Page 5 of Spiced Up by Sawyer (Mountain Men Fall Harder #3)

Chapter Five

LOLA

The Fall Festival is in full swing. Fiddle music spills from the main stage and the air smells like woodsmoke, kettle corn, and sweet apples, making my mouth water. Orange lights are strung between the trees, casting everything in a warm glow that makes the whole scene look like a fairy tale.

And I can't focus on any of it because Sawyer is standing twenty feet away, talking to a group of locals. Every time he speaks, my stomach does this ridiculous flip.

It's the day after we kissed in the corn maze. A sleepless night of replaying every kiss and every breathless moment when he held me close. I've been trying to write my assessment report, but all I can think about is the way he said my name.

“You okay, sugar?”

I turn to find Joy beside me, holding two steaming cups of what smells like spiced cider.

I accept the cup gratefully. “I’m taking it all in. This is incredible.”

“Gets better every single year.” Joy's eyes twinkle as she follows my gaze to where Sawyer is now pretending to chop a tree down, making a little girl giggle. “That boy's been coming to this festival since he was knee-high to a June bug.”

My heart thumps as he crouches down to the child's level, patient and gentle.

“He's good with kids.”

“He’s a very good man. Don’t be fooled by that grumpy exterior.

And he’s certainly taken notice of you, dear.

There’s a saying here that when the leaves fall in Maple Ridge, the mountain men do too.

” Joy takes a sip of her cider, studying me over the rim.

“But the question is, are you ready? To fall, that is?”

Before I can figure out how to answer that loaded question, my phone buzzes. Mr. Grande. Again.

“Excuse me,” I tell Joy, stepping away from the crowd.

His voice is impatient. “Lola. I have some free time today. So if you want to impress me, send me your preliminary findings early.”

I close my eyes and take a breath. “I'm still gathering information.”

“How much information do you need? Send me what you have.”

“I don't think that's wise. I need more time to?—”

“Time for what? This is a simple assessment. Are you having second thoughts about this project?”

The question feels like a trap. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“Good. Because if we don't move fast, we'll lose this opportunity entirely. There’s some talk about Maple Ridge becoming a protected area. Something to do with rare flying squirrels, or some other nonsense.”

“I understand the urgency,” I manage. “But I want to make sure my report is thorough.”

“That doesn't pay the bills, Lola. Results do. I want something first thing Monday morning, or we'll need to discuss whether you're the right fit for this position.”

The line goes dead.

“Is everything okay?”

I spin around to find Sawyer behind me, brow furrowed with concern. He's wearing a plaid shirt and dark jeans that make him look like a mountain god. His thick brown hair looks like he's been running his fingers through it. He's devastatingly gorgeous. And I'm about to ruin everything he loves.

“All good. Fine. Great.” I lie, shoving my phone into my purse. “Just work stuff.”

His eyes narrow. “Your boss?”

“Drop it, Sawyer.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You look upset, Lola.”

“I said I'm fine.”

“And I'm saying you're a terrible liar.” His massive hand finds my elbow, warm and steady. “What's wrong?”

The concern in his voice makes tears spring to my eyes. How can I tell him that my boss just threatened my job? How Mr. Grande is circling like a vulture, and I'm running out of time to figure out how to save both my career and his town?

I shake my head.

“Let me get us two cups of spiked cider, okay? Joy says it will cure any problem.” He smiles, and it’s like the sun peeping from the clouds. I smile back as he walks past the pie stand to get us some cider, then start worrying about the conversation with my boss.

“Well, hello there, beautiful.”

I turn to see a man approaching. He’s tall, lean, with perfectly styled hair, wearing expensive jeans and a pristine leather jacket.

He extends a hand. “Brent Marlor. I'm here covering the festival for Nashville Scene magazine.”

I shake his hand. “Lola Winslow.”

“Now what brings a beauty like you to this mountain paradise?” Brent's smile widens, and he steps closer than necessary.

“I'm here for work.”

“What kind of work? You don't look like a local.”

“She's with me.” Sawyer's voice is dangerously calm. He moves to my side, handing me the cider. His hand settles on my lower back with casual possessiveness. The heat of his palm burns through my sweater, and I have to fight not to lean into him.

Brent's gaze flicks between us, and his smile takes on a competitive edge. “Oh? How long have you two been together?”

“Long enough,” Sawyer growls.

I should correct him. Instead, I find myself stepping closer to Sawyer's solid warmth.

