Bee Stings Series

Bee Stings Trilogy - Poppy isn’t who she thought she was. Her core beliefs are tested when an inappropriate flirtation turns into something more. Can she return to who she used to be or has she been forever changed?

• (Heat Level 2/5 for adult situations) 😘

✨"I laughed out loud...I choked up once & shed a tear shortly after. Bee Stings is an incredibly funny book and it is also quite romantic." - Amazon Review✨

• Bee For Us: A meet-cute prequel about how Poppy met the loves of her life. Great intro to the Bee Stings main characters.

1. Bee Stings - A Love Triangle Chick Lit Novel: 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?
2. Bee Keeping - A Moving On Chick Lit Novel: If the hardest part is moving on--Poppy’s failing. Can she find happy, after all?
3. Plan Bee - A Second Chance Chick Lit Novel: She followed her bliss and got in over her head. How can she survive in Music City? Like the heroine of a country song, Poppy has no job, no friends, and suddenly no boyfriend. Her reality is anything but blissful. But when plan A goes awry, it's time to embrace plan B.

Hangover, I write, in simple, large, block print on the whiteboard.

“Can anyone tell me what type of word this is?”

Hands rise tentatively in the air. “Is it a compound word?” 

“Good, Makena,” I answer, weakly. “Now, who knows what hangover means?” Silence. “A hangover is when you feel yucky after a night of debauchery.”

Not exactly. It’s what happens when you find out the man you’ve secretly been falling in love with is married, and you drink enough rum to make a pirate pass out. Then you have to teach fourth grade, feeling like you’d rather be resting comfortably at the bottom of the Atlantic. I plaster a smile back on my face.

“Can we use hangover in a sentence? Hmm. How about — Ms. Rodriguez has a hangover, so we should be super-nice to her today.” I can tell I’m frightening them.

The telephone blares shrill. I sit bolt upright in bed, blinking sleepily.

“What?”

“Whoa, I thought you were up,” Anne Marie says.

“I am now. I was having this crazy dream. What do you need?”

“I’m subbing at your school today. Want to do lunch?”

“Oh no! You are?” I stifle a yawn. “Can you cancel and take my class? I have a wicked hangover.”

“Sorry, babe, this has been planned for a while, just get someone else,” she says, teasing.

“I don’t trust anyone else to handle my class without lesson plans.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, but I can’t afford to tick off the flying monkeys at the district office.”

“Yeah, they are unforgiving.” 

“So, I’ll see you at lunch?” 

“Sure.”

I desperately grope the night stand for the aspirin I had the forethought to put there last night. My parched throat holds the two pills hostage until I’m running for the bathroom to empty the contents of my stomach: remnants of pizza and rum, along with the two little white pills that look artistic floating on the vomit. After swabbing my face with a moist towel, I hurl myself to the closet and pull on a pair of khakis, a white T-shirt, and trendy sneakers — well, knockoff sneakers.

As I open the back door, my hybrid Terri-Poo, Preston, runs out to do his business, while I throw anything I might need today into one gigantic bag. I step outside, narrowly missing a fresh pile of dog crap, which I will clean later, push Preston inside, and slip down the back stairs.

I will not puke again. I will not. I’m fine, just fine. I’m trying to keep the vomit, headache, and nerves from overwhelming me as I inch through the Valley on the 101 freeway. Angry honking trails me as I bypass the clogged lanes from the shoulder, but I’m forced to exit when I’m diverted by an off ramp. Good as any, I think, following the other cars escaping the congestion. Thanks to my father’s insistence, in case of the Big One, I’ve mapped alternate routes to and from work. I’m making great time navigating the side streets but there’s one stretch of horror I can’t avoid, the chaos of morning drop-off on Blackbird Lane.

“Ugh! Traffic!” I shout, before checking to make sure all the windows are up.

Driving the wrong way down the street, I bypass the super-sized SUVs blocking the driveway, floor the gas, and bounce over the curb into the parking lot. It’s supposed to be reserved for teachers, but everyone uses it and it’s packed as usual. I can hear the excuses now; I just needed to chit chat with all the other moms before going to Pilates. I couldn’t be bothered to park on the street and walk a few feet. My car slides into the last open spot and I bolt out, boobs jiggling.

