Like Bees to Honey, page 1
Praise for Sasha Summers
Sasha Summers knows how to write a romance that will keep you reading into the night.
—Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author
Like Bees to Honey
Sasha Summers
Dedicated to Lizzie Bailey, whose spirit and determination are always an inspiration! You’re a queen bee, lady!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Granny Hill’s Brown Butter Honey Cookies
CHAPTER ONE
“WHAT IN THE WORLD?” Camellia Hill read over the weekly store sales flyer and winced. “Sugar-free sugar-cookie-flavored coffee creamer?” She shuddered. “I don’t know how anyone tolerates that low-calorie, no-flavor stuff as it is. But then they go and add that artificial sweetener and flavoring? All those chemicals can’t be good for the taste buds. Not to mention the body.” Her mother had had a simple philosophy: if it was made in a laboratory or manufactured in a warehouse, don’t eat it. Growing up, their house had always been full of good, homemade food. Camellia tried to keep it that way. “I don’t think I’ll be using this coupon.”
Leif Knudson grinned at her. “People buy that stuff because most of them can’t cook like you can. They don’t know what real food tastes like.”
“He has a point.” Her niece Astrid pushed their grocery cart alongside them. “It’s sad, really.”
“It is,” Camellia agreed. “How good could your morning be if that’s what you’re putting in your coffee?” Camellia was a “one teaspoon of sugar and healthy dollop of cream in her coffee” woman.
“I don’t drink coffee so...” Leif shrugged.
“I didn’t when I was sixteen, either.” She patted the boy’s cheek. “Now? I can’t imagine going without it.”
“I mostly have Pop-Tarts or cereal or frozen waffles or something easy.” Leif paused, frowning. “Guess none of that’s real food, either, huh?”
“No.” Camellia was horrified at the thought of Leif eating those things for breakfast. “Remind me to make up some sausage rolls and biscuits and cinnamon pull-apart bread for you to take home.”
Leif had eaten enough dinners with them for Camellia to see how much the boy could pack away. He was all long limbs, knobby knees and Adam’s apple, but teen boys had magical metabolisms. Camellia could barely remember the days when she had anything that resembled a metabolism. She smoothed her blue-and-white floral-print dress over her rounded hips and skimmed over the sheet of coupons. “I can’t use any of these.”
“Wait? No coupons?” Astrid regarded her with exaggerated surprise, pressing a hand to her chest. Camellia was known for her love of couponing—and her sister and nieces loved teasing her for it. “Are you sure? Does this mean...we’re going rogue?”
Camellia grinned. “That’s me.” She giggled—out of all the Hill women, she was the least likely to go rogue.
Leif laughed, too.
“At least we have our list to guide us.” Astrid sighed, still hamming it up. “All is not lost.”
Leif kept on laughing.
“Didn’t you request some honey brittle?” Camellia asked her niece. Honey brittle was Astrid’s favorite treat—she could eat a whole tin in one sitting.
Astrid stopped. “I’m teasing, you know that.” She stooped and wrapped her slender arms around Camellia, hugging her tight. “And, yes, please, on the honey brittle. I’ll help, of course.”
“Not that I mind being called rogue.” Camellia gave her niece a quick peck on the cheek. “It makes me sound like a superhero. What would my superpower be? I wonder.”
Leif didn’t ponder his suggestion long. “No one bakes like you. Maybe superbaker?”
“Flatterer. That’s why I can’t say no to you.” Camellia smiled at the boy. “And why I’m making four dozen cookies for you to take to the Junior Beekeepers meeting tonight.” She glanced at the slim gold watch strapped to her wrist and sighed. “And why we need to pick up the pace. Leif, you get heavy whipping cream—none of that half-and-half stuff, either. Astrid, go get the flour—make sure it’s the all—”
“All-purpose flour.” Astrid nodded. “I know. There is no substitution.” She hooked arms with Leif. “Let me give you a rundown of the no substitutions list. It’ll help for future shopping trips.”
Camellia watched the two of them heading off, content. Leif’s request for her brown butter honey cookies had been awkward and bumbling, and it’d touched her too much for her to refuse. Leif wasn’t a Hill, but he held a special place in her heart. He wouldn’t remember, of course, he’d been a baby. But some of her most treasured memories were when he was an infant. Changing his diapers, reading him bedtime stories, watching him take his first steps and kissing away his boo-boos until he was smiling again. For a precious sliver of time, she’d loved him as her own. When her relationship with his father abruptly ended, her time with Leif ended, too. She’d grieved for the boy—oh so much.
But he was back now—in her life and her heart. Since Leif’s big brother, Dane, began courting Camellia’s other niece Tansy, Leif had become a fixture in the Hill home. Dane said Leif was a totally different boy there, happy and carefree and everything a sixteen-year-old boy should be. At home? Well, Camellia knew things weren’t easy for him or Dane. Their father tended to be on the scoundrel side of things.
Speak of the devil. There, walking toward her was the man himself. Harald Knudson. Years ago, her heart would have been bouncing around inside her chest and she’d have been all weak in the knees and tongue-tied. She wasn’t the same naive, trusting woman who blindly jumped in—heart first—that she’d once been. And she had Harald Knudson to thank for that.
