For Love Or Honey Read online

  For Love Or Honey

  Staci Hart

  Copyright © 2021 Staci Hart

  All rights reserved.

  stacihartnovels.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover by Quirky Bird

  Pinterest: https://bit.ly/3tqV2jf

  Playlist: https://spoti.fi/3lcTllw

  To knowing when to stand your ground

  and when to get out of your own way.

  * * *

  To knowing when to hold tight

  and when to let go.

  * * *

  To knowing when to be loud

  and when to listen.

  * * *

  To knowing love when it finds you.

  Contents

  1. Farm Fresh

  2. The Closer

  3. Bee Witches

  4. Hellflowers

  5. TNT

  6. Biscuits and Maybe

  7. Elephant Parade

  8. Masochism As A Sport

  9. Good Vibes, Bad Vibes

  10. Dat Ass

  11. Dear Diary

  12. When A Coke's a Coke

  13. Don't Worry

  14. Lights Out

  15. No Way

  16. House Of Cards

  17. Shower Wars

  18. Here, Kitty, Kitty

  19. Dinner With The Devil

  20. Frack You

  21. Just Ask Boris

  22. There’s a Snake in my Boots

  23. The Truth in the Two Step

  24. The Dark Of Night

  25. Say It

  26. The Last To Know

  27. Business End

  28. Burrito Girl

  29. The Longest Road

  30. Pieces of Me

  31. Compass

  32. The Score

  Sneak Peek: On the Honey Side

  Thank You

  Also by Staci Hart

  About the Author

  1

  Farm Fresh

  JO

  The mood was pretty light, considering we were in the middle of a protest.

  My sisters followed in the train behind me, the lot of us smiling a little as we marched in a circle in front of the news crews outside our tiny city hall, chanting, Frack Off!

  It wasn’t that we weren’t serious—Flexion Oil’s move to buy up mineral rights for fracking in our town was nothing to laugh about—but given that a whole bunch of us had shown up with puns on our signs replacing the eff in many slang terms with the word frack, it was just plain funny. Especially ninety-year-old Bettie with What the frack? on her T-shirt and Pastor Coleburn wielding a sign reading Frack You!

  We’d pulled out all the stops once we learned the San Antonio news outlets were going to cover the press conference Flexion had called, printing up all kinds of merchandise for the occasion, which many of our townies had donned with spirit. There were, of course, plenty of people there to glare, happier to label us a bunch of hippies than consider what it would do to places like my family’s bee farm. Some of the people in our conga line didn’t have a say in the matter when Flexion found a cache of natural gas in our little town of Lindenbach, Texas, population eleven hundred and five—their mineral rights were owned by the state. But a whole bunch of us had land in our families for long enough that Flexion would have to convince us to sell.

  And we weren’t budging.

  My mother, sisters, and I had been schmoozed by representatives of Flexion to no avail, even as their offer rose to heights that would give anyone pause. But selling out wasn’t an option—Flexion could make all the offers they wanted. No way would we sign our legacy over to the devil.

  Great-great-great-grandpa Blum would have rolled over in his grave the second we put pen to paper.

  We’d switched gears to, Fracking smells, we won’t sell! when a murmur rolled through the rest of the crowd. Movement around the door to city hall caught my attention, and when it opened, I stopped so suddenly, my sister Poppy slammed into the back of me with an oof that left me wondering distantly if she’d smashed the eggs in my backpack.

  Because the actual devil himself walked through that door and down the stairs toward the podium.

  His hair was the color of a starless night, his jaw chiseled from stone and lips somehow both lush and sharp at the same time. Maybe it was the line they made that felt like a coercion, a temptation. Maybe it was his switchblade eyebrows framing eyes I expected to be as dark and soulless as the rest of him. But they weren’t. They were a blue so intense, I felt their chill in the warm September sun.

  He was the embodiment of power, somehow consuming all air, all attention, all thought, until he was the only person left standing. He clearly knew the art of intimidation, but every sharp edge of him was softened by a lusty sort of charm, the kind that let everyone know that he got what he wanted. Anything he wanted.

  Everything he wanted.

  Poppy nudged me forward, and I hurried to close the gap between me and Bettie, who couldn’t see over my shoulder on her tiptoes. She’d noticed him too—I caught her gaping over the top of gigantic hot-pink sunglasses, though she was practiced enough that she didn’t miss a step, ogling in stride like a goddamn lady, learned over the nine decades or so she’d been a perv.

  I noted his size as he stepped to the microphone—he dwarfed the podium and those who had walked out with him, including Mayor Mitchell, that grade A son of a bitch. Mitchell probably got a cash kickback on everybody he convinced to sell to Flexion, though he was nothing but a lowly demon. Stone was the real deal.

