Page 6 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

Sawyer

The second day started much like the first—Cinn showing up before dawn with that resolute set to her jaw and another basket of food that made my stomach growl before I even opened it.

This time she'd brought apple cider donuts still warm from frying, and they melted on my tongue like sweet autumn mornings from childhood.

"Trying to fatten me up?" I asked, reaching for a second one.

"Just being neighborly," she said, but there was mischief in those eyes that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Different menu today," I noted. "No muffins or scones?"

"Thought I'd mix things up. Keep you guessing." She lifted the cloth covering the basket. "Besides, these donuts are better warm. I've got roast beef and cheddar sandwiches packed for lunch later."

We worked the morning tapping more trees, and I had to concede that she was a quick study.

Where yesterday she'd fumbled with the drill and fought with the spiles, today her movements were smoother, more confident.

She'd found the rhythm of it, understanding how to read the bark for the best spot, how to angle the tap just right.

"You're getting the hang of it," I said as she set her fifth spile of the morning without any help.

"I told you I learn fast." She brushed a strand of hair from her face, leaving a smudge of tree sap on her rosy cheek. "It's not so different from candy making, really. Both require steady hands and timing, understanding how things transform under the right conditions."

I watched her work, noting how she connected everything back to her craft.

When she tested the sap's flow, she compared it to checking caramel consistency.

When we discussed the evaporation process, she related it to reducing sauces for flavor concentration.

Smart. Observant. Nothing like the flighty city girl I'd expected upon first meeting her.

By afternoon, we were back in the evaporator house, the fire running hot as we fed it more tree juice.

The sweet steam filled the small space, fogging the windows and making everything feel close and warm.

Outside, clouds gathered, promising the storm the weather service had been warning about for days.

"How long have you been doing this?" Cinn asked, stirring the boing liquid in the finishing pan with careful attention.

"Since I could walk, practically. Dad had me carrying buckets before I started school.

" I adjusted the damper on the firebox, memories flooding back.

"Used to race my older sister Gretchen to see who could collect more sap.

She always won—had longer legs and wasn't afraid to climb for the higher taps. "

"You have a sister?" Her voice held genuine interest, not the polite small talk I was used to from buyers.

"Yeah. Lives in DC now with her husband and three kids." I found myself continuing when I might normally have stopped. "Good guy, treats her right. Got her out of here after everything went to hell with the business."

"Do you see them much?"

"Thanksgiving, usually. Christmas if the weather cooperates." I tested the syrup's density with the hydrometer, using the task to avoid looking at her. "Kids are growing like weeds. My nephew Tommy—he's seven now—reminds me of myself at that age. Too smart for his own good and twice as stubborn."

A smile tugged at my mouth remembering his last visit. "Kid tried to tap one of my oaks last spring, convinced it would make syrup too. Had a whole business plan drawn up in crayon about diversifying the operation."

Cinn laughed, the sound bright in the steamy space. "Sounds like he inherited the family entrepreneurial spirit."

"More like the family stubbornness." But I was smiling now, couldn't help it. "When I explained only maples make syrup, he demanded to know why we didn't just plant more maple trees then. Had graphs and everything about projected profits over twenty years."

"In crayon?"

"Multicolored crayon. Very professional. Looked a lot like a rainbow."

She caught me smiling then, her expression softening. "You really love them. I can tell."

"Yeah, well." I cleared my throat, suddenly aware I'd been running my mouth.

"Gretchen deserved better than watching this place struggle. She's got a good life now—suburban house, minivan, PTA meetings. Normal stuff."

"But not for you?" Cinn asked quietly.

I shrugged, checking the fire again though it didn't need it.

"Had my chance at normal. Girlfriend of three years, Beth.

When Dad died and I took over the farm, she stuck around for a while.

But when it became clear I wasn't going to magically turn into some millionaire syrup mogul, when the bills kept piling up and I got.

.." I paused, searching for the right word.

"Harder to live with, I guess. She left.

Said I'd become too bitter, too focused on the past."

"Was she right?"

The question should have rankled, but something about the way she asked it—no judgment, just curiosity—made me consider it honestly.

"Maybe. Probably." I admitted. "Hard to be sweet when life keeps serving you sour."

Cinn tilted her head, a teasing glint replacing the seriousness. "Maybe you should eat more sugar. Might improve your disposition."

The words hung in the air between us, and my mind immediately went places it shouldn't. Images of licking maple syrup off her fingers, tasting the sweetness on her lips, exploring exactly how much sugar it would take to—

"I can think of sweeter things than sugar," I said, my voice dropping lower than intended.

Her cheeks flushed pink, and hell if that didn't make my chest tight. She turned quickly back to the evaporator, but I caught the way her hands trembled slightly on the ladle.

"What about you?" I asked, needing to shift the dangerous energy between us. "No boyfriend waiting back in the city wondering where you've run off to?"

"No." The word came quick, sharp. "No one waiting anywhere."

"Find that hard to believe." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

She kept her back to me, shoulders tense. "The lifestyle I had in New York... it wasn't conducive to relationships. When I decided to change my life, I left everything behind. Everyone."

She gripped the ladle tighter, knuckles white against the wood. I recognized the tone—I'd used it myself when people asked about Dad's death or Mom's condition. Some pain you kept close to the vest.

I waited until the silence stretched thin before speaking. "Fresh starts aren't easy."

"No," she agreed softly. "They're not."

We worked in companionable silence as the afternoon stretched toward evening.

