“Great, isn’t it?” he asked.
Bradley offered a hesitant smile. “This has certainly been a memorable interview,” he said. He poked at his arms, the fingers sticking, and didn’t want to think about the state of his clothes. His glasses were foggy, and it wasn’t from the temperature. He was a mess. A horny, sticky mess who really should get home, clean himself up, and call his boyfriend.
“Shower?” asked Shay. “Honey is sticky business.”
* * * *
Against his better judgment, Bradley took the shower. He always kept a spare change of clothes in his car—just jeans and a solid-color T-shirt—because he liked to be prepared. Once, he’d interviewed a woman about her pet chicken, which had promptly shat on him the moment he’d picked it up. Bradley knew it was dull to be so prepared, but he was the kind of person who learned a lesson the first time.
He thought. He emerged from the guest bathroom without his glasses, still drying his hair, and ran into Shay. Hands grabbed his shoulders and kept him from falling. Shay was so close, even near-sighted Bradley could see him, the intention in his gaze. He’d had a shower, too, and smelled of fresh soap.
“You have anything I can clean my glasses with?” asked Bradley, pulling back. Shay let him go.
“Sure, under the sink.” Shay promptly ducked into the guest bathroom and presented his ass, which looked good in blue plaid pajama bottoms.
Bradley set his jaw. He could still get out of here and call his boyfriend. He’d have to wait until eleven or twelve anyway, considering the time difference.
It was seven hours ahead in France. Right now, Lance was probably sleeping. And Bradley was dancing a fine line on an interview. One wrong move could cost him both his job and his boyfriend. He backed off until Shay set a bottle of something on the counter and emerged.
“You’re a gentleman,” he said, and gave Bradley a wicked grin.
Bradley swallowed, darted into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. So maybe he hadn’t taken the opportunity to smack Shay’s behind or whatever Shay had thought. But he was at work, Shay should understand that. He scrubbed hard at his glasses until he’d gotten the honey off, then emerged to find Shay at the kitchen table, fresh coffee poured. Bradley’s sticky notepad and pencil sat next to a steaming mug on the table.
“I hope that’s decaf,” he said, sliding into the wooden chair.
“You might not want to drink it then,” said Shay.
Bradley glanced at the time on his phone. Nine-forty. If he wanted to stay up until midnight and call Lance when he woke in the morning, real coffee would help. It had been a long day, and resisting Shay was making him more tired than usual.
“Have any sugar?” he asked.
As Shay got up to find it, Bradley carefully turned the pages of his notepad until he’d found some that weren’t sticky. He had a spare pencil, too, which was coming in handy right now. He thought he was prepared for anything until Shay plopped a five-pound bag of granulated sugar on the table, opened it, and stuck in a spoon.
“That work?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Bradley. He added the sugar and stirred, feeling very awkward with Shay’s gaze on him. “As fun as spinning honey was, I should get something more substantive for the article. Where did you come up with Hexabee Honey?”
“Where do you think?” asked Shay. “Hexagon like the shape of the combs. Bee for bees. I stuck them together—I’m not that imaginative.”
“Your logo is…nice.”
Shay snorted. “It’s a yellow hexagon.”
“More amber, I think,” said Bradley, then looked up and grinned at him. Shay didn’t seem to mind.
“I’m a very small business. I do the jars of honey, the comb in a jar, and chunks of comb otherwise. I’ve got someone who buys my wax for some sort of balm—she’s also at the farmers’ market—and that’s about it. Really, I mostly sell because what else am I going to do with it?”
Bradley was going to change that bit to something about feeling connected to the community and take it out of quotes. He knew how to make a person look good—or bad, if he was spiteful, though his boss didn’t allow it—even if they weren’t good at talking themselves up.
“Are bees very challenging?”
“Eh, I learned from the internet mostly. The maintenance is probably more than most people want. You need space and to check on them a lot. Make sure nothing’s wrong, dust for varroa mites, that sort of thing. There’s a bit of cost involved. It’s not for everyone.”
“Not to mention the stings,” said Bradley.
“For something as good as honey, you ought to be able to take a few stings.”
“I’ll try to make that sound like you’re not being insensitive to people who are allergic when I write that up.”
“I’m not being insensitive. I’m being…introspective. Philosophical.” When Bradley raised an eyebrow at him, Shay tried to dig himself deeper. “Impart bee-inspired wisdom. It has to have given me some life-lesson, right? I won’t look good to your readers otherwise.”
“You won’t look good to the Local Times’ readers or you won’t look good to me?” asked Bradley without looking up from his paper. He was scribbling random words at this point and he felt his face grow hot, but he couldn’t stop himself from pushing Shay to say what he meant.
“So would you like me more if I’m wise?” asked Shay.
Bradley glanced up, just a little, to see him grinning. Shay wasn’t embarrassed at all. Bradley swallowed, set his pencil down, and met his eye. “It’s not going to affect the article, if that’s what you’re wondering. I do a good job regardless of whether I like the person I’m interviewing.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” said Shay, and Bradley tried not to squirm in his chair. “Sucks, though, that you got stuck with my story on a Friday evening.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t have anything else going on.” Bradley needed to steer the conversation back to the honey business or he needed to leave. “Any future plans? Expansion, maybe?”
