Page 12 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

Belinda's Gilded Teacup booth looked like Marie Antoinette had decorated it—nothing but gilt edges, crystal dishes, and delicate lace doilies.

Her Maple Versailles Petit Fours sat on tiered silver platters, each one a tiny architectural marvel.

She stood behind her display in a cream-colored dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent, her fake British accent carrying as she described her "autumn teatime experience" to potential customers.

"Give me a break," Sawyer muttered in my ear.

Next was Caleb Fournier from North Country Confections.

His booth had a rustic charm—burlap table runners, mason jars filled with candy corn, and wooden crates creating levels.

His Caramel Apple Maple Crunch Bites looked delicious in a homey, approachable way.

He caught my eye and gave a friendly wave, which I returned.

Miriam Keating's Sweet Hearth booth made me smile—she'd gone full Halloween kitsch with fake spider webs, plastic bats, and a fog machine that puffed every few minutes. Her Maple Candy Corn Creams were displayed in vintage apothecary jars, the tri-colored treats looking like fall candy perfection.

Jonas Harrington from Harbor View Sweets had taken an elegant approach—navy and gold bunting, nautical rope accents, and his Sea-Salt Maple Pear Caramels arranged like precious gems in a jewelry case.

"Tough competition," I murmured, doubt creeping in.

"None of them worked through the night after being vandalized," Sawyer reminded me. "None of them have what you have."

"Which is?"

"Heart. And my syrup." He squeezed my hand. "Come on, there's more to see."

We wandered through the craft section, admiring quilts that told stories in fabric and hand-thrown pottery glazed in fall colors.

At the woodworking booth, Sawyer got into an animated discussion with the craftsman about different wood grains while I browsed carved maple leaf bowls, running my fingers over the smooth finish.

"For your shop," Sawyer said, purchasing one before I could protest. "To hold the candy everyone's going to be lining up for after this weekend."

The farmer's market section overflowed with late harvest bounty—pumpkins of every size and color, from tiny white ones to massive orange giants. We sampled apple butter on fresh bread, bought cider donuts still warm from the fryer, and watched a demonstration of antique cider pressing.

"Try this," Sawyer said, handing me a cup of hot cider spiked with cinnamon and nutmeg.

The warmth spread through me, chasing away the October chill. Around us, the festival hummed with life—children waited in line for face painting, emerging as tigers and butterflies. The local Methodist church sold bowls of thick beef stew and cornbread, the steam rising in the cool air.

We found ourselves at the pumpkin carving station, newspapers spread on picnic tables, families working together on their jack-o'-lanterns. We chose two medium pumpkins and settled at an empty spot.

"What are you making?" I asked, trying to peek at Sawyer's work.

He shifted to block my view. "It's a surprise."

I focused on my own pumpkin, carefully carving a jack-o'-lantern with diamond-shaped eyes and a crooked, mischievous grin. When I looked up, Sawyer had turned his pumpkin to face me. He'd carved a maple leaf with "C + S" in the center, so detailed I could see the veins of the leaf.

"Subtle," I said, but my voice came out thick with emotion.

"Figured I should mark the moment," he mentioned. "Our first festival together."

The word "first" hung between us, full of unspoken promises. I wanted to kiss him, festival crowd be damned, when I caught sight of the clock on the courthouse.

"Oh God, it's quarter to three," I said. "The judges!"

We rushed back to find Lucy handling a steady stream of customers, but relief crossed her face when she saw us.

"They announced the judging order," she said breathlessly. "You're fourth."

My stomach dropped. Fourth meant waiting, watching the other competitors present their entries first. Already I could see them preparing—Belinda adjusting her display, Caleb arranging his bites just so, Miriam adding more fog machine smoke for effect.

"Stop," Sawyer murmured, reading my panic. "Your candy speaks for itself."

Josephine Caldwell, the renowned pastry chef, followed by Conrad Bellows with his wire-rimmed spectacles, and Theo McKinley with an easy smile that revealed the gap between his two front teeth.

They moved through the first three competitors with careful attention, taking notes, asking questions, their expressions unreadable.

