cover up the shivers that race up and down my spine at the way he’s looking at me. “What was I saying again?”
“You were describing how much you like the honey,” he prompts, and I watch as he unscrews the lid and dips a teaspoon inside, before holding it up to my lips. “Open up.”
My mouth pops open and Berrin places the spoon between my parted lips, his pupils widening as he watches me close my mouth around the spoon. I moan at the taste, at the thickness and sweetness, at the floral top notes and woodsy undertones.
“It’s delicious,” I say, licking the sweetness lingering on my lips. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Berrin places the spoon on the table and leans towards me, his gaze homing in on my sweetened lips. “So sweet,” he mutters, brushing his mouth against mine. I moan as he sweeps his tongue against my honeyed lips.
“Hmm,” he hums, smiling that sexy smile of his as he pulls away. “You’re right, it’s nothing like the honey you might buy at the store. For one, our honey has powerful healing qualities.”
“It does?” I ask, intrigued and simultaneously trying to catch my breath.
“Yes, the antibiotic compound it contains can help heal external wounds like cuts and grazes, as well as soothe sore throats, settle stomachs and improve digestion. If you get the flu, then a spoonful of our honey three times a day for a couple of days will pretty much help to speed up your recovery,” Berrin explains.
“That’s amazing. I had no idea honey could be so useful.”
“Yep, we owe bees a great deal. Those little critters basically keep the human race alive. Without them we’d be fucked. The food chain starts with them. Did you know that honeybees communicate with each other by dancing?”
I grin. “Stop, you’re making that up.”
“I swear to God, they do. Here, take my hand. I’ll show you.”
Berrin stands, holding his hand out to me. I grin up at him, admiring his physique and large frame. Placing my hand in his, he pulls me close as I look up at him. “I’m not sure I know how to dance,” I admit.
“That’s okay. I’ll do all the dancing for you,” he says, hauling me against his broad chest, wrapping his arm around my back and lifting me off the floor.
For the next half an hour Berrin dances with me in his arms, my feet barely touching the ground. We laugh, he sings, and little by little, I find myself opening up my heart to him in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t.
Eventually, he places me back onto my feet and grasps my hand. “Come, let me show you what we’re working on,” he says, pulling me towards the den. Aside from the first day I arrived here, I haven’t been back inside the room until now.
As I follow quietly behind Berrin, I’m well aware that I should have a million questions for him. That I should at least be questioning my own sanity, but I don’t want to ruin our moment together. This is the first time in almost two weeks that I feel at peace and even though my memories still haven’t returned fully, I know this is where I’m supposed to be. I know these men are mine. I feel it deep down inside. A certainty that has taken root in my gut and is growing with every hour in their company.
“The best wood to work with as a beginner is Basswood, it’s pliable but holds the shape well. Here,” Berrin says, snapping my attention back to him. He hands me the block of wood as I make myself comfortable in one of the armchairs. The seat is soft, too soft, and I sink into the cushion, but I don’t complain. I’m curious whose armchair this is. I have a feeling it might actually be Berrin’s, given the way he keeps shifting in the chair beside me as though uncomfortable.
“So you carve those pieces out of this wood?” I ask, looking between the incredibly detailed figurines lined up on the side table and the plain block of Basswood in my hand.
Berrin smiles. “There’s a distinct difference between whittling and carving. When we whittle we tend to only use a knife, carving utilises more than one piece of equipment. We do both. On the larger pieces there is a lot more carving.”
“How did you get into this business?” I ask, my thumb absentmindedly running over the piece of Basswood.
“Mathieson