“Tonight? My plans changed when you showed up.”
Bradley pushed his chair back but didn’t stand. This was going too far, which was a shame. While he’d liked his time here—and he definitely liked Shay—he needed to end up back in his own bed tonight. Alone. At a decent hour.
“I meant for your business. But really—do you make a move on every guy or just the ones who show interest in your hobby?”
He’d hoped confronting it head on would get Shay to back off, but instead Shay leaned forward on the table, swallowing up the distance Bradley had put between them when he’d backed up. He could swear the temperature in the house had risen now, too, and Bradley’s heart pounded hard in his chest.
“You think I didn’t notice how tight your pants got?” asked Shay, and Bradley’s breath caught. “How you get awkward whenever I push you a little? It’s cute. Not often I’m so instantaneously compatible with someone.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I won’t tell your boss.”
Bradley licked his lips, mouth dry. The shower hadn’t helped him calm down at all, and now here he was, in Shay’s house, flirting with him when he should be conducting an interview. It was late and the end of a long, unsatisfying week, and he really should get home before he did anything he’d regret. He’d reached the point where he had to leave now or he wouldn’t leave until the morning. He stood.
“That’s not it, and thanks,” he said, the words tumbling out in a mess as he grabbed up his pencil, pad, and bag of sticky work clothes. At least his tie was safe in his car.
Shay got to his feet, hurt in his eyes, as Bradley moved toward the door. “You don’t like me.”
Bradley almost laughed. He turned back at the door. Shay stood so close, he was clearly hoping Bradley would relent, lean in for a kiss. See where it led.
“That’s not it either. Best interview I’ve had. But I have to get home.” Bradley hesitated. “My boyfriend’s expecting a call.”
“I could say the same about—”
“Don’t,” said Shay. “Thanks for the piece in the paper. Glad you’re writing it. Night.”
He didn’t walk Bradley out to his car, which was probably for the best, even if Bradley was secretly disappointed about it.
* * * *
He couldn’t get ahold of Lance, despite trying four times before he went to bed. Bradley numbed himself with a glass of wine and a superhero film, slept in, and tried to write his article on Hexabee Honey for two straight hours without any luck. He called every hour Saturday morning until he got so concerned he couldn’t reach Lance and so frustrated he couldn’t even get the first sentence on his piece that he decided he needed some air.
His apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from downtown, and the temperature was perfect even if the sky was overcast. He tugged on shirt and jeans and tried to clear his mind as he walked down stretches of weedy sidewalk. It was eerily quiet out until he reached the river, something he’d noticed more recently, like kids weren’t playing anymore. Maybe it was just his mood. Bradley reached the path by the river and followed it into the park where the farmers’ market was held.
It was definitely louder here, families shuffling about, people with their dogs and bags and strollers. Bradley wandered around, bought a pastry at a bakery’s table, and kept walking. The atmosphere began to recharge him, the excitement all around, people chatting and positive. He breathed the crisp air off the river, the smell of the one food truck this town had, the delicious scent of coffee and bread, and finally felt himself begin to relax.
Maybe he was working himself too hard. He stepped aside to try Lance again. Nothing.
While he was here he might as well pick up something for lunch. He bought a few ripe tomatoes, some lettuce and peppers, fresh bakery bread, and a homemade spread of some sort. He saw a table selling lip balm and figured that was where Shay sold his wax, then decided he ought to leave before running into the man. Unfortunately, when he turned, he looked right at Shay.
For a moment, Bradley thought he could still escape, since there were three people gawking at the jars of honey, but Shay motioned him over. He considered being rude, then relented. It wasn’t as though Shay could try much in the midst of so many people, anyway.
“…just wildflower honey at the moment,” Shay told a customer as Bradley approached. Bradley couldn’t help but notice Shay wasn’t winking at any of the people interested in his honey. “I only have a few hives.”
“Do you have a buy-X-many-get-a-discount deal?” asked a second customer.
The third picked up a jar filed with comb and a jar of regular honey and then dug around for money.
“Alas, I am not a supermarket. All prices as listed.” Shay didn’t seem disappointed as the customer decided to walk away. He made change for the other two and then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head as he appraised Bradley. “Looking casual today.”
It was as casual as Bradley had been last night, with his spare change of clothes. Shay, however, looked almost the same—different plaid shirt over what was hopefully a clean white shirt. Bradley glanced nervously toward the river. The farmers’ market wasn’t so large someone he knew couldn’t find him. He knew a lot of people, mostly from his work at the Local Times. He reminded himself again that Shay couldn’t really do much. Flirt maybe. Bradley worried that was bad enough.
“It’s Saturday,” said Bradley.
Shay grinned. “Oh, you don’t work every day? How’s the article coming along?”
“I slept in and came down here, so I haven’t gotten to it yet.” Bradley set his purchases down at the end of the table and dug around in his pocket for the tiny notebook and half-size pen he kept with him. “Although, since we got cut short last night, if you don’t mind…”
Shay sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His smile disappeared. “Nowhere. Hexabee Honey has no plans and is going nowhere. Do I look like I know what I want for my future?”