“Ms. Rodriguez, Ms. Rodriguez — Poppy.”

She’s caught me, shoot. “Yes, Mrs. Vickerson?” As I turn around, I spot Anne Marie approaching us from the office. She’s wearing a lime green beret, has a sparkly plush lizard on her shoulder, and is getting odd looks from the parents driving around the drop-off loop.

“Excuse me, where is room twelve?” Anne Marie, my best friend, struggling artist, and sometimes substitute teacher, interrupts.

Mrs. Vickerson slowly turns around. “Didn’t you get a campus map in your sub folder?”

Anne Marie shakes her head and glares at Mrs. Vickerson.

Even in that ridiculous get up, she’s intimidating.

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that you are expected at school half an hour before the first bell,” Mrs. Vickerson says.

“You sure don’t,” Anne Marie replies, smiling tight-lipped.

Her response flusters Mrs. Vickerson momentarily. I’ve never seen anyone speak to her with such open disdain.

“I’ll take you there,” I say, pulling Anne Marie down the hall by the crook of her arm.

“I hate talking to that woman, especially when she fixes her eyes on me and sways from side to side, waiting to strike. She’s like a viper,” Anne Marie says.

As we weave through the throng of superhero and princess backpacks, I’m greeted by former students, now sophisticated fifth graders, but it’s Anne Marie who’s garnering the excited yelps. She takes it in stride and adjusts the lizard on her shoulder.

“Did you just get here?” I ask.

“No. I was trolling the teachers’ lounge for goodies.”

“Those are on Friday. Mrs. Vickerson was so nasty. I’ve never seen that side of her.”

“Welcome to my world. People just don’t feel the need to be polite to subs since we’re generally around for only one day.”

“That’s sad. I appreciate you distracting her to take the heat off me.”

“What are best friends for?” She turns down the hall, students trailing behind her like she’s the Pied Piper.

I stumble into my classroom, thanks to the janitor, who for some strange reason leaves the trash cans lined up just inside the door, like a barricade. Every Wednesday it’s the same, and every Wednesday I forget and knock them down like bowling pins.

Skidding on an errant black plastic liner, I go sprawling across the floor as the automatic lights jump on.

“Seriously, Ryan?” I scramble after my lip gloss and pens. I would have thought that my little comment the other day would have prevented this weekly ritual. “Where is my tampon?”

I dump the contents of the bag onto the floor, searching through the mess. It’s not there. All I find under the bookcase is a sticky lollipop and spider webs. This is all I need today.

A combination of an incredibly irritating buzzing and ringing peals through the room, amplifying my headache. Jumping up, I abandon my search, fling the bag behind my desk, and race to the whiteboard, scribbling morning instructions as my class arrives.

Twenty-eight students are charging down the hall expecting their cheery teacher. I do my best to rearrange my face as I expertly flip the doorstop in one fluid motion.

“Good morning,” I say softly. Even the sound of my own voice causes throbbing pain.

They answer back in a loud chorus.

I grimace, shutting my eyes tightly.

“Ms. Rodriguez, Ms. Rodriguez, I have a loose tooth,” Samantha shouts, twisting it almost three-hundred-sixty degrees with her fingers. I think I’m going to vomit, again.

“Can you not do that?” I ask, looking away and rubbing my forehead. “I wouldn’t want you to lose it. Wait to take it out at home.”

She nods, and skips to her cubby.

As I’m leaning against my desk, willing myself to focus, Dylan brings me the guitar. I gently lay it across my desk, and whisper, “Not today, Dylan.” He looks up at me, wide-eyed.

“Hey, what’s this?” Jefferson asks, holding up my errant tampon.

“It’s a… lint roller,” I reply, sprinting across the room.

“No, it’s not!” Makena says, plucking it from his hand. “It’s a tampon, for when you have the rag.”

The boys make barfing noises and the girls giggle. “No, it’s not,” I say, reaching for the tampon.

“Then why does it say tampon on the side?” she asks, pointing at me accusingly with the slim white tube.

There’s an hour and twenty minutes until recess; I don’t think I’m going to make it.

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