Ha. I grin wider, and when our eyes meet, a flash of reluctant humor passes through Mr Rockwell’s expression. I slip down off the counter, bare feet slapping against the tiles, then dig out a glass for him from the cupboard. The faucet creaks, its stream of cool water glittering in the sunshine, and then I cross to him and push the drink into his hand.

The billionaire’s fingertips brush against mine.

He holds my gaze again, green eyes warmer now.

Muffled words crackle through the handset. “I’m listening,” Mr Rockwell murmurs. He raises the glass to his lips, his eyes still on me.

Is it supposed to be sensual, watching someone drink water? Because suddenly I’m flushed under my t-shirt, warm and fidgety on the kitchen tiles. The strong column of Mr Rockwell’s throat bobs with every swallow, and still he watches me. Curious and intense. Like he’d rather drink a nice, tall glass of Keya Patel.

Whew.

He lowers the glass.

His bottom lip is wet.

“Thank you,” he says, and it takes me way too long to realize he’s talking to me. Mr Rockwell nudges the empty glass back into my hand, and I take it, nodding like an idiot. I turn back to the kitchen, dazed.

Jeez Louise. I’ve been out in the wilderness alone for way too long. I’m reading into things—seeing signals that aren’t there. Lusting after a man who’s been nothing but a jerk to me. A man who rich, beautiful women across the world fight over, then come away still single.

How humiliating.

“Fine,” Mr Rockwell clips out, then hangs up with a bit too much force. He turns to me. “How much for a room here?”

“…A room?”

“Yes.” He speaks carefully, like I’m slow. “I can’t get a mechanic out here until tomorrow. I need a room in your hotel.”

…Hotel?

I blink around the kitchen, doubtful. Did he get sunstroke out on the road? No one in their right mind would pay to stay here. The Honeycomb Hideaway is held together with cobwebs and prayers. We’re a honey business, not a vacation spot.

“We’re closed for the season,” I manage, my mind racing ahead. It’s sort of true. The bees have definitely downed tools. And I’m thinking about that pile of overdue bills. About the fact that this man has no better options out here, except maybe the nudist colony halfway up the nearest mountain.

“Yes. I can tell.”

“But I could set up a room…” He’s already nodding, so I go for broke. “For triple the usual rate.”

Why not? Rhett Rockwell can afford it.

Sure enough, he whips out his wallet. He doesn’t even ask how much I’m charging him as I dig in the drawer for the ancient card reader we keep for festivals.

Three hundred dollars, for the record. I make sure to print him a receipt. Maybe he can expense it.

Three hundred dollars for fresh sheets on my bed, and homemade honey waffles in the morning. And in return, I’ll spend a night on the sofa with Winston and get to wipe out some of those bills.