Walking to the front of the store, she watches as a large, hairy man wipes sweat from his brow. “Can I help you?” Thessaly asks with a polite smile.
“Tess Sinclair? I got your order of white peaches – one bushel.”
“I think there’s a mistake! I would never order that many peaches.”
“I only deliver, lady – and I don’t get paid if I don’t deliver. You wouldn’t do that to me, would ya?” Sweat runs down his cheeks like dejected tears while he continues to unload his dolly.
“But, I, where did they come from?”
The delivery man stacks the crates of peaches in the front corner of the shop, moaning as he stretches from his rolling cart to the short tower of wooden crates. “Brooklyn Soil.” He pulls out a crinkled slip of paper from the pocket of his plaid shirt and drops it into the top crate. Wiping sweat from his upper lip, he smiles quickly and then scurries out the door before Thessaly can stop him.
“I didn’t order peaches,” she mutters to herself. Lifting the folded invoice from the top crate, Thessaly reads silently. If you have a dispute with your order, please call Levi Jones.
Fighting a smile, Thessaly walks toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right with you, ladies,” she says as she passes Mindy and Heather.
Returning a plastic smile, Mindy replies, “Take your time, dear.”
As Thessaly enters the kitchen, Seth looks up from the pyramid of stacked jars and frowns. “Tess, you’re flushed,” he teases.
“Hey, can you give me a minute?” she asks.
“Sure – but don’t mess with my Jar Jenga.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she promises.
When Seth leaves, Thessaly removes the business card she stashed in the canister with her candy. Dismissing the three new texts she received from Mason, she starts a casual text to Levi. Mid-thought, Thessaly takes the plunge and dials the number to Brooklyn Soil.
After the third ring, a familiar, gravelly voice answers the call. “Hello, Brooklyn Soil.”
Her throat dry, Thessaly crackles, “Hi, um, may I speak to Levi Jones?”
A brief pause is followed by a snicker before he replies, “Levi Jones is currently at a tent revival sacrificing the baby carrots. Can I take a message?”
Knowing that she’s speaking to Levi, Thessaly decides to play along. “Yes, please leave him a message. Tess Sinclair would like to know what she’s supposed to do with a bushel of peaches.”
“Levi would probably ask why you speak in third-person.” Pausing for effect, he adds, “And then he’d ask you to dinner.”
Chapter Six
Ms. Sinclair, CEO, The Hive:
The patent office has received your trademark request for the name, Sinclair Wild Honey. As you are aware, we go to great lengths to secure trademark applications within a timely manner. However, please allow six months for the request to be approved.
Best of luck in your new venture,
Christopher Reinhart, Patent Officer
Cheering quietly and closing her laptop, Thessaly dances to the bathroom to finish primping for her date with Levi. Humming a U2 song and shaking her hips, she removes the loose towel from her head and pats her hair dry. Her golden curls are somewhat limited in styling, but her hair looks amazing when it dries naturally with just a dab of Bumble and Bumble Curl Conscious Defining Crème.
She scrunches segments of her layered bob while singing the chorus to Wild honey.
Leaving the bathroom and twirling through the kitchenette, Thessaly makes her way to the small closet. Fishing out a tangerine dress with a price tag, and a sexy pair of turquoise pumps, she commits to being bold by ripping the Nordstrom tag off in a swift yank. She would never wear such a vibrant color with Mason – in fact, he didn’t like her in anything other than the sophisticated classics of black, navy, and a touch of pale pink.
“Wild honey,” she says, stepping into the dress.
She tugs at the side zipper and then slides her hands over the curve of her hips. Pleased with her reflection in the floor-length mirror and shocked that she’s a different person with just a dress, she chuckles. Stepping into her pumps and grabbing a small floral clutch, she switches on the overhead fan to cool her apartment, and then locks the door behind her.
Outside on Pearl Street, the man with the peacock feathers waves in her direction. Feeling confident and bold, she makes her way to his alcove. Keeping a small distance from his impending cynicism, she asserts, “Love is bold.”
The man smiles, sparkling white teeth rarely seen on the face of a vagrant New Yorker, but then he pulls out his journal and begins to write.
Slouching her shoulders, Thessaly frowns. “Ugh, what a fucking riddle,” she mutters, turning to walk away.
Summers in Manhattan mean casual dinners and cold drinks, so Thessaly is meeting Levi at a Seaport pub known for their New Zealand-inspired menu. Although she’s not a fan of lamb burgers or vegetables, or any establishment that doesn’t offer dessert, she’s excited to try a new restaurant on an actual date. But as she walks the three blocks to the pub in a dress the color of a traffic cone, Thessaly fidgets uncomfortably – slouching her shoulders and crawling back into her sweet shell of sugary honeycomb.
“Tess!” shouts Levi.
Following the sound of his deep voice, Thessaly crosses the street to find Levi rakishly leaning against a parking sign. Contrary to Thessaly’s loud attire, Levi’s dressed in a black T-shirt and dark denim jeans. Other than his expensive Tag Heuer watch and barber-fresh shave, Levi Jones is every drop of rugged masculinity.
Levi runs his eyes over the curve of Thessaly’s slender hips, watching as her body sways like an African daisy in a field of Manhattan gray. Uncrossing his arms and walking toward her, he thinks, wildflower.
“Hey!” Thessaly’s raspy voice is perkier than usual.
Reaching in for a kiss on the cheek, Levi says, “Our table is ready. Do you like kale?”
Faking a smile, Thessaly replies, “So, so good.”
Levi places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the large opened door to the restaurant. “You lie,” he whispers behind her ear.
They arrive at a crowded table flowing with IPA beer bottles and buckets of peel-and-eat shrimp. Thessaly’s shoulders drop and her smile fades when she’s met with a group of seated urban farmers staring up at her – three men and two women, all dressed in the same quirky Brooklyn Soil T-shirt. The table holds six chairs, and Thessaly makes seven, so Levi steals an unused chair from the bar and offers it to Thessaly.
Sitting at least three inches higher than the rest of the group on an elevated stool, Thessaly shrinks in embarrassment.
Aware that she’s uncomfortable, Levi thinks, she’s wilting. So he leans into her and hums, “You look amazing.”
The stress on the letter z buzzes through her ear and sends a cold surge down her neck. And whether it’s the sensual vibration of Levi’s voice, or the hope she may escape the lamb burger, Thessaly relaxes with a smile.
“Guys, I’d like you to meet Tess. She owns The Hive on Fulton.” Levi’s friendly yet authoritative voice hushes the group.
After a few hellos and I love that place from the table of urban farmers, Levi turns into Thessaly, causing the rough denim of his jeans to scrape against her bare legs. “So yeah, it’s a fairly monumental week for the rooftop farm – we needed to celebrate.”
“Levi, I understand.” Thessaly nods, glancing over the drink menu placed in front of her. “I just assumed we were on a date,” she adds shyly.