Page 2 of Mountain Man’s Flirty Farmgirl (Wildwood Valley Harvest #1)

BLADE

S ienna. The name was almost musical as it rolled through my head over and over—all morning, all afternoon.

The newly arriving merchants kept me busy, mostly because the other guys had helped me out at the loading dock during the initial rush, then headed off to their other assigned duties. That left me alone to haul crap. Candles, baked goods, even a bunch of Christmas decorations for some crafts table.

My mind was on one thing, though. The beautiful brunette with curves that threatened to burst the seams of her red-and-white checkered farm shirt and denim capris.

I should have shoved her out of my mind like I would any other woman. But she wasn’t any other woman. I knew that already. I’d known that the second I looked at her.

“I need your help.”

The voice pulled me from my thoughts. A feminine voice. A voice I knew so well already. Weird but true.

I turned to find the beautiful brunette staring at me, eyes wide, smile big. But there was still a hint of tension on her face. She was stressed, and this time, it no doubt had nothing to do with runaway tomatoes.

“What’s up?” I asked.

I tried to summon the same annoyance I’d have if anyone else had approached me here. I always did my best to fake my eagerness to help, which meant acting exactly as I was right now. But with her, it wasn’t acting. I genuinely wanted to help her.

Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be eager to help anyone . What was going on here?

“I need power,” she said.

I blinked at the statement, my mind trying to process it. She needed power. Control? She thought I could somehow give that to her?

She glanced back over her shoulder before continuing. “I have a cider-tasting station to help promote my farm-fresh apples. I didn’t realize we could request power. I missed that whole part of the application.”

Now I really was battling annoyance. Electricity required setup in advance. We’d done all that last week, while we put together the various tables that made the vendor booths this week.

She sighed. “Without it, I’m just selling fruit, which is fine. But I won’t win the contest that way.”

That godforsaken contest was going to be the death of me.

All the vendors were competing for some made-up award called “Best in Harvest.” The mayor had donated a trophy, and one of the boutique owners in nearby Hartsville was throwing in a fancy fall-themed prize basket to boost participation.

All it did was make the new vendors frantic.

Sienna was frantic. And beautiful. And looking right at me like I was the only one who could save her from cider-related disgrace.

“Where’s your setup?” I asked.

Her whole face lit up. “Just past the kettle corn guy. I’m the table with the checkered cloth and corn stalks.”

I knew that. I’d helped her carry her tomatoes to her station, after all. Something about her scrambled my brainwaves.

“I brought mums too,” she said. “Deep orange, super pretty.”

“Do you have a cord?” I asked.

“I…no.” Her smile faltered. “I didn’t realize we had to bring those.”

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve told her I was busy. That she needed to take it up with event coordination. Instead, I sighed and tipped my head toward the power trailer behind my truck.

“Come on.”

Her shoes crunched on the gravel behind me, quick and light. She caught up just as I unlocked the back of the trailer and pulled out an extension cord and a three-way splitter.

“You’re really saving me,” she said. “I can’t believe I forgot something so basic. My mom’s going to laugh so hard when she hears. She’s always teasing me about being too scatterbrained to run a business.”

I didn’t say anything. Just grabbed a bundle of zip ties and started walking toward her booth. I could hear her rushing behind me to keep up.

“It’s probably not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I mean, it’s a little chaotic. I had a whole vision when I packed everything, but in person, it doesn’t always come together the same way, you know?”

I had no idea. But I nodded anyway.

We reached her table, and I had to admit, it wasn’t bad.

Straw bales flanked either side, one stacked with baskets of shiny apples, the other with little jars of caramel dip and wooden sticks.

Corn stalks were tied to the table legs.

Her warm cider jugs were arranged neatly with mismatched mugs, and even her little chalkboard sign looked halfway professional.

It looked like her. Sunshiny and earthy and a little too eager.

I crouched to assess the table legs, found where I could anchor the cord safely without making it a tripping hazard, then fed the line through the grass from the nearest pole. When I stood to adjust the cider plate she’d placed off-center, her eyes were already on me.

“You’re a harvest superhero,” she said with a soft laugh. “Here to rescue poor frazzled vendors who didn’t read the instructions.”

I grunted. She smiled.

When I plugged in the plate and flipped the switch, the little red light came on, and she actually clapped. “Yes! You’re amazing. Do you want a cup of cider? I could put a cinnamon stick in it. It’s farm-pressed. My neighbor does all the apple harvesting.”

“I’m good.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind, the first one’s free.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. But I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. I had to test the connections and make sure her cords weren’t going to short out. I crouched again, twisting one of the ties just a little tighter.

That’s when I felt her eyes on me, lingering. Then she cleared her throat, clearly caught.

“You know…you don’t have to do all of this.”

“I know.”

Her smile was softer this time, a little hesitant. “But you’re doing it anyway.”

I stood. “Booth like this could win.”

She lit up like the sunrise. “You think so?”

“Maybe. If you moved the mums to the front corners. Right now they’re fighting the caramel jars for attention.”

She blinked at me, stunned. “Wait, you actually—? You’re like a booth whisperer.”

I didn’t respond. Just walked over, picked up the mum pots, and set them in new positions.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s way better.”

“You’ll want your sign angled out too,” I muttered, crouching to move it. “Not flat to the table. No one sees it until they’re right in front of you.”

“You’re really good at this.”

“I’ve hauled a lot of setups.”

“Still, thank you.”

Just then, one of the teen volunteers came around the corner with a box of sandwiches. “Lunch drop!” she called. “Turkey or veggie?”

I grabbed a turkey box, then looked at Sienna. She took a veggie, plopping onto the hay bale at the end of her booth and patting the space beside her.

I hesitated, then I sat. The cider machine gave a soft hiss. Kids laughed in the distance. And for a minute, the buzz of the market faded into the background.

We ate in silence at first. She chewed with her mouth closed. I didn’t force conversation.

Finally, she said, “I don’t know how you feel about crowds, but there’s a cocktail thing tonight at the inn. Just an hour or so. Vendors only. Sort of a welcome mixer.”

I raised a brow.

“Totally optional,” she added. “But I’ll be there. If you happen to show up, I’ll save you a seat.”

I still didn’t answer.

She gave a little shrug. “No pressure.”

Then she stood, took her sandwich wrapper, and tossed it into the bin behind her booth. When she turned back, I was still there. Still watching her. Still wondering what the hell was happening to me.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

Her smile could’ve lit up the valley.

“Good.” She picked up a mug, poured a fresh serving of cider, and handed it to me like she’d been waiting for that exact moment. “Just in case you change your mind.”

As I watched her walk back behind her booth, I’d already changed my mind about a hell of a lot more than cider.