The cool September air nips at Elias Voss’s cheeks when he pulls into the Asheville River Arts District farmers’ market parking lot at 6 a.m., crickets still chirping, the sky streaked soft pink and tangerine over the French Broad River. His boots crunch on gravel, he hefts two crates of honey jars onto his hand-built wooden display table, glass clinking soft, each jar marked with his scrawled handwriting labeling wildflower, sourwood, and apple blossom variants. 53 years old, a full-time beekeeper with 47 hives spread across Blue Ridge foothills acreage he inherited from his grandpa, Elias has built every part of his life to be predictable, no surprises: same black coffee every morning, same route to check hives every other day, no deviations, no risks. It’s the habit he formed after his wife left him for a passing craft beer rep 12 years prior, a defense mechanism to avoid the sharp, sickening jolt of disappointment he’s convinced comes with letting anyone get close.
He’s wiping a smudge of beeswax off a quart jar when he catches the scent of roasted yeast and cinnamon drifting two booths down. Mara’s there, the new sourdough baker who moved into the cabin a half mile down the road from his place three weeks prior. He’s avoided her every chance he gets: waved off her hello at the county general store, pretended he wasn’t home when she dropped a free loaf off on his porch, even parked his truck at the far end of the market lot so he wouldn’t have to walk past her booth on his way in. He tells himself it’s practical, that he doesn’t have time for casual flirting or the mess of whatever she might be offering, but he can’t stop himself from glancing over every few minutes, watching her tuck a strand of silver-streaked auburn hair behind her ear when she rearranges her loaves, noticing the chipped forest green polish on her nails that matches the pine trees lining his property line.
She bends to grab a jar of vanilla glaze off the bottom shelf of her display, loses her balance, and the glass slips out of her hand, bouncing once on the grass before rolling straight to his feet. He picks it up before he thinks, walks over to hand it to her. Their fingers brush when she takes it, hers soft, a dusting of flour on her knuckle, a thin scar slicing across the side of her thumb he’d overheard her mention came from a bread-lancing accident the week prior. He flinches like he got stung by a yellow jacket, mumbles a “no problem” and turns to walk back to his booth.
“Wait,” she says, her voice warm, no coy lilt, no performative sweetness, just straight. “I know you pretended you weren’t home when I dropped that loaf off last week. I saw your truck in the driveway.”
Heat creeps up his neck, and he freezes, turning back to find her grinning, not mad, one eyebrow raised. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” she says, leaning against her table, flannel sleeves rolled up to freckled forearms. “I just think your honey would taste real good in my cinnamon roll recipe. That’s all.”
The market fills up fast after that, families with strollers, tourists in dusty hiking boots, retirees toting canvas tote bags. Elias is busy ringing up sales, explaining the difference between sourwood and wildflower honey to a couple from Florida, when a kid running full tilt with a lollipop slams into the side of his table, knocking a pint jar of wildflower honey off the edge. It shatters on the asphalt, golden, sticky honey spreading slow across the blacktop.
He’s on his knees mopping it up with flimsy paper towels two minutes later when she kneels down next to him, handing him a stack of heavy-duty shop towels she keeps under her table for flour spills. Their shoulders press together, tight, and he can smell her lavender hand lotion mixed with the cinnamon and yeast clinging to her shirt, the distant hum of the river in the background, the sound of her breathing soft next to him. He’s hyper aware of every point of contact, the way her knee brushes his when she leans forward to wipe a glob of honey off the leg of a passing golden retriever. “I hate messes,” he mumbles, more to himself than her.
“Me too,” she says, laughing low, the sound light enough to make his chest feel tight, like the first warm day of spring after a long cold winter. “But sometimes they’re the only way you get people to stop rushing long enough to talk to you.”
By 2 p.m. the market’s closed, most vendors packed up and gone. Elias is hefting the last crate of jars into the bed of his beat up 2008 F-150 when she walks over, holding a paper bag with a crusty sourdough loaf peeking out the top, a small jar of that vanilla glaze tucked next to it. She leans against the tailgate, one boot propped on the bumper, and the sun hits her hair, turning the silver streaks bright, almost gold. “My cabin’s 10 minutes from yours,” she says, nodding at the dirt road leading out of the parking lot. “I got butter on the counter, coffee brewing. You can bring a jar of that wildflower honey. We can test that cinnamon roll idea. No strings. No pressure.”
He almost says no. Almost tells her he has to go check the hives, that he’s got order paperwork to finish, that he’s no good at this kind of casual, unplanned thing. He’s spent 12 years building walls around himself, keeping everyone at arm’s length, convinced that letting anyone in is just asking to get hurt. But then he looks at her, the way she’s not pushing, not trying to convince him, just waiting, calm, and he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds good.”
They drive separately, his truck kicking up dust on the rutted dirt road leading to her cabin, windows rolled down, the air smelling like pine and fallen maple leaves. By the time he gets there, she’s already sliced the sourdough, toasted it, set two mugs of black coffee on the porch rail. They sit on her weathered wooden porch swing, the bread warm, butter melting into the crannies, mixed with his honey and her glaze, sweet, rich, perfect. The sun is setting over the mountains, painting the sky pink and tangerine, crickets chirping in the tall grass at the edge of her yard. She reaches over, takes his calloused, bee-stung hand in hers, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. He laces his fingers through hers, and the warm weight of her hand fits like it was made to be there.