Belinda put on a show with her over-the-top speech about "the marriage of Old World elegance with New World flavor." The judges nodded politely, each taking one of her petit fours.

Caleb's natural warmth had the judges relaxing, talking about fall traditions and family recipes. His enthusiasm was genuine and infectious—even I found myself wanting to try his candy.

Miriam turned her presentation into entertainment, her jokes and seasonal puns having Theo chuckling. Her candy corn creams were certainly eye-catching, the colors vibrant in the afternoon sun.

Then they reached our booth.

"Ms. Moretti," Josephine said, her tone neutral. "Please present your entry."

I lifted the platter of truffles, offering one to each judge.

"These are Midnight Maple Shadows. The recipe comes from my grandmother—she brought it from Northern Italy and taught me to make them when I was fourteen.

I've adapted it using Blackwood Sugar Grove's late-harvest syrup, which Sawyer Blackwood and I collected by hand under last week's full moon.

Local tradition says the sap runs strongest then, and I believe it—the syrup has a complexity you can't achieve any other time of year. "

Conrad selected a truffle, examining it carefully before taking a bite. His eyes closed as he chewed slowly, and I swore I saw his stern expression soften for just a moment. Josephine and Theo followed suit, but their faces revealed nothing.

"The chocolate tempering," Josephine said finally. "Tell me about your process."

"My grandmother always said candy-making was about patience and love. These truffles were the last recipe she taught me before she passed. We tested ratios until we found the ideal balance. The gold dust contains cardamom—her secret ingredient—and represents moonlight on maple leaves."

"You actually harvested under the full moon?" Theo raised an eyebrow.

"Every bucket," I confirmed. "Sawyer's family has been following that tradition for three generations. You can taste the difference—there's an almost mineral quality that comes through."

"Interesting choice, using such a dark chocolate with maple," Theo commented. "Most competitors went sweeter."

"Maple syrup is already sweet," I replied. "The darker chocolate lets the maple's complex flavors shine without overwhelming the palate. It's about balance—letting each flavor enhance the others rather than compete for attention."

They thanked me and moved on to Jonas's booth for the final presentation. I watched him discuss the coastal influence on his caramels, the way sea salt enhanced the maple's natural minerals. His presentation was polished, professional.

"Breathe," Sawyer murmured, his hand finding mine behind the table.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a cycle of smiling, selling, and trying not to wonder about the judges’ deliberations as the festival continued to swirl around us.

Finally, mercifully, five o'clock arrived. Lucy started packing up our remaining inventory while Sawyer dismantled the display.

"You should be proud," Lucy said, hugging me tightly, "You made something amazing under impossible circumstances."

She headed home, promising to be back early to help with Sunday's booth. As the square began to empty of the day's visitors, orange light slanting through the trees and casting long shadows, Sawyer turned to me.

"Come home with me tonight," he said. It wasn't really a question. "We'll order pizza, sit by the fire. Let me help you not think about tomorrow for a while."

"I should probably do more cleaning at the shop, make more candy—"

"Cinn." He cupped my face in his calloused hands. "You've done everything you can. Come home with me."

The drive up the mountain was quiet but companionable. The setting sun painted the leaves in shades of copper and gold, and I found myself relaxing despite everything. Whatever happened tomorrow, I'd given it my best shot.

Sawyer's cabin welcomed us with warmth and the scent of cedar. He started a fire while I called in a pizza order to the only place that delivered this far up the mountain—an hour and a half, they said, but they'd make the trek for an extra delivery fee.

"Wine?" Sawyer offered, holding up a bottle of red.

"God, yes."

We settled on the couch, my legs tucked under me, his arm around my shoulders. The fire crackled, casting warm light across the log walls. I should have been ready to collapse—we'd barely slept after working through the night—but instead I felt wired, hyperaware of every place our bodies touched.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For everything. The syrup, the help, standing by me even after—"

"Stop." He turned to face me fully. "We're past that."

"Are we?"

He set down his wine, took mine from my hands. "I need to tell you something."

My pulse jumped at the seriousness in his voice.

