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Chapter One: Hattie
If one more alpha calls my heat “a little cramp,” I’m feeding him to my bees.
Gareth Tolley is sitting at my kitchen table, three bites into my honey cake like he already lives here, and he just said that shit. With crumbs on his lip and all.
“My mama says omegas get a little crampy sometimes,” he goes on, chewing with his mouth open. “Nothing a hot water bottle can’t fix. So if we get married, you’d keep all that to yourself, right? Out in the hive shed, maybe. You got a cot out there?”
I just stare at him. And he stares right back, all proud of himself, like his dumb self just solved my whole life for me.
“Gareth,” I say sweetly. “Did your mama also tell you to come here today?”
“She did, actually.” He perks right up. “She said you’re not getting any younger, and beggars can’t be choosers, so you’d probably say yes.”
Wow. I’m thirty-one years old. I have a cottage, my hives, the best honey in three valleys… and I’m a beggar now? Good to know.
I take the plate away from him. Then I take the piece of cake he’s holding right out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“Out.”
“But my mama…”
“Tell your mama,” I grit out, holding my door open, “I’d rather stay single till I’m a hundred and three than spend one more minute with her son.”
He stands slowly, dramatically sighing and shaking his head, then he looks back like someone took away his pet and not just cake. I slam the door behind him, lean against it, and that’s when I hear giggling under my window.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I yank the curtain open, and there they are, crouched in my lavender bush. Auntie Bess and Auntie Marigold. They’re not my actual aunts. They’re everybody’s aunts, and between the two of them, they’ve arranged half the marriages in this village… and ruined the other half.
“Well?” Auntie Bess calls up, not even a little bit ashamed. “How’d it go, baby?”
“You’re standing in my flowers,” I retort, crossing my arms.
“That boy has a good strong back,” Auntie Marigold jumps in, like that’s the point.
I roll my eyes. “He thinks my heat is a cramp, Auntie.”
They look at each other, and Auntie Bess sucks her teeth, shaking her head. “Men are men, Hattie.”
“Then I’m good, thanks.”
“Don’t be silly.” Auntie Marigold gets up, brushing lavender off her skirt. “Next week, we’re bringing the Pruitt boy.”
I gasp. “That one came with his mother when we went on a walk!”
“Aww, he loves his mama, that’s sweet.”
“Auntie, she held his hand the whole time!”
Auntie Bess waves that away like it’s nothing. “Next week. Wear your blue dress. And do something with your hair.” She makes a circling motion in the direction of my head.
My hair is done, thank you very much. I braided it this morning. But they’re already heading down my path arm in arm, arguing over who gets credit for my wedding, so I close the window and press my forehead to the glass.
Real talk? I love my life. I love my little cottage at the edge of the meadow, and my bees, even when they’re cranky. I love my candles and my salves and the way everything I own smells like beeswax.
