Chapter 1

Bradley kept the windows cracked a couple inches as he drove, letting the late summer air fill his car with the smell of warm, ripe fields. So maybe he’d been given the assignment no one wanted. So maybe he’d kind of-sort of volunteered for it to get his mind off Lance. In the end, it could mean a raise, and he wouldn’t say no to that.

For now, it meant the two other reporters and the intern had rolled their eyes and wished him a good Friday evening. Sarcastically. Bradley had grabbed his pencil and notebook and fed the directions to his GPS. Working for a small town newspaper often meant a lot of driving out to the middle of nowhere to get a story, and the place he was going was about the farthest outside of town he’d been for a piece.

He passed by fields dotted with farmhouses and the occasional five-hundred-thousand-dollar new custom home for those families who wanted country living in comfort. Corn fields turned to soy turned to fenced-in expanses peppered with cows, and Bradley yawned. He should have had that last coffee before leaving. He passed by an apple orchard and wondered if he’d get that story, too, in a couple weeks, then nearly missed his turn. He hit the brakes hard and took the right without signaling, glad there were no oncoming cars because he’d ended up in the wrong lane.

This place was so far out there, the road didn’t even have lines. He drove through more fields, then saw the old ranch house up ahead with the large yellow hexagon hanging under the mailbox. It swung in the wind, a weathered piece of wood with chipped amber paint he’d been told marked the place he was going. Bradley pulled down the gravel driveway and parked.

He got out and retrieved his notepad and pencil. He could have brought his laptop, he supposed, but he liked the feel of pencil against paper. It made him feel the part, which was otherwise difficult working at a tiny publication in a small town.

Shay did not come out to greet him. Bradley didn’t take that as a good sign. He wandered about, not wanting to stray into anything dangerous, and turned around the side of the house. In front of the unattached garage stood a large metal tub with what looked like a hand crank sticking out of it. Bradley stared.

“Hey, are you the reporter?”

Bradley turned at the voice and saw a man walking up to him, white apart from the odd smudge of dirt on him. He wore red plaid and jeans, his brown hair tossed about by the wind. Bradley hadn’t expected him to be so young—mid-twenties, he guessed, about his age. The man was wiping his hands on an old, yet clean, towel.

“Bradley Kim,” said Bradley, sticking out his hand. “From the Local Times.”

“Shay Wilton, but you could have guessed.”

Shay grinned at him, and Bradley pushed the tip of his pencil into his palm, hard. It would be too easy to get caught up in that grin, in those eyes. Those were mischievous eyes.

But Bradley had a boyfriend. He cleared his throat and opened his notepad, reminding himself he was here for work, not play. And he shouldn’t even be thinking of play.

“Thanks for coming out here,” said Shay. “I didn’t even know you ran articles on little people like me. Is it slow this time of year?”

“We like to highlight local businesses when we can. Gets people in the area to know who you are, maybe think of you first. Promotes a community feel. If they read about you and your craft, they’ll feel like they know you.”

“And maybe they’ll come up to me at the farmers’ market and chat,” said Shay. He tossed the towel aside, onto a cluttered table. “I won’t turn down a few more sales.”

“Can you make a lot of money on honey?” asked Bradley, then focused intently on his notepad as Shay laughed. It was a good laugh, not tinged with malice at all, but Bradley still felt unprofessional for the little rhyme. That wasn’t what amused Shay, though.

“Money? Look, everyone thinks it’s good because the honey looks so expensive to them, but really, it’s a hobby. I’m just an office drone by day.”

Bradley glanced at him and he winked, actually winked. He had to be indicating the drone line was a pun. Bradley rubbed his nose with a finger. This was going to be a long interview.

“Hobby, got it,” he said, and wrote that down.

Shay motioned with a hand. “Want a quick tour?”

“I…” Bradley didn’t want to say he was afraid of being stung—he was, just a little—but he didn’t have any excuse that wouldn’t sound like he was a coward. He relented and shrugged. “Sure. The whole farm, or just the bees?”

Shay set off along a large trimmed path between two fields of corn, the plants towering above their heads. Bradley could smell the sweetness of the corn in the air and sun-warmed leaves from the stalks themselves. He’d always thought the rustle of wind through the stiff leaves was eerie, but here, now, walking next to Shay, they almost sounded calming, like one of those background sound-of-the-ocean tracks. He was beginning to think it had been a longer week than he’d realized.