  When the devil rested his gargantuan hands on either side of the podium, everyone went still and quiet. I marveled over his sheer, overwhelming charisma, understanding completely why Flexion had sent him to close the deal on Lindenbach.

  If he could get past my sisters and me.

  He began to speak, the deep, easy lilt in his voice hypnotic. When I glanced around me, everyone’s pupils could have been pinwheels—they even leaned toward him just a little.

  The man was a black hole.

  And it seemed like I was the only one who’d snapped myself out of it.

  I elbowed Poppy. She blinked herself awake and elbowed Daisy. Our eyes narrowed at him in unison.

  All I heard was blah, blah, blah and hiss, hiss, hiss with a little nom, nom, nom from undeniably skillful lips that made me salivate just enough to piss me off. Poppy pressed an egg into my hand with a wicked smile on her face as tall, dark, and slithery went on about how committed Flexion was to the environment in what was probably a ten-thousand-dollar Italian suit.

  I hesitated for a second—I was still a woman with manners and a mother to make proud—but when he started talking about Flexion’s clean diesel, all ability to maintain executive functions went out the window. Lizard brain—activate.

  So I did what any hippie bee farmer would do.

  I wound up, took a breath, and yelled, “Frack you!” before letting her rip.

  The egg sailed in slow motion over the crowd as his face swiveled to the sound of my voice, those dagger-eyes running me through seconds before the egg popped him smack between them.

  A laugh shot out of Bettie before she hollered, “Farm fresh, bitch!”
br />   Yolk slid down his nose. His eyes stayed closed for a protracted moment that I suspected he needed to school himself.

  When they opened, they locked on mine.

  I’d never felt naked under someone’s gaze until that moment, my lungs empty and extremities tingling. He’d pinned me to the spot from twenty feet away, his face unreadable. And though his eyes blazed like a thousand suns, his lips quirked into a tilted smile.

  “Nice shot, Miss Blum.” He retrieved his pocket square without breaking eye contact. “Hope it was organic.”

  In an out-of-body sort of feeling—and with the shock that he knew my name—I slapped on a smirk of my own, lifting my chin in challenge before offering a dramatic sweeping gesture, accompanied by a condescending nod. The crowd was chuckling and whispering, but the devil wiped the egg off his face and soldiered on, unfazed. But when he closed his speech and stepped back, he shot me dead with his eyes again, his smile sending a message clear as day.

  Game on.

  And oh, he had no idea just how on it was.

  2

  The Closer

  GRANT

  I should have won a fucking Academy Award.

  Confusion and admiration rippled off the crowd as I spent ten minutes answering questions without flinching after getting hit in the face with a warm egg. With a long-practiced calm exterior, I ignored the tightening of my skin from the residue, particularly in a spot just left of the bridge of my nose that itched with particular ferocity. Two questions had been directed to The Egg Incident, both which I’d handled with a dry joke, a wry smile, and a pointed look in the offender’s direction.

  My only surprise was that I couldn’t manage to make her shrink beneath the weight of my gaze, which I knew to be oppressive.

  Instead, Jo Blum rose to meet me. What I couldn’t tell was whether she believed her bravado or if it was just bald obstinance in the face of a challenge.

  Either way, she’d break. They always did.

  The Blum farm was one of six I’d been sent here to acquire rights to, and of the six, their farm had the largest shale deposit. On visiting the farms to open up talks, I’d been denied by the Blums before I’d stepped onto their front porches. But I had a couple of aces up my sleeve.

  Just had to play them right.

  This part of the country was always the same—families living on the same plot of land for a hundred and fifty years or more, somehow able to survive the farming decline in the fifties, when everyone sold off their rights for oil to keep their businesses alive. It was rare that the state didn’t own the mineral rights—on the sale of any old property, mineral rights transferred straight to the state—but to find this many hold outs along the vein of shale we’d found was unfortunate.

  Which was why they’d sent me.

  I was the closer, sliding in to get the job done when others failed. I knew a hundred towns just like this. Sure, they’d hold the line for a little while, but soon enough, they’d fold. Just had to find the weak spot and press. Easy enough.

  I’d learned from the best, after all. My father was the original closer for Flexion and my boss. Mistakenly, I thought his mentoring me would bring us closer. But nobody should wish to get so close to a snake. You’d think I’d learn my lesson after all these years, but here I was in Lindenbach, Texas, dead set on closing the deal as quickly as possible in a thinly veiled attempt at impressing that cold-blooded bastard who raised me.

  He’d taught me two things in life. No one would help me but me. Power was equivalent to control, and control was equivalent to happiness. In thirty years, life had only proven me right.

