Page 14 of Beehives and Broken Heroes

“Hey, Brandon,” Cash said.

Brandon sauntered toward them in all his giant glory—long legs in blue jeans, a hunter-green flannel shirt over a tee all under a leather jacket, and a black Stetson cowboy hat tipped just so over his eyes. Allie whipped back around, her spine going stiff. Too late: he’d seen her and made eye contact.

“Sugar honey iced tea,” she swore under her breath.

Cash chuckled at her favorite acronym. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong?What’s wrong? Brandon was heading this way! That’s what was wrong.

“Sunshine,” Brandon said, his deep, bluesy timbre sending her insides a-quaking. He stood right next to her, his arm almost touching hers. He’d been calling her “sunshine” ever since the night at her aunt’s. She hated it, but it still sent tingles up her spine. She hated that too.

She glanced over at him, then slowly craned her head back to let her gaze travel up the open front of his jacket and over the hard planes of his chest under his fitted tee, up, up to his broad shoulders, and even further up to his dimpled chin, and finally to his light brown eyes shadowed by his hat. She hadn’t seen him this close up in a week or two, often scrambling to the back of her store or upstairs to her mother’s room in her aunt’s house at family dinners when she could without being obvious.

“Brandon.” Her voice came out strangled.

He seemed hesitant as he stared down at her.

No wonder, really. She’d done her level best to avoid him since December. Not that she’d managed it all that well. He showed up unexpectedly and was helpful—darn him. He’d be hauling off her mom’s donation to Goodwill, helping her aunt plant seedlings for her “garden” (she’d never had one before but made it sound like it was something she did yearly), doing dishes after Sunday dinners, moving things around the honey shop for them and doing whatever else needed doin’ in the store, bringing them pizza from Wicked Dough during the workday, chatting with her uncle Mark to keep him company, and now, apparently, lending a hand in construction.

And, well, once he was there, she didn’t want to be rude.

She’d found herself getting lax, and weak-kneed, in her avoid-all-men scheme, and she had recently decided to shore up. She was proud of herself for going two weeks without him—even if she did miss him sometimes—but that was probably just physical. She hardly knew the man, and hewasstinking gorgeous. And looks weren’t a basis for a good relationship. She thought of the photo of Millie and her dad she had hidden in a pair of ugly pants in her closet—all the respect it deserved.

His arm brushed her, and her heart rate picked up speed as excitement, nerves, and irritation whirled through her. She closed her eyes and thought of Heather Lynn. What was the first step in controlling her emotions again?

Right. Take a deep breath.

She breathed deep, the cold February air frosting her lungs, but she didn’t care. She needed air . . . lots of it. Her emotions ran riot. She was sure her heart would pump right out of her chest. Instead, she breathedBrandonin—he was standing right next to her—and froze, remembering one of the reasons she been avoiding him. Mercy be, he smelled delicious. Like manly soap, and pine, and bitter chocolate—was this what lumberjacks smelled like? Cuz yummmm. She blinked as he brought a to-go cup labeled “Choco Latte” up to his kissable lips and took a drink. Well, that explained the chocolate.

“Sugar honey ice tea, huh?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t even blink.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice so low the guys hadn’t heard it. It created an immediate intimacy that sent goose bumps up her arms.

“Good, thanks.” Was she blushing? She felt like she was blushing. She tugged at her scarf. “And you?” She held her breath—breathing wasn’t helping—and counted to ten.

His lips quirked up on one side, and she nearly toppled over as she went light-headed. He reached over to steady her. “Hey, there, you okay?”

“Are you blushing, Al?” Porter asked.

She whipped her gaze to Porter. “No, what? I’m not blushing. Why would I be blushing? It’s forty-seven degrees out here.”

Porter laughed. “Whoa, okay. Maybe ease up on the caffeine, firecracker.”

Ugh, she hated that nickname. The twins had called her that all through high school and every time they saw her since then.

Brandon chuckled.

Her hackles rose.

Step two. Identify the cause of the emotion.

Her gaze went to Brandon, then swept to Cash and the Slades and back again. Identify the cause. Done. It was bad enough she’d run into Brandon, but to do it with this particular audience. Nightmare.

What was Brandon doing here helping Cash, anyway? She understood why the twins were here—they were Cash’s friends—but Brandon was new to town. He didn’t have to be here. He didn’t have to help. Why was he so nice? And helpful? And thoughtful? And gorgeous?

A sudden urge came over her. She wanted to climb his six-foot-five-inch frame like a tree and kiss the life out of him. Right here. Right now. She didn’t care who saw. The thought sent a shudder through her, and she took a tiny step away from him. What was she thinking? This was ridiculous. They’d be terrible together. He was too serious. She was too crazy. He was too old for her. And the nicest thing he’d ever said to her was that she was “adequate.” And besides, she was done with men.

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