Page 1 of Spiced Up by Sawyer (Mountain Men Fall Harder #3)
Chapter One
LOLA
I pull over, roll the window down, and take a deep breath. This place is gorgeous.
Mountains dominate the skyline, while the forest is a mix of blazing oranges and deep tawny browns.
Down in the valley, Maple Ridge sits like a crisp red apple.
Woodsmoke curls into the crisp air, carrying hints of pine and cedar on the wind.
I breathe in even deeper. This is not what I expected from a work assignment.
My phone buzzes. It’s Mom. Again.
How’s the important business trip going? Dad says to remember this could be your big break!
Important business trip . Right.
I drop the phone back in my purse. Corporate sent me here to assess this small Tennessee mountain town for development potential. And this task will apparently transform me into the serious, successful daughter my risk-averse parents always wanted.
Sure. Because nothing says ‘respectable adult’ like turning a sweet, cozy little postcard of a town into a soulless, high-end tourist machine.
I flip my visor mirror down. My unruly curls are already staging a rebellion against my styling products. I smooth a hand over my black blazer, dark pants, and the sensible-not-sensible pumps that make my legs look longer. The look signals confidence and competence… or at least I hope it does.
Away from work, I’m more comfortable in jeans, boots, and vintage band tees. But here I am, playing polished professional for the folks back home.
Main Street looks like a movie set. There’s a diner with a chrome-edged sign next to an old-fashioned barber shop with one of those red-and-white spinning poles. A golden retriever dozes outside a hardware store, soaking up the last of the afternoon sun like he owns the place.
Perfect. And I’m here to ruin it.
The Maple Ridge Fall Festival setup is already in motion. Red, orange, and gold banners flutter between the lampposts, and the whole scene hums with easy conversations and laughter, the kind that only comes from doing the same dance year after year.
I park near the town square and grab my color-coded assessment folder.
The brick sidewalk is beautiful but uneven, and treacherous for my heels, so I pick my way around drifts of fallen leaves.
The air down here smells like woodsmoke, with an undercurrent of something sweet and spicy, cider, maybe, and my stomach growls.
My phone rings. It’s my boss.
“Lola, you’re in Maple Ridge now?”
“Just got here. It's beautiful and quaint, Mr. Grande.”
“Good. But remember, we need maximum development potential, not quaint. I'm counting on you.”
My stomach lurches. “Of course.”
I slip my phone away and step forward without looking. One of my too-high heels catches on a loose brick.
“Oh…” My other foot skids on a mound of leaves. Arms pinwheeling wildly as my folder flies open, sending papers into the air like corporate confetti. I brace for a face-first meeting with the sidewalk, but instead I’m caught by two big arms.
The strong, solid arms smell faintly of pine and woodsmoke, and I’m pressed against a chest so broad it blocks out everything else. My cheek rests against soft cotton stretched over muscle, and for a brief moment, I swear the ground isn’t the only thing keeping me upright.
“Whoa there! You okay?” His voice is deep enough to rumble straight through me. I look up, way up, into the dark brown eyes framed by lashes that should be illegal on a man. There’s concern there, along with amusement.
“Yes. Totally fine. Not even remotely about to wipe out in front of an entire town.”
His gaze drops to my shoes. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Those don’t look like practical shoes.”
“They’re perfectly sensible.” A lie.
He arches a brow. “If sensible means you plan to fall into someone’s arms every block, then sure.”
A breeze stirs between us, swirling a handful of orange leaves around my ankles. He straightens me up but doesn’t let go right away, his big hands spanning my back and arm like he’s making sure I won’t topple again.
“You’re not from around here.” It’s not a question.
“No. I’m… visiting. For work.”
“What kind of work?”
Before I can answer, a woman calls from across the street, “Sawyer! Stop mettlin’ with that poor girl and help her pick up her papers!”
Sawyer. The name suits him. He releases me and crouches to collect the pages littering the sidewalk. When he hands them over, our fingers brush, and a spark of electricity jitters up my arm.
His gaze drops to the header on one of the pages. “Lola Winslow. Grande View Hospitality… development assessment report?”
My stomach drops. “It’s just preliminary research.”
The warmth drains from his eyes. His sculpted jaw tightens. “So, some enormous chain sent you to figure out how to turn our town into a tourist trap.”
“It’s not like that.” Except it is. “I’m just here to assess the area’s tourism potential.”
He mouths the words like they taste bad. “Right. Well, enjoy your assessment, Ms. Winslow. Try not to trip on anything else while you’re figuring out what to destroy.”
He turns to walk away.
“Wait, Sawyer! I didn’t say I was going to destroy anything.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to.”
And then he’s gone, long strides carrying him around the corner like he can’t put distance between us fast enough.
The festival buzzes around me. Kids arrange pumpkins, their laughter carrying on the crisp air. For a second, I wonder if it’s possible to fall in love with a place before you’ve even unpacked your bag.
Then I look down at the papers in my hands. This is going to be harder than I thought.