis in front, half-pints next, and pints in the back. Honey sticks on theright, soap to the left.”
The honey sticks were crowd favorites. The soap, tiny hexagon bars with embossed bees, were my pride and joy. They were also my first foray into skincare products, though I had high aspirations to keep experimenting with more—lotions, lip balms, and beyond.
Soap was just a gateway craft.
I adjusted one of the pint jars a centimeter to the left. Then a half centimeter back to the right.
“Looks perfect,” Xan said.
“It’s not crooked?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not just saying that to make me stop?”
Xan placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It’s honey, Bella. Not the floor plan for a sex club.”
“Oooo, what did I just walk into?”
Dani appeared at the edge of the tent like a goth woodland creature, her tiny frame swallowed by an oversized black jacket.
Coach Brooks Bailey-Ward, better known by the rest of the internet as “Coach Daddy,” towered over her. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, attempting to soothe the baby strapped to his chest in a gray carrier.
Xan grinned. “We were discussing honey display strategies.”
“And sex clubs,” I muttered.
“Ah, yes.” Dani nodded sagely. “The two go hand in hand.”
Brooks blinked, then lifted one brow with the weary caution of a man who knew better than to ask follow-up questions. “And on that note,” he said slowly. “I’ll go get us some coffee.”
“You don’t like coffee,” Dani mused, adjusting little Bailey’s beanie that made her look like a teddy bear.
“Then I’ll get you some coffee.”
Before he could fully escape, Dani grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and tugged him down for one of those wet, cinematic kisses, sandwiching the baby between them. Her black-lacquered nails scraped lightly along his beard, and he made a low noise in his throat that wasnot safe for farmers markets.
NSFFM.
