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“Thanks,” I say, looking up into Dean’s handsome face and those captivating eyes. His expression is open and genial, but there’s something else there. A fire that can’t be tamed, a fire that could burn me in all the best ways.
“Until then, my stomach’s kind of growling,” he says, bringing me out of my fantasy.
“Oh, sure. Let’s eat.” Now is definitely not the time to be having those thoughts of romance. I blame it on that man and his silver eyes. “Do you have any plates and silverware?”
“Shoot. No. That was going to be our next run,” Dean says, a sheepish look on his face. How can this man look so devastatingly hot and shy at the same time? It’s honestly not fair.
“No problem. Mina, please go over and get some for us.”
“Dylan, go help,” Dean adds.
They head out the door.
“Now that they’re gone, do you really think this whole bee thing is a good idea?” I ask Grandpa Bob.
“I think Mina has a point about the honey production, he replies. “You were so worried about finding something to bring in revenue, and that certainly would! Especially if we find a local farmers market or small store to sell it at.”
“He has a point. People love supporting locally sourced stuff,” Dean says.
I sigh. “I understand both of your points. But what about Mina’s allergy? I mean, Dean. Imagine that, for whatever reason, there was suddenly a swarm of peanuts on your property, and they had the ability to fly around to any part of it.”
Grandpa Bob understandably looks confused.
“His son is very allergic to peanuts. And I’m just using that scenario as a hypothetical,” I explain.
“Well, if there was someone with experience in…raising flying peanuts…who could tell me how safe it would be, and it was important in helping the planet and my bank account, I guess I wouldn’t have an issue. That’s why I want to bring Dwight in to talk with you. Plus, the kids are so excited about it.”
“Yeah, I am always looking for ways to get Mina’s focus on something other than a screen,” I admit. Dean gives me a look that tells me he understands my pain. Teenagers.
Before we say anything else, the kids return and lay everything on the Cornels’ table.
“Thank you very much,” I tell them both, and Dean nods.
Dylan flushes again. But Mina brushes off my compliment with a “No problem.”
“So,” I start, “I’m going to warn you both beforehand that I’m not exactly the best chef ever.”
“She’s just being modest,” Grandpa Bob says.
“Well, thank you, Grandpa. But really, I know the bare minimum. Please don’t expect culinary excellence. It’s just a basic chicken pot pie casserole.”
They all dig in, and I wait to see their reactions.
“Honestly, it’s delicious.” Dylan is the first to offer input. When I first saw Dylan scowling in his dad’s truck, I thought he was just another grumpy teenager. But the more I get to know him, the more I see the kind boy underneath all the teenage hormones. I know how hard being a single parent can be, but Dean’s clearly done a great job.
“He’s right,” Dean adds. Now, it’s my turn for my face to flush. It’s just because of the compliment. Not because of the man who said it. Nope, not at all.
“You have to know that we don’t have the most sophisticated palates either. I was raised primarily on TV dinners,” Dylan admits with a grin.
“Again, the boy speaks the truth,” his father says.
“Well, either way, thank you for the compliments,” I say.
“How did everything go at the firm, Mom?” Mina asks, changing the subject.
“Oh, um…about as great as I thought it would.”
“Is that good or bad?” Dean inquires.
