The Burbs and the Bees

I just inherited an apple orchard in Nova Scotia.

That's definitely a sentence I never would have imagined saying in my life.

I've only ever been a socialite from New York, but that orchard is my chance to prove to my family, and myself, that I can do more. Be more. I may not exactly know what I want out of life yet, but I'm determined to stick to something—and no, I'm not talking about the bee farmer next door.

Here's what I know. If I can't tough out one full month of a rooster waking me at sunrise, a poolhall parrot with a foul mouth, and a llama that swings both ways, not only will I lose my self respect, I'll lose my trust fund too.

Here's what I don't know. Why my neighbor with the bad attitude and a whole lot of sexy seems hell bent on sending me home. Well screw him. Not literally, of course. Except I just stumbled into his apiary, and got a look at the head beekeepers . . . stinger.

Contains mature themes.

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