  Some sought power with a fist. I acquired it with a velvet tongue and tried-and-true strategy. For instance, in Lindenbach, I knew at least half of my in was with the mayor—a base, misguided, tone-deaf man whose power was strictly his for what his forefathers accomplished. His Stetson gave him more power than his policies ever would.

  Convincing the rest of the town was where the challenge waited. There was one sure-fire way into their good graces, and it rested somewhere in the Blum family farm.

  Maybe in Jo’s hands. Provided they weren’t occupied by another egg.

  My eyes slid over her again, noting the line of her jaw as her chin lifted in defiance. The stubborn line of her mouth that, even in its tempered rage, couldn’t flatten the plump pout of her lips. The spiteful tightening of her eyes, as blue as a gemstone lit up by a burst of flame, lined with thick, black lashes. Her hair was the color of midnight—the same shade as her sisters, who wore equally hateful looks, though they barely registered next to the bonfire that was Jo Blum.

  “If no one has any further questions or farm fare to throw”—I paused for a ripple of laughter—“we’ll see you all at the farmers' market this weekend. Come by our booth. Bring all the eggs you want.”

  The fiery color rose in Jo’s cheeks, a smudge against porcelain skin.

  “Better wear a raincoat,” Poppy Blum shouted.

  My gaze shifted to her, tightening as I smiled. “Maybe we’ll even make a game of it, Miss Blum.”

  There—the air went out of the youngest Blum just a little, just enough to know it was on my behalf, though she didn’t quit the snarl on her face.

  Satisfied, I adjourned the conference, turning to make my way up the steps with the mayor and a few others flanking me.

  “Those goddamn Blum brats,” the mayor growled. “They’ve been a pain in my ass since they were in middle school.”

  I shot him a look. “A trio of preteen girls were a problem for you?”

  His weathered face flushed with defense and embarrassment. “You didn’t see what they did to my granddaddy’s statue in town. It was indecent.”

  “Did it involve produce?”

  “I’d have preferred it. They covered it in … with … well, they hung two dozen brassieres on him like a goddamn cross-dressing fa—”

  “What color?” I interrupted, adding homophobic to my ongoing list of Mitchell’s traits.

  “The hell does it matter what color?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “All of ’em,” he answered darkly.

  I swallowed my laughter, though my face went stoic, nodding in feigned sympathy.

  “Those Blum girls are trouble,” he noted, seemingly on my behalf. “If anyone’s gonna give you a hard time, it’s them.”

  But a smile tilted my lips. “I was counting on that.”

  Puzzled, he glanced at me. “You’re going toe-to-toe with the Blums?”

  “It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “I can handle them. Question is whether they can handle me.”

  A wicked smile unfurled beneath his impressive mustache. “Fair enough, Mr. Stone. Let’s see what you can do.”

  My cocksure smile sealed the count of my chickens before they hatched.

  Because every egg was in Jo Blum’s hands.

  I just didn’t know it yet.

  3

  Bee Witches

  JO

  I pulled up to our house two days later, staring down at the two-seater Audi from my three-quarter-ton Hemi with no small amount of rage and disdain.

  By my math, only one human in the county would drive a car like that, and he shouldn’t be on my property, let alone in my house.

  If the bed of my truck wasn’t full of bees I’d just rescued from the junkyard, I could have fit that little German monstrosity between my wheel wells. Or I could have just rolled over it like The Beefeater at MonsterTruckopolis.

  Satisfying as that might have been, I probably couldn’t afford the hike on my insurance. Wouldn’t have been worth it knowing he wouldn’t give a shit. He probably had three more at home, wherever that was. Hell, I figured.

  I threw the truck into park and slid out, slamming the door as hard as I could—which took both hands—before storming up the steps and into the house.

  Our ranch had been in our family for coming up on
two-hundred years, ever since the Blums immigrated from Germany, finally stopping here in the Hill Country. I had a suspicion it wasn’t because they loved it here. More like it just kept getting hotter and hotter as they moved West, so they threw up their hands and threw down their stakes rather than continue to torture themselves or lose any more people to dysentery. But they would have been right about the weather—there was nothing between here and San Diego but desert and dirt.

  My ancestors had chosen wisely. This was the last little oasis before a vast stretch of tumbleweeds, not to mention just how many of their countrymen were here. Germans had settled in this little patch of Texas, bringing beer and brats and broad shoulders to the Lone Star State.

  Still couldn’t appreciate their stupid, impractical little sports cars, though.

  I was mad enough to spit (on The Suit’s windshield, if my mother hadn’t taught me manners), madder still when I heard him at the big formal dining table in the great room. My mother wore a polite smile, as did my eldest sister, Daisy. Poppy—the middle child—had on a smile too, though hers was more mischief than manners. She caught my eye, saying silently, Can you believe this asshole?