Page 1 of Mountain Man’s Corn Maze Cutie (Wildwood Valley Harvest #3)

CECELIA

I spotted the gorgeous mountain man immediately, towering above the sea of ten-year-olds gathered in front of my booth.

I tried to ignore him and focus on the task at hand, but it was almost impossible. Even when I wasn’t looking at him, he was there in my periphery, all tall and broad-shouldered and muscular.

He was beyond handsome. He was hot. He was the stuff fantasies were made of.

Not that I had time to fantasize. I was too busy building a business.

“Can I have two bags?” a slightly older kid asked as he pushed his way through the younger kids.

“No,” the Greek god of a man said.

Very succinct and overly assertive. I would assume this guy was in charge of these kids, but their leader—a woman in her early thirties named Taylor— had introduced all of them when they first arrived.

They were a church group on a trip, so the guy behind them must be a chaperone. Probably this boy’s father.

Everyone turned and looked at him. A few of the kids leaned away from him. He definitely seemed intimidating. Drop-dead gorgeous or not, that scowl wasn’t doing him any favors.

“No,” Taylor said. “Get one bag, and then we’re going to the corn maze.”

They’d all turned back to me by then, like I had any say in this matter. I smiled at Taylor as I scooped my harvest mix into the paper popcorn bag—candy corn, pretzels, and kettle corn. An odd combination, but it worked. The salty-sweet contrast made it addictive.

The man said nothing else. I expected him to introduce himself or somehow show how he was involved with this group. He just stood there, glowering at me over the heads of excited, smiling fourth graders. It was like a rain cloud moving over a sunshine-soaked field.

“I’ll be back for a few bags of popcorn before we leave today,” Taylor said as I handed over her credit card after tapping it on my phone.

My gaze had somehow drifted to the scary gorgeous guy, and now we were locked in a stare. “I’ll be here tomorrow too,” I somehow managed to force out.

“We’re heading back tonight,” Taylor said. “But I’ll swing by on our way out. Come on, kids.”

As the crowd between us drifted off to the left toward the corn maze, I suddenly felt exposed. There was nothing between me and the Greek god but a table full of bagged popcorn. He didn’t step closer, though. He seemed determined to keep a comfortable distance.

“You’re going to get someone killed with that stuff,” he said.

My polite smile vanished. It was only then that I was aware my face had been frozen in a smile—old habit.

I managed a clothing store in an outlet mall for a living while I built my popcorn empire on the side.

These days it was more like a village than an empire, but I had determination and a good assistant manager who could cover for me at the store while I traveled around to various farmers’ markets.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “It’s just candy corn, pretzels, and kettle corn. I have the potential allergens listed there.”

I pointed to the sign with the allergy warning. I’d learned after my first local fall festival that peanuts weren’t an option, so I’d experimented with pretzels and found my mix tasted even better.

“Someone just lost her footing in a pile of that crap,” he said, pointing to the retro popcorn popper I’d set up to hold my harvest mix.

“My ‘crap’ seems to be doing pretty well here today,” I said, immediately taking offense at his description of my pride and joy.

“And it’s not exactly slippery—well, maybe the candy corn is, but the kettle corn will just crunch beneath their feet.

I think a customer is trying to make some money off this festival. ”

He looked toward the corn maze. “She didn’t threaten to sue. But someone will. And I can’t spend my day chasing groups of kids around, cleaning up after them.”

I shifted in my seat, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes at him behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses. “So, what exactly are you suggesting I do about it? Follow every customer around with a dustpan?”

His jaw tightened. “You could stop selling the messy stuff.”

“The messy stuff?” I stood up, my chair scraping noisily against the ground. “The messy stuff is what makes me unique. It’s what brings people back.”

“It’s what’s going to bring lawsuits.”

“One person slipped—allegedly—and suddenly I’m a public menace?” I gestured toward my setup. “I’ve been selling at vendor events for two years. I’ve never had a single complaint.”

“Well, you’ve got one now.”

