I trace the rim of mine. “She was… stubborn. Determined. She took care of the bees like they were children. And she taught me that everything, every flower, every shift in the wind, every drop of honey, has a story.”
He smiles. “Sounds like you inherited that.”
“Inherited… what?”
“Seeing stories in things,” he says. “Caring about the small details. Naming your honey jars. Paying attention.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “You think that’s… good?”
“I think it’s rare,” he says softly. “And beautiful.”
Our eyes meet. Longer than they should.
Longer than is safe.
There’s a curious warmth in his gaze that sees me not as the beekeeper next door or the quiet girl at the market, but as someone worth looking at.
My heart flutters fast as a startled wing.
I’m the one who looks away first, fiddling with the handle of my mug. “What about you? What were you like as a kid?”
He chuckles. “Nerdy.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You should. I knew the scientific names of farm animals before I knew multiplication tables.”
I laugh. “Of course you did.”
“And I brought home every injured creature I found,” he adds. “Stray dogs. Limping raccoons. A goat with mange.”
“A goat?”
“My mother drew the line at the goat,” he says. “But only barely.”
I rest my chin on my hand. “I can picture that.”
His gaze flicks down to my lips.
It’s barely noticeable. But enough to make my pulse skip.
Wyatt’s leg brushes mine under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
Neither do I.
I sip my chamomile tea to calm myself. Wyatt mirrors the motion, watching me over the rim of his blue-rimmed mug, studying more than just my expression.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the tension sparking between us, “what made you want to be a vet? Besides saving every wounded creature in a five-mile radius.”
His mouth curves in a soft smile. “You mean besides my parents begging me to pick a career with significantly less manure?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Besides that.”
He exhales, gaze drifting. “There was an old mare on our neighbor’s property,” he says. “I was ten. She had a hoof infection, bad one. Most people thought she was too old to bother saving.”
My heart twinges. People think the same about hives that stop producing.
“The vet who came…” Wyatt softens. “He was kind. Steady. He talked to her like she mattered. Cleaned the wound, wrapped it, made a plan.”
