The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) by Alison Kent Read Free Book Online Page A

Sugar. Indiana didn’t think she heard the words anywhere but Malina’s. “I’ll have the same, thanks.”
    “Be right back with both cups. Menus are right there,” the woman said, nodding toward the laminated place mats tucked between the condiment caddy and napkin dispenser.
    Oliver reached for two, handed one to Indiana. “I can’t decide if I’m in the mood for pancakes, or biscuits and gravy.”
    That made her smile. “Somehow I can’t picture you eating biscuits and gravy.”
    “Oh, well,” he said with a shrug. “I do it from a silver spoon.”
    Touché. “I’m being a snob, aren’t I?” she asked, her smile as genuine as it was self-deprecating. Sometimes it really was better not to speak her mind.
    “I don’t know,” he said, his gaze on the clip-art menu. “You tell me.”
    “Okay. I am. Or I was, and I apologize. I just—” she said, and stopped, because what was she going to say? She didn’t know why he was here with someone like her. And what did that even mean? That she didn’t think herself good enough for him? Really?
    He waved off her apology, and thankfully didn’t press for her to finish what she’d been going to say. “It comes with the name. I get that. My mother uses it to her advantage. But I’m not my mother. Or my father. And there are times I’d just as soon not be a Gatlin.”
    What an interesting thing for him to say. “You want to know how the other half lives?”
    “Something like that,” he said, then went silent as their waitress delivered two cups of steaming water and two tea bags in paper packets before stepping away. Oliver tore his open, dropped the bag into the mug, and draped the string and tab over the edge.
    Indiana did the same, breathing deeply of the fragrant bergamot as she smiled. “This is one of my favorite smells in the world. Bergamot. And mandarin and tangerine and, well, lemon meringue and key lime pie, and fresh-squeezed Ruby Red grapefruit.”
    His smile was indulgent. And curious. “Do you have citrus trees? On your farm?”
    She shook her head. “I can’t compete with the growers in the Rio Grande Valley. And my operation is fairly small. I stick to greens and gourds and peppers and corn. Tomatoes. Watermelon. Cantaloupe. Okra. Sometimes strawberries, but not often.”
    “You sell at farmers markets?”
    She nodded, stirring sugar into her tea. “I supply a few local grocers, too, and have contracts with a couple of larger chains for their stores in the area.”
    “That doesn’t sound small,” he said, and she wanted to say he was right. It wasn’t small at all.
    In fact, it was huge. Not the farm, but the fact that she’d made it herself. Her degree. The business loan. The equipment and the buildings and the people she employed, whose labor and advice she depended on.
    But she was saved from bragging by the return of their waitress, and was glad. The success of IJK Gardens, the ups and the downs and the hard, hard work—all of it was worth bragging about, but not to this man. He’d been born into privilege; how could he possibly understand?
    And, wow. What was up with her and snobbery today?
    “All righty, then. Y’all ready to order?”
    Oliver didn’t hesitate, saying, “I’ll have biscuits and gravy with a side of sausage and two scrambled eggs,” holding Indiana’s gaze as he did.
    An unexpected blip in her pulse had her swallowing, then telling their waitress, “I’ll have what he’s having.” Once the woman left, promising to be back in five minutes with their food, she said, “You’re welcome to tour the farm anytime.”
    “I’d like that,” he said, wrapping his cup in both of his hands, a small vee appearing between his brows as he asked, “Why expand into Hope Springs instead of building your annex in Buda?”
    She brought her cup to her mouth, wondering whether his question was a simple query, or as loaded as it seemed. Because wasn’t that subtext, real or imagined, the very reason they were