Bradley eyed him. That was a bit of an intimate confession, and he had no desire to hear Shay’s problems. Well, not here, at least. Meeting up for a beer and having a chat had a completely different sound to it, though—one he definitely shouldn’t indulge.
“Current plans being kept a secret,” said Bradley as he wrote.
“That makes it sound like I’m cooking up a brilliant scheme.”
“I am pretty good at my job,” said Bradley, not looking up. “Want to give me any boring facts? How much honey you jar, how much you sell, how many bees you have, that sort of thing.”
Shay listed off approximates and talked to a couple more people, one who bought the smallest jar of honey he sold. Then someone appeared with a camembert she had purchased at a different table and wanted to know about pairing it with the honey. Bradley became increasingly aware of how much time he was spending here, chatting with Shay, and decided he needed to wrap it up. Get back home. Actually put in some work on this article.
“Days at the market are unpredictable,” said Shay as the customer left with a plastic tub containing a chunk of honeycomb. “Some days, like today, are very good. Others not so much. I’ve sold as much as a third of my stock one day and as little as none on others. Those are the bad days. Usually, it’s a few each time I show up. Something to do.”
Bradley scribbled that down and decided that was going to be his last question, whether or not it should be. He could wring enough words out of whatever he had. He replaced his tiny pen and notebook and nodded to the honey.
“Any of that the stuff we spun?” he asked. He couldn’t resist.
Shay smiled. “Sorry, no. Haven’t had a chance to jar it up yet. I was going to save one for you, but here. Take your pick. As thanks.” He paused. “For the article.”
Bradley opened his mouth to respond but his phone rang. He pulled it out, motioned to Shay he needed a moment, and walked away from the string of farmers’ market tables toward an empty spot of mowed lawn in front of the river. It wasn’t so noisy here, and he could talk without being overheard.
“Bradley Kim, the Local Times.”
“Brad, you need to get a second phone,” said a voice that filled Bradley simultaneously with relief and annoyance.
“You going to pay for it, Lance?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—two seconds on the phone with you, and we’re arguing again. Can we not?”
“I hope so,” said Bradley, disappointed. He’d been worried about Lance, who had originally planned on calling more often, yet the first issue was his fault. Again. This time they were separated was tearing him apart. He missed Lance intensely, and yet part of him wondered what would happen if Lance never came back. If he decided to take a job with someone else on this business trip and just…stay there in France.
“Good. Look, I don’t have much time, just wanted to tell you I love you.”
“You too. Been lonely without you here.”
Lance paused, and Bradley tried to make out the random noise on the other end of the line but couldn’t. Their conversation usually wasn’t this awkward—not deep, yes, but not nonexistent, either.
“They working you hard there?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Lance seemed to prefer talking about himself. “Yeah, not much time for anything but eating,” he said. “Not a bad place, though. Had this really good cheese tray thing on a wooden board the other night, and I thought of you.”
“Why?” asked Bradley, confused. Associating cheese with him was weird. It wasn’t his favorite food, nor did he really even have a preference when shopping.
“Wasn’t that the article you were working on when I was leaving?” asked Lance.
Bradley decided not to mention he’d been working on the piece about the Cheese for Charity tasting a good month before Lance had flown out. It would probably only st
art a fight.
“Around then,” he said instead.
“Anyway, it was delicious. It looked too simple to be good, but damn was it good. Had it with a bit of wine. Very romantic.”
Well, Lance was thinking of him while eating romantic food, which was probably a good sign. Bradley wanted it to be a good sign. He didn’t know what to say, though, but Lance kept talking.
“Anyway, I’m not sure how much time I’ll have anymore. Probably I’m not going to get a moment to call you from here on out, sorry. What with the time difference…”
“Right,” said Bradley as he trailed off. He knew Lance thought it was too much to have to call every day, but apparently every-other was too much for him now, too. Bradley was disappointed but not truly surprised. And it was only a few more days until Lance was back, anyway. “I’ll see you at the airport, then. I’ll be the nerdy good-looking one in the glasses.”
He waited for Lance to tease back, but he paused for so long Bradley would have thought the call had dropped if not for the background noise.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Lance. “I’m not a kid. I can get myself home.”
“It’s not about that,” said Bradley.
But Lance’s voice grew firmer. “Don’t bother. It’s a lot of time out of your day. I have to go now—being told I’m late again.”
“Love you,” said Bradley, but he didn’t know if it got through. The call had ended.
He pulled his phone from his ear, pocketed it, and stared at the river for a time. Lance had never been an overly affectionate person, but his calls had gotten increasingly short over the days; his temper, too. Bradley knew him to get this way when he was stressed—and he imagined this trip was stressful—but it wore on him. Usually even when he was grumpy Lance would go out with him, have sex, eat a meal with Bradley. There was no opportunity for him to do that while overseas, which was probably where the heightened tension was coming from. Still, it ruined Bradley’s mood. Even the sounds of people enjoying the farmers’ market didn’t seem to touch him.
Sweeter Than Honey Page 2
