Elias Voss, 59, had been manning his mead tasting booth at the Watauga County Fair for 11 hours straight when the first drops of evening rain hit the back of his sunburnt neck. He’d been a beekeeper and small-batch mead maker for 18 years, ever since he quit his corporate sales job after his wife left him for a real estate agent in Charlotte, and he’d brought 12 cases of his award-winning wildflower and sourwood mead to the fair, most of it already sold. His boots were caked in sawdust and melted cotton candy, the air smelled like fried oreos, diesel, and pine smoke from the bonfire pit down by the carnival rides, and he was 10 minutes from packing up when she walked up. He knew who she was immediately: Marisol Ruiz, 56, who’d bought the 20-acre goat dairy adjacent to his property three months prior. He’d only exchanged three awkward, one-sentence conversations with her since she moved in, mostly because he’d caught himself staring at her tanned, freckled forearms when she was hefting 50-pound hay bales over the fence line one Saturday, and he’d decided it was easier to be gruff and avoid her than deal with the stupid, unfamiliar flutter in his chest every time she waved from her pickup.
She was wearing a faded flannel shirt and ripped denim jeans, work boots caked in mud, a silver streak cutting through the dark curly hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid. She leaned one hip against the edge of his booth, close enough he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with the goat milk soap she used, and held up a $20 bill. “One of your wildflower samples, if you’re not too busy ignoring your neighbors,” she said, grinning, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she already knew he’d been avoiding her. He poured the small plastic sample cup, his fingers brushing hers when he handed it over, and he flinched like he’d been stung by one of his hives. She laughed, low and warm, as she sipped the mead. “You’re jumpier than those guard geese you keep by your apiary,” she said. He opened his mouth to make a snarky retort, then stopped when she pulled a glass jar of crumbly goat cheese out of her canvas bag, the label printed with her dairy’s logo. “I paired this with your wildflower mead at a pop-up in Asheville last week,” she said. “Had no idea the maker was the guy who acts like I’m gonna trespass and steal his bees every time I drive past his place.”
Elias felt his face heat up. He’d spent 12 years convincing himself anyone who showed interest in him was just after his mead brand, or his 40 acres of land, or the small inheritance he’d gotten when his dad died, and that small town dating was nothing but a mess of gossip and regret. He wanted to make an excuse, tell her he was busy packing up, go back to his quiet, empty house where he didn’t have to talk to anyone, but she was leaning in closer now, her shoulder three inches from his, holding eye contact long enough that he had to look away first, his gaze catching on the smudge of goat milk on her wrist. The rain picked up, sudden and hard, fat drops splattering against the plastic tablecloth of his booth, and he fumbled for the heavy vinyl tarp he kept stacked under the table to cover his remaining cases of mead. She jumped in to help before he could protest, both of them yanking the tarp tight over the stacks, their elbows bumping every few seconds, her wet braid slapping his arm when she leaned across to tie the tarp corner to the booth leg. They both slipped on the rain-soaked sawdust at the same time, stumbling into each other, their chests pressed together for half a second, and he could feel the heat off her even through their wet shirts, the faint thud of her heartbeat against his.
He pulled back fast, stammering an apology, but she just laughed, wiping rain off her forehead, her flannel shirt soaked through just enough that he could see the edge of her black tank top underneath. “My truck’s parked 20 yards from the exit,” she said, nodding toward the parking lot. “You can load your stuff in the back instead of waiting out the rain in that rusted old van of yours I see leaking oil on the side of the road every other week. I won’t even charge you for the help.” He hesitated for a full 10 seconds, every stubborn part of his brain screaming that this was a bad idea, that neighbors shouldn’t be alone together drinking mead at 8 PM on a Saturday, that he’d only end up disappointed again, but then she reached up, brushing a wet bee wing off the collar of his flannel, her fingers brushing the side of his neck, and he didn’t flinch this time.
He nodded, grabbing the last half bottle of wildflower mead he’d stashed under the booth for himself, and followed her through the drizzle to her truck. She held the passenger door open for him, and when he climbed in, the cab smelled like goat cheese and lavender and the peppermint gum she chewed, warm and far better than the mildew and bee pollen smell of his own van. He didn’t make a single joke about small town gossip when she pulled out of the fairgrounds, turning left toward their neighborhood instead of right toward the main road, and he didn’t look away when she reached over to rest her hand on the center console, her palm up, an open invitation he didn’t have the willpower to turn down.
