Page 3 of Mountain Man’s Flirty Farmgirl (Wildwood Valley Harvest #1)

SIENNA

S enior year, I had a massive crush on a guy named Bryce.

I could clearly remember sitting in the cafeteria, watching for him out of the corner of my eye while trying not to look like I was watching for him. I got pretty skilled at it. When he’d show up, my heart would jump and my breath would catch.

That was exactly how I felt, standing in the relatively small banquet room of the Wildwood Valley Inn.

I was at a cocktail table with a few other vendors, including two that I was pretty sure would become good friends this week.

One, Marissa, was a fall-themed spice seller from Nashville.

The other, Cecelia, was a gourmet popcorn vendor from a rural town in southern Alabama.

Someone else at the table, a woman from somewhere in the New England area, was asking for tips on how to make the perfect loaf of Southern-style banana bread. That was when I caught sight of Blade.

As soon as I spotted him, there may as well have been nobody else in the room— or in the world, for that matter.

This was much, much more powerful than the little crush I’d had on Bryce Goodman. No, I was imagining things with this guy that I’d never imagined before. Sexy things.

And that was the difference. Blade was a man. Bryce had been a guy. Just a teenager. But it was more than that. This was an attraction on a level I’d never felt. This connection was rare. I’d bet my week’s harvest market sales on that.

“Excuse me,” I said to the group gathered around the cocktail table.

I grabbed my beer. Nobody even noticed as I stepped away and headed toward Blade. That was the power of baked goods discussions, I supposed.

Blade stood in the doorway, looking around and straightening his navy striped button-down shirt. As he probably noticed, most people weren’t dressed up. He would have been fine in the shorts and T-shirt he’d been wearing earlier that day—the one with the words US Navy printed on the chest.

“Hi,” I said once I was a few feet away.

We were the only two standing in that immediate area. Still, someone could come blasting through the doorway at any second, and he’d have to move. That was how much space his hulking form took up.

“I guess I’m overdressed,” he said.

I looked around and spotted a guy in a similar button-down shirt, then pointed him out. “There’s no dress code in Wildwood Valley.” I turned back to Blade, a smile on my face. “That’s what I was told, anyway. Seems accurate.”

He gave a nod and looked around. “So is this place serving dinner?”

I shook my head and held up the beer bottle. “Drinks and appetizers.” I gestured with the other hand toward the food table. “Mostly fruit and veggie platters.”

“Yeah, this place doesn’t really have catering.”

“We could ditch.”

Did anybody even use that word anymore? I’d probably heard it in a movie. But this guy was in his thirties and seemed to be perpetually serious, so I was guessing, unlike my friends, he wouldn’t make fun of me for using an old-fashioned word.

“There’s a good diner across the street,” he said. “But aside from the pancake place, the closest restaurants are a twenty-minute drive up the interstate.”

I nodded. “The diner’s perfect.”

We didn’t need a grand exit. We were already standing in the doorway, and nobody was paying attention to us anyway. Everyone was caught up in drinking and chatting and laughing. We were an afterthought.

So we just walked out.

The night air hit me with a soft chill—cool and fresh, scented faintly with pine and the last threads of kettle corn smoke drifting down from the market grounds. I sipped my beer and fell into step beside him as we crossed the quiet street.

His hands were in his pockets. Mine were wrapped around the bottle. And the space between us practically crackled.

Halfway across the street, I glanced over at him. “You ever get diner food to go?”

He looked at me. “Sure.”

“What if we did that now? Took it up into the mountains? You could show me around. Give me the longtimer’s tour of Wildwood Valley.”

He raised a brow. “The what?”

“Come on,” I said, nudging his arm. “You’ve lived here your whole life, right? You’ve got to have a favorite spot. Something with a view. Or a story. Or at least a good picnic table.”

He didn’t answer right away. We reached the diner parking lot, stepping up onto the curb under the flickering yellow light.

Finally, he said, “You’d actually rather sit outside in the dark with a grumpy guy and a foam box of fries than stay at a cozy party with free drinks?”

I smiled up at him. “Depends. Does the grumpy guy know a place where I can see stars?”

His jaw worked like he was trying to argue, but then he shook his head. “You’re trouble.”

“Yep.”

That one word hung between us, heavy with promise.

He opened the diner door, holding it just long enough for me to step inside first, and I had the strangest feeling—like this night was going to change everything. Like maybe that crush on Bryce Goodman had just become the most distant memory in the world.