be denied her. Only her brother treated her with the loving disdain of someone you’d shared a womb with.
Now even total strangers were offering their heavily loaded opinions.
She’d met Elliott Garvey’s type before. Motivated by money. She couldn’t quite bring herself to suggest it was greed, because she’d seen no evidence of excess on his part, but then again she’d only known him for an hour or two.
Though it definitely felt longer.
Particularly the time out by the hives. She’d been distracted the whole time, feeling his heat reaching out to her, deciding he was standing too close to both her and the hives but then having his voice position proving her wrong. Unless he occupied more space than the average person? Maybe he was a large man?
He hadn’t sounded particularly puffed after his hike up the hill. Or while they’d power-walked to the carriage. There was no way of knowing without touching him. Or asking outright.
Excuse me, Mr Garvey, are you overweight?
He’d been just as direct with her, asking about her vision, so maybe he was the kind of man you could ask that of? Except she wasn’t the kind of woman who could ever ask it. Not without it sounding—and feeling—judgemental. And, as a lifelong recipient of the judgement of others, she was the last person to intentionally do it to another.
Nope. Elliott Garvey was a puzzle she would have to piece together incrementally. Subtly, or her mother would start pressing the paper for wedding invitations. But she couldn’t take too long or he’d be gone back to his corporate world, because she felt certain that her father wouldn’t agree to a series of visits. He’d only agreed to this one to be compliant with their financial management requirements.
Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t enjoy the next twenty-four hours. As much as she hated to admit it, he smelled really good. Most men in their district let the surf provide their hygiene and they either wore Eau de Farm or they bathed in fifty-per-cent-off cologne before driving into town to try and pick up. Elliott Garvey just had a tangy hint of...something...coming off him. And he was smart, too, which made his deep tones all the easier to listen to. Nothing worse than a phone sex voice on a man who had nothing of interest to say.
Not that she necessarily agreed with what he had to say, but he was astute and respectful, and he’d been about as tactful questioning her about her sight as anyone she’d ever met. Those first awkward moments notwithstanding.
‘So you’d be happy to show him around, Laney?’ her father repeated as they laid the table in their timber and glass home for dinner that evening.
Spending a bit more time in Elliott Garvey’s company wasn’t going to be an excruciating hardship. He was offering her his commercial expertise for free and she’d be happy to see the Morgan’s range reflected through the filter of that expertise. Maybe there’d be a quiet thing or two she could implement here on the farm. Without taking them global. There was still plenty of scope for improvement without worrying about world domination.
And then there was the whole enjoying the sound and smell of him...
‘Sure.’
She reached over one of the timber chairs and flattened her palm on the table, then placed the fork at her thumb and the knife at her widespread little finger. ‘It’s only one more day.’
‘Actually, I was thinking of agreeing to his request,’ her father said.
The chair-leg grunted on the timber floor as she stumbled against it. ‘To let him come back again?’
‘I’d like to hear the man out.’
‘Surely it couldn’t take more than a day to give him a courtesy listen?’
‘Not if he’s to see the full range of our operations first hand. Too much of it is seasonal.’
Spring and summer were all about honey-harvesting, but the remaining six months of the year they concentrated on other areas of their operation. They lived and worked through winter on the back of the honey harvest. Just like the bees did.
‘How many times?’
‘That’s up to him,’ her father suggested. ‘It’s business as usual for us.’
‘Easy for you to say—you’re not tasked with babysitting.’
‘You’re the best one to talk turkey with the man, Laney. Most of what we now do are your initiatives.’
‘They’re our initiatives, Dad. The whole family discussed and agreed.’
Well, she’d discussed and her parents had agreed. Owen had just shrugged.
‘But you created them.’
‘Someone else created them. I just suggested we adopt them.’
‘Stop playing down your strengths,’ he grumbled. As usual.
‘Would you rather I took credit for the work of others?’ she battled. As usual.
Frustration oozed from his tone. ‘I’d rather you took some credit for yourself from time to time. Who knows? If you impress him enough there might be a job in it for you.’
‘I have a job here.’
‘A better job.’
The presumption that her job wasn’t already about the best occupation a person could hope for really rankled. ‘Why would they hire me, Dad? Not a lot of call for apiarists in the city.’
‘Why wouldn’t they hire you? You’re as smart and capable as anyone else. More so.’
‘How about because I know nothing about their industry?’
‘He’s trained to recognise raw talent. He’d be crazy not to take you on.’
Laney got the tiniest thrill at the thought of being taken on in any way by Elliott Garvey, but she fought it. ‘You don’t just hire someone because they seem generally capable, Dad.’
‘You’re as worthy as anyone of your chance.’
Dread pooled thick and low. Oh, here we go... ‘Dad, promise me you won’t do the whole Laney-sell job.’
As he was so very wont to do. Over and over during her childhood, much to her dismay. But the thought of him humiliating her like that with Elliott Garvey... Ugh.
‘I’ll promise no such thing. I’m proud of my daughter and her achievements and not too shy to admit it.’
‘He’s here to study our operations, not—’
‘I liked him,’ her mother piped up, apropos of pretty much nothing, as she placed a heavy dish on the table with a punctuating clunk. Chicken stew, from the delicious aroma. All organic, like the rest of their farm. ‘He’s handsome.’
Her father grunted. ‘Don’t change the subject, Ellen.’
‘You think everyone’s handsome, Mum.’ Laney lowered her voice instinctively as she and her father helped ferry clean plates to the table, even though she’d heard Elliott Garvey’s expensive tyres on the driveway gravel about twenty minutes earlier. ‘Besides, what do looks have to do with a person’s integrity or goodness?’
‘I can’t comment on those until I’ve shared a meal with the man. So can we please just do that before setting our minds in any particular direction?’
‘You’ll have to invite him first, and he goes home tomorrow afternoon.’ So there went the dinner plan. Conveniently.
‘I have invited him. That’s his setting you just laid.’
She straightened immediately. No. She’d only set the table for the usual four. ‘Where’s Owen?’
‘Chasing some surfer tourist,’ his father muttered.
At twenty-five she might still be a work