“Well,” Brent says, clearly not taking the hint, “if you ever want a tour of Nashville, I know all the best spots. Here's my card.”

He holds out a business card, and when I reach for it, his fingers linger against mine. “Call me. I'd love to show you a good time.”

The temperature around us drops about ten degrees. Sawyer's hand tightens on my back, and when I glance up at him, a muscle is leaping in his jaw.

“Thanks. But I'm pretty busy.”

“Too busy for a little fun? All work and no play, you know.” He winks.

“She said no.” Sawyer's voice is icy.

Brent holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy there, mountain man. Just being friendly.”

“Be friendly somewhere else.”

For a moment, I think Brent might push back. Then he seems to register exactly how much bigger Sawyer is and how those massive hands could probably snap him in two.

“Um, of course. Enjoy the festival. Both of you…” Brent backs away with his smile frozen in place.

As soon as he's gone, Sawyer turns to me, eyes blazing. “You took his card?”

“I did. He's a journalist. It's called networking.”

“Networking. Right.” He spits out the word as if it tastes bad.

“What's your problem?”

“My problem is watching some city asshole hit on you.”

“That’s not my fault. I wasn't encouraging anything.”

“You took his card, Lola. You let him touch you.”

"It was a handshake!"

“It was an invitation.” His voice drops to a growl. “And you know it.”

Heat flares in my chest; anger, desire, frustration all tangled together. “Even if it was, what's it to you? We kissed in a corn maze, Sawyer. That doesn't make me your property.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes. “Doesn't it?”

The possessive rasp in his voice sends heat spiraling through me. I should be offended. Should tell him he has no claim on me. Instead, my pulse pounds and my thighs tremble.

“Sawyer…”

He braces one hand against the tree beside my head, leaning down until his mouth is inches from mine. “Tell me you're not thinking about calling him.”

I shake my head, taking the card from my pocket and tearing it in half. “See? I'm not?—”

“Tell me,” he demands, his free hand sliding up to cup my jaw, “that you belong to me .”

The words should make me angry; they should send me running. Instead, they make heat pool between my thighs.

“I don't belong to anyone,” I whisper, but my voice shakes.

His thumb traces my lower lip, and I have to bite back a moan. “No? Then why is your entire body trembling?”

“I'm not trembling.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

His mouth curves in a wicked smile. “Kiss me.”

“Here? In front of everyone?”

“Especially in front of everyone. Show them who you choose.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. Around us, the festival continues. But all I can see is Sawyer. And before I can talk myself out of it, I grab his shirt and pull him down to me.

The kiss is hot, demanding, and desperate in a way that makes my knees weak. He groans against my mouth, pressing me back against the rough bark, his body a wall of heat and muscle caging me in, his hardness pressing into me.

I should worry about my professional reputation. Instead, I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his hands sliding into my hair, the way he kisses me like he’ll never let me go. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

His eyes are fierce as he stares down at me. “Whatever else happens, you're mine.”

“Sawyer…” I breathe his name, not sure if it's a protest or a plea.

“Come home with me. Tonight.”

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. “I shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

Because I have a report to write and my job is on the line. And in less than twelve hours, I have to choose between him and everything I've worked for.

“Because this complicates everything,” I whisper.

His thumb strokes along my jaw, sending shivers down my spine. “I want you, Lola. All of you. Not stolen kisses in a corn maze or against a tree. I want you in my bed.”

I can’t resist his honesty. “I do too.”

His cabin sits on the edge of town, tucked into the trees. When we pull up, warm light glows through the windows, spilling onto the porch. The place is big but not ostentatious. It’s built of heavy timber and stone, solid and timeless, like it’s weathered a hundred winters.

The front porch stretches wide, with a porch swing swaying in the breeze. A stack of firewood is neatly piled to one side, covered with a tarp. When he closes the door behind us, shutting out the cold night, it feels like stepping into another world; his world.

Sawyer lays me down on his bed, the air shifts; thick, heavy, and charged. His big body cages mine, his weight sinking into the mattress as his gaze pins me.

“Last chance, Lola,” he growls, brushing his mouth against mine, his voice rough. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop,” I whisper, tugging him down to me.

The kiss is ravenous. His stubble scrapes my skin as his lips trail down my neck, his hands already tugging at my clothes. He doesn’t just undress me; he claims me with every movement, peeling away layers until I’m bare beneath him, flushed and trembling.