"I haven't felt like this in years," he said instead. "Or ever. You crashed into my life with your determination and your sass and your damn muffins, and suddenly I remembered what it felt like to want something beyond just getting through each day."

"Sawyer—"

"Let me finish." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "I've been alone so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to share space with someone. To want to share it. But these past days, working beside you, fighting for something together—it's shown me what I've been missing."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm falling for you, Cinnamon Moretti. Hard. And I'm ready to stop hiding from that."

The wine sat forgotten on the coffee table as he leaned closer. I kissed him then, pouring everything I couldn't say into the connection. He responded immediately, pulling me onto his lap, his hands threading through my hair.

When we broke apart, both breathless, I pressed my forehead to his. "I'm falling too. Terrified, but falling."

"Good," he growled, and kissed me again.

We talked about everything and nothing, the fire crackling as darkness fell completely outside. When the pizza finally arrived, the delivery driver's knock startled us apart. We ate a few slices, but neither of us was thinking about food anymore.

We moved to the rug in front of the fire, where Sawyer took his time undressing me, his rough hands gentle as they revealed each inch of skin.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his mouth following the path of his hands.

He laid me down on the thick rug, and I watched through half-closed eyes as he stripped off his flannel and jeans, revealing that powerful body that had haunted my dreams since the first day of harvest.

"Come here," I said, reaching for him.

But he shook his head, a wicked smile playing at his lips. "Not yet."

Starting at my ankles, he kissed his way up my legs, taking his time, his tongue teasing the sensitive skin behind my knee, the tender spot where thigh meets hip, until my hips were lifting off the rug, seeking his mouth.

When his mouth finally found where I needed him most, I cried out, my fingers gripping his hair.

The burn of his beard between my thighs left a delicious friction that made me arch higher.

He circled my clit with maddening slowness before sucking hard, two fingers curling inside me in a rhythm that had me gasping his name. Just as I was about to tumble over the edge, he pulled away, making me whimper in frustration.

"Patience," he said with a grin before kissing his way up my stomach, paying attention to every sensitive spot, learning what made me gasp and arch beneath him. "You're so wet for me already. Been thinking about this?"

When he finally pushed inside me, we both groaned at the sensation. This time was slow, deep, our bodies finding their rhythm as the fire popped and hissed beside us.

"Look at me," he commanded when my eyes started to flutter closed.

I did, getting lost in the intensity of his gaze as he moved inside me. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, building the tension between us like heat under a copper pot. My nails raked down his back as the pressure built, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

"That's it," he encouraged as I started to come apart. "Beautiful, Cinn."

The orgasm rolled through me in waves, and he followed me over, my name torn from his lips.

Later, in his bed, we came together again with urgent need. This time I was on top, setting the pace, watching his face contort with pleasure as I rode him. I pinned his wrists above his head, enjoying the way his muscles strained against my grip. "My turn to be in charge, mountain man."

His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I loved it—loved being wanted this fiercely, loved wanting him just as much.

"Fuck, Cinn," he rasped as I changed angles, making us both gasp. "God, you feel good. Just like that."

"Right back at you," I teased, then lost the ability to speak as he sat up, changing the angle again, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars.

"Harder. Don't hold back," I demanded.

We moved together frantically now, chasing release, sweat slicking our bodies. "Yes, just like that," he encouraged.

When we came, it was together, clinging to each other like we couldn't get close enough.

Afterwards, we collapsed together, both of us spent and satisfied. Sawyer traced the curve of my spine, occasionally pressing kisses to my shoulder.

"What happens tomorrow?" I asked into the darkness.

"We find out if you won. Then we figure out what comes next."

"What if I didn't win? What if the shop fails?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Then you'll figure something else out. And I'll be right there with you while you do."

I pressed closer to him, drawing comfort from his warmth. "I meant what I said earlier. Finding you changed everything."

"Get some sleep," he murmured against my hair. "The morning will come soon enough."

But sleep wouldn't come. Sunday evening at the closing ceremony, the judges would announce the winner. If I lost, I'd have maybe a month before Sugar & Spice would have to close. A month before I'd have to leave Woodbridge Falls and start over somewhere else. Again.