Bee Stings

Poppy has it all figured out…until a charming baker turns her world upside down.

Can they whip a recipe for romance that defies the odds?

After months of buzzing around 4 & 20 bakery Poppy finally catches Michael's attention, too bad it's while she’s drunk off her, ahem...class. So much for keeping up the appearance of a professional fourth-grade teacher.

Michael is instantly enchanted and before considering the consequences, he decides to teach Poppy a thing or two in the kitchen and insists she joins his beginner's baking class.

There are just two issues: it's an after-school baking class for children..., and he's married. Now Poppy’s fighting her instincts, which let’s be honest, still want to spend an insane amount of time with Michael.

Despite their sticky predicament, Poppy and Michael can’t fight their sizzling attraction.

When reality threatens to pop their bubble, will Poppy succumb to the sweetest temptation, or will their budding romance leave her stung?

If you love chick lit novels that bring all the feels, then you’ll adore Bee Stings.

Michael and Poppy's meet-cute . . .
“What are you doing here?” Michael asks, leaning over my left shoulder, his lips grazing my side ponytail. Is he being flirtatious or has he just misgauged the distance between us? I can’t tell, but a grin stupidly spreads across my face anyway. The inviting, homey scent of fresh-­baked bread radiates off him. I breathe in deeply, forgetting place and time. He chuckles, and I realize that I’ve been leaning close, sniffing him.
“It’s the halfway mark,” I say, straightening up, taking another swig. He lifts one eyebrow sexily. “There are only ninety more days of school left. We’re halfway to summer break. We’re celebrating.”
“We?” he asks, turning to take in the mostly empty bar and my nonexistent companions.
“They went home ages ago. They all had someplace to be, or someone to be with, but I don’t, so here I am.” I laugh and flush before downing the syrupy remnants in my glass. What is wrong with me?
“Then, why don’t I join the celebration?” he suggests casually, his deep blue eyes peeking through dark lashes.
Without waiting for a reply, he takes both our drinks and settles into a dark booth. I hop off the stool and wobble so violently in my sensible flats that I have to steady myself on the bar for a few ungraceful seconds. Utilizing each of my functioning brain cells, I manage to walk over to the booth and crawl in. From his amused look, I’m either making an idiot out of myself, or he finds me entertaining. Maybe both.
“To things that are half over,” he says, raising his bottle.