Sweet as Honey (Aster Valley 2)

His skin was cool and smooth, and his slender fingers disappeared into my beefy grip. I was almost afraid of breaking the poor guy like a twig.

I shifted on my feet and forced myself to let his hand go. “I’d offer you a ride into town, but I’m not sure if my bike is up for it.”

I wanted to beat the shit out of the asshole who wrecked my bike and hassled this little man, but I’d do the right thing and report him to the cops instead.

Truman glanced around as if trying to remember where he was. “We’re only a half mile from town. It’s a little hilly, but walkable. Plus, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

I nodded absently while looking him up and down, trying to find some reason a grown man would be alone in a field of wildflowers in a bee costume. I opened my mouth to ask him but quickly snapped it closed. The whole point of this vacation road trip—after a quick stop here in Aster Valley to visit Mikey and Tiller—was to relax and unwind before I had to return to my responsibilities in Texas. Truman Sweet and his problems were none of my business.

“Guess I’d better get moving, then,” I said gruffly before stretching my head side to side and grabbing the backpack out of my saddlebags. I hadn’t brought much with me, but I didn’t want to leave my laptop and what little clothes I had to whoever might come along.

When I turned back to head toward the little town, I caught Truman staring at me. He blushed a deeper pink and looked away. The antennae bounced adorably on the headband he wore.

“There a good bike mechanic in town?” I asked, trying to ignore the way his pink cheeks tightened my gut.

“Oh! Yes, sir. Of course. Mr. Browning at the Chop Shop.” His eyes widened. “I mean, it’s not an actual chop shop, like with criminals. It’s just called Chop Shop. I think it stands for something like Chopper. Is that a thing? Like, a kind of bike? They do cars and trucks, too.”

I nodded and bit my lip against a smile. “Yes, a chopper is a style of bike with a long fork and…” He looked lost, so I stopped there. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Mr. Rigby. Happy to help.”

I tilted my head at him. Had I misjudged this guy? “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. Why?”

“I’m thirty. Why are you calling me sir and mister? Do I look that much older?”

He blushed again. “Oh no, S-S-Sam. I just know that some men demand respect, and I don’t ever like to make assumptions. Besides, one can never go wrong with good etiquette. At least that’s what they say. Although… I’ve never really understood who ‘they’ are in this scenario.”

“Not all men deserve respect even if they demand it. Why does that man think his problems are your fault?”

Truman frowned and looked down at his feet. The yellow tights he wore ended in a pair of black Converse that looked as clean as they could be for the mileage they seemed to have on them. I regretted asking the question as soon as it caused his cheerful smile to disappear.

He flapped his hand in the air. “It’s a long story and would probably bore you to tears. We should get you to Mr. Browning’s place before he closes up for the day. I’ll show you where it is.”

He spun on his heel and started walking down the side of the highway. The fuzzy black stinger on his butt wiggled back and forth as he moved away from me. How could someone that innocent and sweet possibly be responsible for an asshole’s personal problems?

I followed him for a while in silence before I couldn’t stand it anymore. Maybe I could let Truman be my business for as long as it took to get to the mechanic.

“I don’t mind long stories,” I said.

He turned his sunny smile on me again. “Then you’ll love this one. Did you know that Indian Paintbrush—that red flower there—was called ‘Grandmothers Hair’ by the Chippewa and was used to treat women’s diseases? The Navajos used it as a contraceptive, and the Menominee used it as a love charm. Obviously, it was used to make red dye also, but I find it fascinating that the stories of its name vary from place to place. One story tells of a Blackfoot maiden falling for a prisoner, helping him escape, and then becoming homesick. The story goes on to describe her using her own blood to paint a picture of her old camp that she could never return to again. Where she dropped the picture, a flower bloomed, thus becoming the plant we know today. Then another story describes a Native American painter—tribe unknown—frustrated by his lack of the perfect colors to depict a sunset. He asked the Great Spirit for guidance and was given paintbrushes with all of the richest colors. He ran up into the hills to paint his sunset and left the brushes in the grass where they lay when he was done. The brushes blossomed into the plants we now know as Indian paintbrush.”