The man was infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

And unfortunately, also gorgeous. Even scowling at me like I was some kind of criminal, he was hands down the most attractive man I’d ever seen in person.

Broad shoulders stretched his gray Henley to its limits, and his dark hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it.

Probably from dealing with “messy stuff” vendors like me.

“And you are?” I asked, realizing we’d been arguing for five minutes and I didn’t even know his name.

“Marc Fowler. I built the corn maze.”

Of course, he did. Of course the gorgeous, grumpy man was the one responsible for the maze that half my customers disappeared into after buying my only open-bag product.

“Well, Marc Fowler, I’m Cecelia Whitney, and this is my livelihood.” I swept my hand around to indicate my booth. “I can’t exactly change my entire product line because one person might have slipped on some popcorn.”

“You could put up signs warning people not to take open containers into the maze.”

“I could. But I won’t.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous. People eat while they walk around. That’s the whole point of festival food. It’s supposed to be portable.”

Marc stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of something woodsy and masculine. Probably sawdust and pine from building mazes. It shouldn’t have been attractive, but somehow it was.

“My maze took me three weeks to design and two weeks to build,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I used military tactical planning to create something challenging but safe. I can’t have people turning it into a snack bar.”

“Military tactical planning?” I couldn’t help but smile. “For a corn maze?”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp. “Don’t make fun of it.”

The smile faded from my face. “I wasn’t making fun of it. I was just—it’s impressive. Taking it that seriously.”

Something flickered across his features, too quick for me to identify.

“Look,” I said, trying for a more reasonable tone. “I understand you’re proud of your work. I’m proud of mine too. But I can’t control what people do after they buy from me any more than you can control whether they get lost in your maze.”

“I can control the maze. That’s the point. Every dead end, every turn, every exit—it’s all planned.”

“Must be nice having that much control over something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. Just that life isn’t usually that neat and organized.”

“Some things should be.”

We stared at each other for a long moment. He was standing close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They were gray, I realized. Storm gray, like clouds gathering over the mountains.

“How about a compromise?” I heard myself saying, even though compromising was the last thing I wanted to do.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll put up a small sign suggesting people finish their snacks before entering the maze. But I’m not making it a big warning sign, and I’m not changing what I sell.”

Marc considered this, his gaze never leaving my face. I wondered what he was seeing. Probably a stubborn vendor in a floral sundress and cardigan, hair escaping from its ponytail after a long morning of selling.

“And if someone gets hurt?” he asked.

“Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. But I’m betting it won’t.”

“You’re betting a lot on that.”

“I’m betting on common sense. Most people don’t go into a corn maze while juggling food.”

“Most people have common sense,” he said. “But some people don’t.”

“Some people will always find a way to hurt themselves, no matter how many warning signs you put up.”

Marc’s mouth quirked up at one corner, and for a split second, I thought he might actually smile. But then his expression went serious again.

“Fine. One small sign.”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand.

He looked at it for a moment before reaching out to shake it. His hand was warm and callused and completely engulfed mine. The contact sent an unexpected jolt up my arm.

“I’ll have it ready by tomorrow morning,” I said, pulling my hand back maybe a little too quickly.

“See that you do.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me staring after him like an idiot. I watched until he disappeared into the crowd near the maze entrance, then I sank back into my chair.

What had just happened? I’d been having a perfectly normal argument with a perfectly unreasonable man, and somehow it had turned into…what? Flirting?

No. Definitely not flirting. Marc Fowler was clearly not the flirting type. He was a serious, military-precision, corn-maze-building guy who probably thought fun was a four-letter word.

So why was my heart still racing?

I looked down at my hand, the one he’d shaken. I could still feel the warmth of his skin, the rough texture of his palm.

This was ridiculous. I didn’t have time for whatever this was. I had a business to run, popcorn to sell, and apparently, a small sign to make.

But as I turned back to my display, straightening bags and refilling containers, I couldn’t stop glancing toward the corn maze entrance, hoping for another glimpse of Marc Fowler.