Still, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever set eyes on. He wore his age well, just as proud and upright as he’d been as a young man. He was fit and trim, no paunch or hunch to his shoulders. The lines that bracketed his clear blue eyes were, to Camellia, an improvement. He had aged—just right. Like a fine wine, her sister, Mags, would say.
“Miss Camellia Hill.” Harald’s voice rolled over her. His gaze fixed on her face, those blue, blue eyes holding a familiar spark of enthusiasm.
More like mischief. “Good day, Mr. Knudson.” Camellia congratulated herself on keeping her tone casual and bland. There were times, like now, she wished she was more like her sister. Magnolia was the master of intimidation. With one cocked red eyebrow and a few well-delivered barbs, Mags could have someone shaking in their boots—even someone as self-important and egotistical as Harald Knudson.
“Did you paint those galoshes?” he asked, his gaze lingering as his eyes slid over her rain boots and up her thighs and hips.
She’d always been the short, funny, jovial Hill—a “what you see is what you get” sort of woman. And that included her love of food—preparing it and eating it. Curves and all, Camellia was comfortable in her own skin. But she wasn’t feeling all that comfortable being on the receiving end of such an openly admiring look. Or the stirring of Harald Knudson–related feelings best forgotten.
When Harald’s eyes met hers, the corner of his mouth cocked up. “You must have painted them—you and that magic paintbrush.”
“I did.” Camellia took a deep breath, steadying herself. “You can buy your own pair, if you like. Thirty dollars, at the Honey Hill Boutique. We might have your size. Good day.” With a tight smile she brushed past Harald and his all-too-distracting presence. She had a schedule to keep. Leif’s cookies weren’t going to make themselves. She ticked flour and cream off her list and headed toward the meat department.
“Camellia, nice to see you.” Van Kettner stood behind the butcher counter. “I’m betting your gardens are loving all the rain.”
“They’ve perked right up—all green and happy,” she agreed. “Which means the bees are happy.”
“That’s what matters.” Van smiled. “Happy hives, happy lives?”
Camellia laughed. She appreciated Van’s glass-half-full outlook and ready smile. As far as she was concerned, the more smiles, the better.
He chuckled in response before asking, “What can I get for you?”
“Let’s see...” She slid her list to him. “I’m thinking about Sunday dinner.”
“What’s on the menu?” Harald Knudson’s question startled her so, she jumped back—making Harald chuckle. “Didn’t see me?”
“No.” Camellia was acutely aware of how close he was standing. So close, the familiar scent of his aftershave tickled her nose. She frowned and took one solid step away from him—too pointed to be missed. “You go ahead, Mr. Knudson.” She huddled at one end of the counter, giving him plenty of room to peruse the contents of the display case. “I’m not quite ready.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” Harald chuckled. “Ladies first.”
Camellia swallowed her frustration. When she was undecided on meals, she always asked Van. He was quite a chef and he never failed to offer up a useful idea or two. But she’d rather wait than have Harald standing too close, chiming in. “If you’re sure.”
“You take all the time you need, Camellia.” Harald’s tone was soft—and unnerving.
She took a deep breath. Harald Knudson loved to tease—he always had. Even now, he had a certain boyish quality to him.
Unlike Van Kettner. Really , there was no comparing the two but Camellia found herself doing it anyway. They were about the same age, both Honey natives, and both were exceedingly handsome, but that was where the similarities ended.
Harald needed to be the center of conversation, he always had. He was charismatic, those blue eyes lively and his crooked smile hinting at the mischief inside. He was all flash and temper, impatience and attitude—with an eye for the ladies. How many ex-wives does he have now?
Van was the exact opposite. He put people at ease; they talked to him and he listened. He was soft-spoken and thoughtful and generous with his time. He was a fine upstanding gentleman with a strong whisker-free jaw and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He’d lost his wife years ago and never remarried.
Van was the epitome of a good man and her friend. Harald was not. And none of this is a surprise.
She placed her list on the counter and asked Van, “What’s fresh? I’m thinking a Sunday roast. Pork or beef?”
“Nothing beats a pork roast.” Harald sounded off. “If I remember right, you have a fine honey-glazed pork loin recipe? Along with those real thin sliced potatoes you stack up and cook for hours—with that hint of onions?”
“French onion potato bake?” Camellia couldn’t believe he remembered that.
“That.” He nodded, patting his stomach. “Oh, and that salad with the nuts and cranberries, too? Mmm-mmm. Nothing compares to your cooking. Nothing.” He winked.
Camellia didn’t respond. Both the pork and potatoes were time-consuming—something she’d only make for a special occasion. Had she made them both for him? She swallowed, refusing to let a single memory of Harald Knudson at her table rise to the surface. Still, good manners had her saying, “Thank you.” Instead of risking a glance at Harald, she focused entirely on Van. “What do you think, Van?”
Van wasn’t looking at her or her list, he was looking at Harald. It was some look, too. Almost...angry. Surely not. Van was just about as easygoing a fellow as there was. Usually. Not currently. Camellia glanced back and forth between the two men.
