Page 1 of Mountain Man’s Flirty Farmgirl (Wildwood Valley Harvest #1)

SIENNA

A lmost there. Almost there.

Just a few more steps. Okay, a few hundred more steps, but I was almost there.

All around me, big, handsome men were helping other merchants at this farmers market—cleverly called a harvest market—carting items from their vehicles to their booths. I’d waited a couple of minutes for help, but all the guys were taken. That was when I told myself I didn’t need help.

This was my fourth trip—the most difficult haul of all. My arms trembled under the weight. Who knew tomatoes could be so heavy? I probably should have packed them in a plastic crate, but boxes worked fine around the farm. It should be okay here, right?

A subtle shift in the box seemed to answer that question. Oh, no. This wasn’t good.

I sped up my steps, as though that could help. Even if I took off at a run, this was happening. And it was happening between here and the table.

Just as I’d decided to come to a stop and set down the box, the bottom fell out and tomatoes dropped as though they were raining from the sky.

“Fuck!”

The word slipped out before I knew it was going to. I could see my daddy’s frown as though he were standing in front of me.

“Nice girls don’t say words like that,” he always said.

“Need help with that?”

The voice came from just behind me. It was male and gruff. The words were friendly, but not the tone. I’d apparently labeled myself a nuisance just minutes after setting foot in this small mountain town.

I looked down. The box was empty. The bottom? Open. That gave me a clearer view of the pile of tomatoes at my feet. On my feet. Behind my feet. Everywhere.

“Fuck,” I said again.

Heat rose to my face. I knew my dad’s take on profanity was not only wrong, but misogynistic, but suddenly it seemed like good advice. A male stranger was behind me, and I wanted to be seen as a “nice girl.”

Whatever that meant.

I turned to look at the man behind me. Correction, the mountain of a man behind me.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it could stop a runaway truck.

Dark stubble, thick arms, black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders.

And those eyes—icy blue and somehow hotter than fire as they stared down at me.

He wasn’t smiling. Not even a little. In fact, he looked like he regretted speaking at all.

“I’ve got it,” I said, waving my hands like that could make the disaster at my feet disappear. “No big deal. Totally fine. I love a good tomato shower.”

His brow twitched. “Clearly.”

I crouched to gather them, trying not to think about the fact that at least three had burst open like bloody water balloons. Juice smeared down my calf. One was rolling toward an older lady with a walker, and I had to lunge for it like a goalie saving the game.

“You don’t have a crate?” he asked, the gravel in his voice bordering on judgmental.

“Oh, I had one. Then I thought, ‘Why not ditch the crate and go full chaos with cardboard?’ Clearly, I make excellent decisions.”

He didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the white moving truck parked behind him.

“Stay there,” he said.

“Wait, what? No, really, you don’t have to?—”

But he was already walking away, muttering something I couldn’t hear. Probably about tourists or idiots or some combination of the two.

He disappeared behind the truck for a second, then reemerged carrying a black plastic produce crate with one hand like it weighed nothing. Not that crates like that were all that heavy, just awkward to carry, as I’d learned from a young age.

“Here.” He dropped it beside me.

“Oh, thank you! That’s—seriously, you just saved me.”

He didn’t respond, just crouched and started helping me gather the tomatoes. His fingers brushed mine once, and it was like someone lit a match under my skin. I froze for a beat too long. His jaw tightened.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, cheeks going full sunburn.

“You’re bleeding.”

I blinked. “What?”

He pointed at my shin. I glanced down. A thin red line of tomato juice mixed with what was apparently actual blood from a scrape I hadn’t even felt.

“Oh.” I tried to laugh it off. “Occupational hazard. You should see me after peach season.”

His eyes flicked up to mine. Something unreadable crossed his face.

Then he stood, lifting the crate full of rescued tomatoes without a word. “Where’s your booth?”

“Over there. Two rows up, past the kettle corn guy. Left of the honey table.”

His only response was a grunted, “Follow me.”

So I did. And I watched the way people stepped aside as he passed—nodding, waving, some even choosing not to say anything at all, just giving him space. They knew not to poke the bear.

He didn’t look back once. Just kept moving with a purpose I found oddly charming, like the world was on fire and he was the only one who knew where the extinguisher was.

When we reached my booth, he set down the crate with care. Then he straightened and glanced around, taking in the empty tables around me.

“You don’t have help?” he asked.

“Nope. Just me. All solo, all week.”

“You carrying all your crap by yourself?”

I blinked at the word crap. I kind of loved it.

“I’ve made three trips already and only lost produce on the last one, so I’d say I’m batting pretty strong,” I said.

That almost earned me a smile. Not quite, but there was definitely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something softer. Maybe it was confusion, like he didn’t understand what planet I came from.

“Well,” I said, brushing my hands on my capris, “thank you. Seriously. You did not have to do that.”

He shrugged, stepping back like he was already done with me. “Crate stays with me.”

“Of course. I don’t steal crates on first meetings.”

He gave me a look. Not mean, just unreadable. Then he turned to go.

“I’m Sienna, by the way,” I called after him.

He stopped and turned back. His gaze moved over me, lingering just a second too long. Not in a creepy way, but like he was trying to memorize something he didn’t understand.

“Blade,” he said.

Then he walked away, and I was left standing behind my table, covered in tomato juice and blushing like I’d just been handed a prize ribbon for Most Flustered Vendor.

Blade. Big, grumpy, helpful Blade. He was hot as sin.

Oh, boy. This was going to be an interesting week.