Moe Pritchard, 57, spent 30 years keeping bees and making small-batch mead out of his converted barn outside Asheville, and he’d held a grudge against Clara Bennett for 112 days straight. She was the county health inspector who’d written him up for a lopsided handwashing station at his summer pop-up, costing him two weeks of farmers’ market sales and a $400 fine he’d paid in crumpled 20s, muttering the whole time about bureaucratic red tape. He’d avoided all county events after that, only showing up to the fire department chili cookoff because his daughter begged him to enter his blackberry mead in the paired tasting contest.
The air smelled like smoked paprika, burnt hot dogs, and pine from the trees lining the fairground. Moe leaned against his folding table, half-eaten bowl of five-alarm chili in one hand, calloused thumb rubbing the edge of a mead jar, when he heard a low laugh next to him. He looked up, and there she was, not in the stiff navy uniform he remembered, but in high-waisted jeans and a faded Flock of Seagulls hoodie, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid. “Your handwashing station up to code today, Pritchard?” she said, smirk playing on the corner of her mouth, the freckle above her upper lip shifting when she smiled.
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. She was closer than he expected, shoulder almost brushing his, the scent of coconut shampoo cutting through the chili fumes. He’d spent months picturing her as a cold, stuck-up pencil pusher, but now he noticed the chipped navy polish on her nails, the scar along her left jawline, the way her boots were caked in the same red clay that coated his truck tires. He fumbled the spoon, it clattered against the table, and they both reached down to grab it at the same time. Their knuckles brushed, her skin warm and softer than the wax he harvested from his hives, and he yanked his hand back like he’d touched a stinging worker bee, ears burning.
“Relax, I’m off duty,” she said, picking up the spoon and handing it to him, her laugh not mean, just warm. “I heard your blackberry mead’s worth breaking a few rules for. Figured I’d see if the hype was real.”
He poured her a sample without thinking, his hands a little clumsy, spilling a drop on the table. She sipped it, humming low in her throat, eyes closing for half a second, and Moe’s throat went dry. He’d spent years perfecting that mead, had watched the blackberries ripen on the vines behind his hives all summer, had adjusted the yeast three times to get the sweetness right, and no one had ever reacted like that. She asked about the hives, about the year too much rain made the blackberries tart, about the black bear that broke into his apiary last spring, and he found himself rambling, forgetting the grudge, forgetting the fine, forgetting he hadn’t talked to a woman for more than five minutes without it being about mead or his daughter’s college tuition in years.
Part of him wanted to stay mad, wanted to remind her she’d cost him hundreds of dollars and weeks of work, but the other part couldn’t stop staring at the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear when she asked a question, the way she leaned in when he talked about the bees, like she actually cared. He hated the flip in his chest, the warmth crawling up his neck, hated that he was attracted to the woman he’d spent months complaining about to every customer at his meadery. It felt like a betrayal of his own pride, stupid and reckless, like picking up a hive frame without gloves on.
The fire department’s siren blared over the speakers, pulling him out of his head, and the announcer called his name for first place in the paired tasting contest, his mead matched with the west station’s brisket chili. He cheered, loud and rough, and turned to hug her before he thought better of it, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close for half a second. She pressed her cheek to his flannel shirt, her hand resting light on his back, and he could feel her heartbeat through the fabric, fast as a bee’s wing. When he pulled back, she was looking up at him, no smirk now, just soft, her eyes bright. “I didn’t want to write you up, you know,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “My boss was with me, he’s been on my case to crack down on small vendors. I even went back and got your fine cut in half. You never checked your PO box, I guess.”
Moe stared at her for a full three seconds, then laughed, loud and surprised, shaking his head. All that anger, all that grudge-holding, for nothing. He tucked the blue first place ribbon into the pocket of his flannel, wiping his free hand on his jeans. “You wanna come back to the meadery later?” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I got a peach mead batch that’s not ready for sale yet. Only let people I like taste it.”
She nodded, grinning, tucking her braid over her shoulder. “Only if you let me see the hives first. And I promise I’ll wash my hands before I touch anything.”
He picked up the case of mead from under the table, his fingers brushing hers when he handed her a full jar to hold, and this time he didn’t pull away.