“I guess he’s still figuring things out?” The ring of condescension in Harald’s voice had her bristling on Van’s behalf. “Camellia, I was planning on coming to the farm later—”
“I don’t advise that, Harald,” Camellia cut in. He might be handsome and charming and smell good but she wouldn’t let any of that draw her in—not this time. “Tansy or Mags might feel the need to shoot you for trespassing.”
Van’s chuckle was unmistakable.
“Even when we’re family?” Harald smiled down at her as he crossed his arms over his broad, muscular chest. “Tansy and Dane are all but married.”
Camellia shrugged. “I was once told that, until the ‘I do’s’ were exchanged, it doesn’t count. And it certainly isn’t permanent.” She wasn’t talking about Dane and Tansy. In her heart, she knew her niece and Harald’s son would make it. They loved each other with the sort of devotion and enthusiasm that would stand the test of time. No, she was repeating what Harald had said to her when he’d broken off their relationship... A relationship she’d foolishly invested her everything in. She turned from Harald, hoping he’d take the hint and move on. “Now. About my Sunday dinner. What do you think, Van? Pork or beef?”
“I’d say running into you this afternoon was meant to be.” Harald didn’t take the hint. He placed his hand on the countertop, angling his body so she had no choice but to look at him. “I needed to see you but I’d rather not get shot. At least not until I get a chance to clear the air between us.” Harald sounded sincere.
“Consider it cleared.” Camellia sighed, eyebrows raised. Whatever he was up to, Camellia wanted no part of it. “Now, excuse me. I have to get—”
“That easy?” Harald cleared his throat and stepped forward—too close once again. “Seriously, let’s sort this all out. Just you and me.” He waited until she was looking at him. “Have dinner with me, Camellia. Lunch. Coffee. You pick.”
Camellia stared at the man. She waited for the punch line but Harald stayed quiet. “What...did you fall and hit your head?” She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call an ambulance. There was no way she’d let him make a fool of her again.
Harald had the nerve to grin. “I’m clearheaded. A little slow coming around, I’ll grant you that, but I know exactly what I’m doing. You and me, we’re meant to be—I see that now. You’re good for me, Camellia. You always have been. You’ve always called me out. Always seen me for who I am and held me accountable. You—”
“Let you into my home to steal from me and my family?” Camellia finished for him. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Does it matter if he is? “I don’t know what you’re after, but—”
Harald took her hand. “Time. With you.”
Camellia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Here she was, in the middle of their tiny local grocery store, with Harald Knudson making some sort of declaration—a declaration that couldn’t be real. Why now? Why after all this time?
And why was he holding her hand in front of everyone? No one was moving. No one was shopping. Every single eye was locked on them. She wasn’t sure what to do. Her gaze shifted from their rapt audience to Harald’s handsome and expectant face. He was serious.
“Aunt Camellia?” Astrid arrived, a large bag of all-purpose flour cradled against her chest. “Is everything all right?”
Leif trailed after her, his expression blank but his posture stiff.
Camellia nodded, pulling her hand from Harald’s. Something felt very not right at the moment.
“Dad?” Leif stood straight and tall, looking and sounding older than his sixteen years. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a grocery store, son. I’m getting groceries.” Harald chuckled and tried to give Leif a clap on the shoulder—but the boy dodged. Harald winced, recovering quickly. “And since I had the good fortune to run into Camellia, I figured now was a good time to ask this lovely lady if she’d like to have dinner with me.”
“She would not,” Leif said, putting the cream in the cart. “No chance.”
Van made a gruff—and oddly approving—sound.
Camellia glanced back at the towering butcher, who was glowering at Harald. It was concerning. Van Kettner was a teddy bear of a man and a dear friend. He never had a mean word to say about anyone, visited his mother every Sunday in her retirement community, donated food and money, and volunteered wherever there was need. And never, in all her fifty-two years, had she seen Van upset. No, not just upset—angry. “Van?”
Van’s brow eased as he looked at her. The longer he looked at her, the more like himself he became. “Sunday dinner.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a fine cut of beef that’d make a mighty tasty roast beef.” He glanced at Harald, wavering, before heading into the back.
Camellia stared after him, wondering what had happened. Clearly, Harald Knudson had done something to the man.
“Camellia.” Harald took her arm and pulled her gently aside, his voice lowered. “I’m thinking this isn’t the time or place for me to pursue this...” He pressed a business card into her hand.
“I have your phone number, Harald.” She tried to return the card to him but he held his hand up.
“Keep it.” He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his handsome face. “I have no right to ask you to give me another chance, Camellia,” he whispered. “Hell, to ask you for anything. I know I’ve been a rat bastard to you. And a damn stubborn fool. But I...I hope you will.” He searched her face—looking far too intent and vulnerable for her liking. “All right, I’ll leave you alone now.” And with that, he turned and walked away.
Camellia blinked, looking down at the card he’d pressed into her hand. On the back, was a note written in blue block-like letters. Harald’s handwriting.
Since the day I let you go, I’ve been missing you. I promise, if you give me another chance, I won’t make the same mistake again. Always, Harald.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?” Leif practically spat the words out, his face flushed and tight.
