Little Bee.
He hasn’t called me that in years, and I’m caught in the crossfire between elation that he remembers the nickname he gave me and the sense he still thinks of me as that little girl. One who is defenseless and weak.
“I’m not a child,” I counter, glossing over his kindness and concern.
He pins his gaze to my eyes, before his shoulders sag, like he’s accepting defeat. His gaze falls like he can’t fight the weight any longer. His glance slides down the slope of my nose, catching on my lips a second, before dipping to my throat.
I watch as his rolls.
There’s something different in the way Cort observes me. Not lewd like Henry’s disinterested review, but more like Cort is memorizing me, etching my details into a sketch book. The intensity of his eyes sends heat over my flesh while goosebumps rise.
“I remember,” he says.
All the air whooshes out of me.
Not that I ever thought Cort forgot what happened between us, I just didn’t think he’d ever mention it. Like it never happened if we didn’t talk about it. However, my memory is a scrapbook of that moment.
His hands on me. His mouth against my throat. The rush to get somewhere I cannot get with speed. Without a strong connection. And as much as I thought I was connected to Cort in some inexplicable way, I wasn’t.
It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.
With his intense gaze on me, I look away from him and pick up my drink, needing a sip of something bubbly, something that will tickle my throat and reset my brain to the present situation.
Cortland Haven is sitting next to me.
“Well.” I pause, setting my glass back down. “Thank you for your intervention. I appreciate you.”
Cort chuffs, holding up his hand for Maggie’s attention. He forms a V with his forefinger and the middle one, making a peace sign in greeting to her, but when two shot glasses full of amber liquor appear in front of us, I turn my head toward Cort again.
“Shots? Really?”
“Seems like you could use one.” He taps his short glass against the lip of mine. “Take the sting out of you.”
The sting?This guy has some nerve, and rising to the bait, I pick up my glass, not bothering to sniff the liquid, and down what I quickly learn is straight bourbon.
Holy F-that burns. I sputter instantly, choking on the fire trailing down my esophagus.
Thankfully, Cort doesn’t laugh before tipping back his own glass and swallowing in one smooth motion.
“Thought bees liked a little smoke.”
“Smoke, yes. But fire, no.” I cough one more time. As anamateur beekeeper, I know a few things about bees. Smoke is intended to calm them, not set them ablaze. And I don’t need a blaze of glory in my life. Flames flicker and burn out.
“Bees prefer sweeter things.”Iwant tender moments and private jokes and meaningful touches. Something long-lasting and personal. Intimate.
Cort continues to watch me before he tips his chin upward. “Like that lotion you used on me.”
“My honey balm?”
“Is that what you call it?”
“I haven’t come up with a better name.” The combination of honey, beeswax, shea butter and grapeseed oil is the perfect texture for massages. Smooth and creamy, it works easily into someone’s skin, causing my hands to glide over tight muscles and loose flesh. Not that Cort is loose anywhere.
He doesn’t respond to my lack of creativity. Instead, his back stiffens and I’m about to ask if he’s having back spasms, a possible side effect from the massage yesterday morning, when he slides off the stool beside me.
“Thanks for the drink,” he mutters.
With long confident strides, he steps away from me, and I’m so confused, especially since he’s the one who bought me the shot.
