I was two minutes away from yanking the knit cap off the greyhound napping beneath the neighboring table.
“PS: these labels are adorable,” Parker said, hands wrapped around a jar of my wildflower honey. “I don’t know much about honey beyond the fact that it makes one hell of a hydrating exfoliant, but this is the prettiest I’ve ever seen. It looks like you bottled sunshine.”
I laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s the goal. Though, right now it feels more like bottled freezer burn.”
She grinned, setting the jar back down with care. “Seriously though, the color gradient thing you do with your setup is genius. People are gonna walk by and buy three jars just because it’ll look good on their counter.”
I felt my face flame. Parker had this way of complimenting that felt more like she was just stating the facts. And it didn’t matter how well she knew the person.
Just yesterday, I had seen her lean over to another one of our classmates, mid-lecture, to inform her that she had “movie star eyebrows” before going right back to her notes.
“Aesthetics are everything, darling,” she added with dramatic flair.
“Well, thank you. And in case I forgot to mention it, thank you for being here.” I paused to readjust the little chalkboard sign with my flavors. “My friend, Xan, usually helps me out, but there’s a big book signing event today at Smutty Buddies, and they needed all hands on deck. Apparently, the line was around the block already at nine.”
Parker shrugged. “Makes sense. Romance novels and Valentine’s Day weekend. Maybe I’ll stop by on my way out of town.”
She picked up another jar, this one fireweed, the deep rosy gold catching the light. “Have you ever thought about doing skincare with this?”
I paused mid-reach for a tasting stick. “I would loveto. Believe me, it’s at the top of my list. I started with soaps, but as of now, I don’t have the bandwidth for more.”
Or the budget.
“And what wouldmorelook like to you? You know, if you did have the bandwidth?”
“Face masks, body butters, lip balms.”
Parker set the jar down and rocked forward in her boots. “What if you had a little bit of help?”
I twisted my lips. “I couldn’t afford it.”
She grinned. “I’m doing an independent study this term in cosmetic chemistry and my advisor is letting me develop a small-batch line of products for my final project. I’ve got full access to the university’s lab, so if you’re cool with it, I’d love to do some experiments with your honey.”
My heart stuttered a little. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. Just think about it. Local, raw ingredients from a women-owned brand. People would love it.”
As she spoke, I found myself watching her more than listening—cataloging every shift in her expression. The way her shoulders squared when she talked, the quick flash of nerves she tried to smooth over with enthusiasm, the brightness in her eyes when she talked about people loving a hypothetical product like it had already been decided.
“We could make a honey-based cleansing balm, maybe a massage cream, something luxurious,” she continued, hands moving now, sketching ideas in the air. “I would credit you, obviously, and you could sell the finished products, assuming you want them.”
I swallowed, excitement buzzing low and electric in my chest. She wasn’t just pitching a project; she was inviting me into it.
I looked around the booth—at the honeycomb display Xan had helped me build over the holiday break, at the rows and rows of jarred honey and my freshly printed business cards. It was small, but it was mine. And the idea of it growing into something more . . .
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out faster than I expected. “But I want to be involved in the testing phase, too. It’s been a while since I took a chemistry class, but I want to know exactly what’s going into every product.”
Parker’s smile went wide, the kind that made her pierced nose crinkle. “We can start small, just one or two products. And if it turns out well—”
“We’ll go from there,” Ifinished for her.
I slipped back into market mode when a small group of customers wandered over, and right at the front were Miles and Myron. I recognized them instantly, two of Rose City’s longest-standing residents, hands forever intertwined, smiles just as familiar.
The unlikely pair had been one of the first gay couples to get married in Oregon, and just recently, they had celebrated their sixtieth anniversary together. They also supplied the lavender I used from the field behind their house.
In between ringing people up and answering questions about the differences between orange blossom and wildflower, I caught up with them in fragments. They asked after the bees and my brother, and I listened intently as Miles regaled me with a saga about Myron’s latest cooking fiasco.
Eventually, we said our goodbyes, but only after they made me promise to join them for afternoon tea next week.Twist my arm.If Miles wanted to force feed me his famous lavender scones, who was I to fight him?
