Page 12 of The Sweetest Thing
But all the talkingdidmake Dane quick with kick-ass comebacks. Dane could derail one of their father’s tirades with a few sentences. Their father would puff up, stutter, go red in the face and explode before storming off. Leif had to give it to his brother, he knew how to set a person off.
Kind of like the effect Dane had on Tansy Hill. Leif got the whole pissing off their dad thing but he didn’t get pissing off Tansy. She was cute. Single. A beekeeper. His brother’s personal life was nonexistent, so why was Dane chasing off the one woman he actually noticed?Dumbass.
Not that he cared. He didn’t. His brother and his father were both gigantic pains in his rear. At least, when his dad was married, he left Leif alone. Dane never left him alone. Ever. He was always home, always—Leif was having to get creative when he snuck out at night.
Dane thought he was being all noble, saying crap like how he’d never give up on Leif. But Leif wasn’t an idiot. People left. They always did. Dane would give up on him and he’d leave. Leif figured he might as well hurry along the process by making Dane’s life hell and save them both some time.
He watched Dane put down one bunch of lettuce, pause, then trade it out—looking more uncertain than ever. Some role model.Dumbass.
CHAPTER THREE
“IJUSTCAN’Twrap my mind around it.” Aunt Camellia looked sincerely perplexed.
“All marketing, Aunt Camellia.” Tansy smiled, popping the perfect palm-size bee-, honeycomb-and flower-shaped soaps from the silicon mold and onto a waiting pan. Each soap’s smooth surface had a milky, pearlescent quality that was as pleasing to look at as the soap was to use.
“Sensual Honey Tea.” Aunt Mags’s eyebrows rose on her forehead—but she was smiling. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“The supplier said it was quite popular.” Aunt Camellia put the pamphlet facedown on the countertop. “She thought we’d want to sell it in the shop.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Of course, she did.” Tansy took the brochure from her aunt. “Goodness.” The image of a woman submerged in an oil-and-milk bath was...eye-catching. “It’s her job to sell you so you’ll sell her product. They’re trying to make tea sexy.” The tagline, “Awaken Your Sensual Side with the Sweetness of Milk and Honey,” had Tansy smiling. There was a bulleted list of all the health benefits the tea provided. She paused on the last one. “Is womb wellness a thing?”
Astrid made a choking-laughing sound. “What? Really?”
“Well, I never.” Aunt Camellia snatched the brochure away. “Here, Lord Byron. You don’t have to steal this one. You can have it.”
“You can have it,” Lord Byron repeated, but made no move to take the brochure.
“See, even he knows it’s nonsense.” Aunt Mags laughed. “Here I thought you were a dumb bird.”
Lord Byron squawked.
“Don’t listen to her, sweet boy,” Aunt Camellia crooned. “She’s still angry that you stole her hairpins.”
“I’ll dispose of it,” Astrid offered, taking the brochure.
“How do these look?” Tansy asked, holding out the tray of soap for inspection. She knew the missing hairpins was still a sore subject for Auntie Mags. Unlike Aunt Camellia, Auntie Mags wasn’t an animal person. Then again, Auntie Mags was barely apeopleperson.
“They’re lovely,” Astrid chimed in, nodding at the tray. “And they smell divine.”
Aunt Camellia swore the fresh goat’s milk made all the difference. Whatever it was, it was the only soap Tansy used. Not the fancy molded ones of course—those were merchandise. Once, when Aunt Camellia had pneumonia, they’d run out of soap and they’d been forced to use store-bought. Never again. The sisters had stayed up all weekend making batch after batch of soap, following Aunt Camellia’s recipe to the letter. Of course, Aunt Camellia’s always turned out better than anything they could make. Rosemary was convinced Camellia put a secret ingredient into the mixture when they weren’t looking. Astrid defended their aunt, saying her years of practice had given her process a finish they had yet to master. Tansy suspected both of her sisters were right.
“Aunt Camellia?” Tansy asked, standing aside for Aunt Camellia’s inspection.
Camellia Hill took her reputation for making moisture-rich honey-infused soap seriously. It followed that if a Honey Hill Farms embossed ribbon was on the soap, the soap had to meet her aunt’s exacting standards. Standards that had been set and passed down from generation to generation—in the Hill Bee Log. The Bee Log was full of anecdotes and observations, gains and losses, farming techniques they’d used for over one hundred years, gardening and beekeeping secrets, and all the honey recipes the Hills lived and breathed by—and kept well guarded. Over the years, Poppa Tom’s Bee Girls had referred to the Bee Log often and done the best they could to hold on to their family philosophy.
Aunt Camellia leaned forward to peer over Tansy’s shoulder. “Perfect. And I like the new flower molds, too. Those details are lovely.”
“Hopefully the shoppers will think so, too.” Today she, Astrid and Nicole Svoboda—their part-time help—were taking the Honey Hill Farms van, chock-full of inventory, to San Antonio.
Behind her, the kitchen table was piled high with several stacks of packaged homemade Honey Hill Farms soap. This batch was all that was left.
Tansy surveyed the table. “I’d say we’re good for the day.” The farmer’s market at the wildly trendy Pearl Brewery in San Antonio might be a drive, but they always came out ahead financially. Normally they sold out before noon. But this time, they’d pulled a near all-nighter and doubled their inventory. The lotions, candles, honey and honey butters were already packed up and ready to go.
“Even so, I bet we’ll sell out.” Nicole had arrived long before sunup with fresh doughnuts and pastries for their drive. “I love the smell of lavender.” She breathed deeply, tucking a strand of bright pink hair up and into her sloppy bun. Nicole was all about self-expression. She said changing up her hair color or adding a new tattoo was part of her journey of self-discovery. It didn’t hurt that the hair and tattoos really irritated her very traditional, very opinionated, very gossipy mother. She stretched, the tiger tattoo on the inside of her left arm stretching, too. “It’s so soothing I could curl up right here and take a nap.”
It was true. Lavender was one of the key ingredients in their best-selling soaps. The batches of lavender-honey and lemon, which had lemon zest on the surface, and the ever-popular lavender-honey and rosemary, with bits of fresh lavender and rosemary swirled in, were cut into tidy bars. The classic lavender-honey soap and the extra mild goat’s milk and honey soap—which Tansy was currently packaging—were poured into molds, and sold in packs of three.
Amidst the cellophane wrap, wide-width Honey Hill Farms embossed ribbons, and rolls of biodegradable Honey Hill Farms stickers, Nicole kept up a steady stream of chatter. During the week, Nicole helped her mother out at Honey Hair on Main, the only beauty shop in town, which meant she had the inside scoop on anyone and anything happening in their community.
