Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
She turns to him. “Hmm?”
“The honey. Do you have a way to harvest it? If—” He glances at me now, his eyebrows pulled together. Somehow, the boy manages to look so old and young at the same time. “If Dad’s okay with it, I mean.”
Beautiful timing.
Winnie also looks at me. I’m pretty sure I feel the hit like a hornet jammed in my ear.
Goddamn, this woman can speak whole volumes with her eyes alone.
“If it’s done safely and carefully, I won’t object,” I say.
“You can do it if you like,” she tells Colt. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“I meant you, Sugarbee,” I growl. “I wasn’t inviting my son.”
She blinks at me. Her emerald eyes dim, flashing me a dirty look.
I fold my arms. “They’re bees. They’re dangerous when they get riled up.”
“Not unless you’re allergic and you go swinging at their nests. They’re not Africanized killer bees.”
“They can still do damage.”
“Only if provoked.” Her smile drips sweetness, beguiling my son, who’s only just discovered puberty and pretty girls. “I’ll show you guys, okay? Just follow my lead. Or if you want, you can stand back and watch while I do it.”
“Do you have beekeeping equipment?” I ask, my arms still folded. It feels like a me-vs-them situation, but if Colt didn’t look at her with those harvest moon eyes, we wouldn’t be in this situation.
She nods. “Yes, actually. I found some in a shed by the garden. Someone must come by to check on them, huh?”
I shrug.
I guess they do.
Truthfully, I haven’t involved myself in the day-to-day beekeeping crap. That’s why I have a maintenance crew.
“Winnie, do you know what you’re doing?” I demand.
“Yes. Trust me. I checked and you have an extractor.” At my blank look, she sighs. “It separates the honey without damaging the comb. That way, the bees don’t need to rebuild after we mess with anything.”
“I see.” Barely, but that’s not the point. “I don’t feel fully comfortable with this.”
Am I being unreasonable?
She might be mad about bees, but I don’t know enough about her to trust my son and this strange woman around a whole active colony, all armed with stingers and bad attitudes.
Colt was stung a few times as a kid, so I know he’s not allergic. Still, I’ve heard stories of people who become allergic after being stung too many times, or just as life happens.
No way do I want to risk any nasty surprises.
“I get the hesitation,” Winnie says brightly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “No need to worry, I’ll do it myself. You guys can keep your distance.”
“Yeah!”
With Colt’s enthusiasm, there’s nothing else to do but follow her outside into the balmy evening sun. There’s a reason we called this place ‘Solitude’ and it lives up to its reputation.
As promised, there’s a shed tucked into the corner of the garden. She disappears inside before reemerging in a white suit complete with hood. There’s black mesh around her face and she’s wearing bulky gloves. She gives us a big thumbs-up.
“This is the super,” she explains, tapping the top of the first bee box she comes to. “Any excess honey the bees make goes in here.”
“Why there?” Colt asks.
“Most hives make extra honey, but we don’t want to grab too much. Did you know the average worker drone only lives for six weeks and makes about a twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in his entire life?” She tilts her head toward us but it’s impossible to see her expression behind the hood.
I’m sure she’s giddy.
Colt nods, awestruck.
My lips curl with irritation.
Just to check that she’s not talking out of her ass, I pull out my phone and do a quick search.
Dammit, she’s right.
Of course, she is.
I decide not to stroke her ego by telling her and shove my phone back in my pocket, folding my arms as I watch her.
Beside me, Colt stares like he’s watching the greatest show on Earth.
“It’s so cool how she isn’t scared,” he whispers.
I don’t know Winnie, but I know her well enough to say, “Cool or absolutely bonkers. Time will tell.”
“Dad, she’s just passionate. You could learn a thing or two. But what if she gets stung?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” I bite off.
Colt cups his hands over his mouth as she removes the first frame, which is so thick with gold bees it’s impossible to see anything underneath.
“Hey, Winnie!” he calls. “What happens if you get stung?”
“I’m not allergic, so nothing to worry about.” She shakes the frame, dislodging most of the bees back in the box. “I don’t mind. It hurts a little, but it’s not so bad, really. There are way worse things.”
Like a clown who leaves you so heartbroken you run hundreds of miles to find bees as a distraction?
I wonder.
There are so many little flying bugs surrounding her now. I can barely see what she’s doing, but she’s moving slowly, carefully. She doesn’t seem to mind the way they crawl all over her.