Javier “Javi” Ruiz, 59, has run a 12-acre bee yard and small-batch meadery outside Asheville for 18 years, and his most consistent flaw is that he’d rather argue with a hive of defensive yellow jackets than admit he’s lonely. His wife left him for a six-figure finance job in Charlotte eight years prior, and he’d sold half his family’s apple orchard to keep the bee operation afloat, closing himself off to almost every social invitation that didn’t involve selling mead at farmers markets or haggling with taproom owners. The monthly small business mixer at the downtown sour ale taproom was the only exception, only because the owner let him pour samples of his latest batches for free.
The September air was sharp enough to make his knuckles ache when he walked in, the taproom thick with the smell of burnt pretzels, pine cleaner, and fermented grain. He leaned against the far end of the bar, swirling a glass of his own wildflower mead, when he spotted her walking toward him. Elara Voss, the 48-year-old new county agricultural extension agent, had been emailing him for six weeks about a regional pollinator grant he’d applied for, and he’d ignored every message, convinced she was just going to hit him with a stack of new regulations he didn’t have time to implement.
She wore scuffed work boots and a flannel that matched the deep amber of his mead, a single streak of silver slicing through dark hair pulled back from her face. The jukebox blared Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* loud enough to rattle the glasses on the bar, so she leaned in close to be heard, her shoulder brushing his flannel-clad bicep, the scent of cedar and spiced apple cider rolling off her jacket. He tensed up immediately, grip on his mead glass tightening until his knuckles went white. He’d spent so long convincing himself no woman looked at him for anything other than free mead or a garden favor that he didn’t know how to react when she held his gaze for three full beats, no polite look away, no awkward smile, just steady, warm dark eyes that made the back of his neck feel hot.
He tried to steer the conversation to the grant immediately, already mentally mapping excuses for why his hive tracking logs were three weeks behind, but she waved him off, reaching past him to grab a napkin off the bar, her hip pressing firm against his for two full seconds before she pulled back, a tiny, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She said she’d already reviewed his application, pushed it through to the cross-county agricultural team so she had no oversight over the final decision, no conflict of interest to worry about. He blinked, confused, and asked why she’d been chasing him for weeks if she didn’t need anything for the grant.
The taproom noise faded to a low hum when she laughed, soft, and said she’d come to the mixers for three months just to catch him there, that she’d bought a bottle of his blackberry mead at the July farmers market and wanted to tell him how good it was, but he’d been so wrapped up in arguing with a customer about raw honey that she’d chickened out. He felt his face heat up, equal parts embarrassed and elated, fighting the instinct to brush her off, to tell her she didn’t have to pity the grumpy old beekeeper whose wife left him. Conflicting feelings twisted tight in his chest: disgust at himself for being so closed off he couldn’t recognize genuine interest, desire sharp enough to make his hands shake a little when she handed him a folded printout of the grant update, her cold, calloused fingers brushing his for half a second.
They stepped outside 20 minutes later, night air cold enough to make their breath fog, crinkling brown maple leaves crunching under their boots as they leaned against the taproom’s brick wall. No one else was around, the street down the block quiet except for the distant rumble of a pickup truck driving past. He was still fumbling for something to say that didn’t sound like a nervous teenager, when she leaned in and kissed him, slow, the taste of cinnamon sugar from the cider donut she’d eaten earlier on her lips. He froze for half a second, then wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her just close enough to feel the steady thud of her heartbeat against his chest.
When they pulled apart, she tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from his ponytail behind his ear, and said she had a porch with a fire pit and a stack of old country records at her house 10 minutes outside of town, and he could bring a couple bottles of that blackberry mead over tomorrow after he finished checking his hives. He grinned, a real unforced grin he hadn’t felt stretch across his face in years, and said he’d bring extra honey sticks too, just in case she had a sweet tooth. She laughed, squeezed his hand, then turned to walk to her car parked at the end of the block, waving over her shoulder as she went. He stood there for another five minutes, the cold air nipping at his cheeks, the taste of cinnamon still on his lips, before he walked to his own truck, already rearranging his hive check schedule for the next day.