The sap had boiled down to proper density, and we drew off several gallons of finished syrup, filtering it through felt and grading it by color.

This batch was even darker than yesterday's, with an almost molasses-like depth that would make it perfect for her candy making.

"Watch the way it sheets off the scoop," I demonstrated, lifting the ladle and letting the syrup run back into the pan.

"See how it comes together at the bottom before dropping?

That's how you know it's close. At 219 degrees, seven above boiling, it's perfect.

One degree cooler and it's too thin. One degree hotter and you're headed toward candy. "

She nodded, that focused look taking over her features. "Like soft-ball stage for candy. 235 to 240."

"You really do think in candy terms."

"Occupational hazard." She took the ladle from me, our fingers brushing. "Everything relates back to timing and temperature in my world."

The full moon was rising by the time we finished, its silver light cutting through the gathering storm clouds. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Cinn shivered despite her coat as we cleaned up the equipment.

"Getting cold," I observed.

"I'm fine," she said, but her teeth chattered slightly.

"Come here." Before I could second-guess myself, I pulled her against me, opening my coat and tucking her hands inside against my flannel shirt. "Better?"

She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into me with a small sigh. "Much."

She fit against me perfectly, soft curves pressed to my chest, her head tucking just under my chin.

The scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with maple steam clung to her hair.

My arms wanted to wrap around her properly, pull her closer, find out if her lips tasted as delicious as her name suggested.

"You're like a furnace," she murmured against my chest.

"Mountain living—you run hot or you freeze."

She pulled back slightly to look up at me, moonlight catching in her expression. "A grizzly in plaid, keeping warm in his den."

"Grizzly?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Mm-hmm. Gruff, solitary, protective of his territory." Her hands pressed against my ribs through my shirt. "But apparently capable of sharing honey—or in this case, maple syrup—with the right persuasion."

"Careful," I warned, though my voice came out rougher than intended. "Grizzlies can be dangerous when provoked."

"I'm not afraid of you, Sawyer Blackwood."

The way she looked at me then—like she saw past every wall I'd built and wasn't scared of what she found there—made something crack in my chest. I wanted to kiss her.

God, I wanted to carry her into my cabin, warm her properly in my bed, discover every secret she was keeping behind that knowing look.

Instead, I stepped back, letting the cold air rush between us.

"It's late," I said, my voice flat as pond water. "You should head back before the storm hits."

Her mouth tightened at the corners—a flash of hurt before she smoothed it away. "Right. Of course."

She gathered her things while I banked the fire, both of us avoiding eye contact. This was business, I reminded myself firmly. She needed syrup for her competition. I needed help with the harvest. Simple exchange of services, nothing more.

But as I watched her taillights disappear down the mountain road, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was lying to myself.

Back in the cabin, I stood at the window watching the storm clouds swallow the moon

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the walls that matched my mood. Her scent lingered on my shirt where she'd pressed against me, and I found myself breathing it in like some lovesick teenager.

"Get a grip," I muttered, but my mind wouldn't let go of how she'd felt in my arms. Soft. Warm. Right in a way that scared the crap out of me.

I knew almost nothing about her beyond the surface.

Former city girl, grandmother's recipes, struggling shop.

But there was more—layers of hurt and determination that matched my own.

When she'd talked about fresh starts, I'd heard the echo of my own struggles in her voice.

Whatever had driven her to this small mountain town, it wasn't just a whim.

The tension in her voice when she'd mentioned New York—it was like watching syrup reach that critical temperature, right before it could burn and turn bitter.

The wind picked up outside, rattling the windows and sending leaves skittering across the porch.

I should have insisted she stay, at least until the worst of the weather passed.

But that would have been dangerous for entirely different reasons.

Already I was imagining her here, warming herself by my fire, maybe sharing the dinner I was half-heartedly contemplating, the flames reflecting in her eyes as we talked about things that didn't matter and things that did.

I walked through the cabin, checking locks out of habit.

In the kitchen, I noticed she'd left one of her hair ties on the counter—a simple brown elastic that had probably fallen from her pocket.

I picked it up, running it between my fingers.

Such a small thing, but it made her presence feel lingering, like she'd marked my space somehow.

"Purely business," I said aloud to the empty room, but the words rang hollow.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge and dropped into my recliner, flipping on the TV to some mindless football game.

But I couldn't focus on the plays, couldn't care about the score.

My thoughts kept drifting to tomorrow, to seeing her again, to watching her attack each task like she had something to prove, with occasional flashes of vulnerability when she thought I wasn't looking.

The game droned on, but my mind was elsewhere—on the way she'd laughed at Tommy's rainbow business plan, how her eyes had softened when I talked about family, the perfect way her feminine form fit against my chest.

The truth was, Cinnamon Moretti had gotten under my skin in just two days. And the scariest part? I wasn't sure I wanted to dig her out.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I took a long pull of beer, knowing sleep would be elusive tonight.

Not because of the storm, but because somewhere down the mountain, she was probably soaking in a bath, washing away the day's sticky sweetness, and I couldn't stop wondering if she was thinking about me too.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall. Tomorrow we'd need to work fast before the weather turned completely. But right now, holding that hair tie and nursing my beer, I let myself admit what I'd been fighting since she first showed up on my porch.

"You're in trouble, Blackwood," I told myself. The hair tie was soft between my fingers, still holding the faint scent of vanilla. I pocketed it instead of tossing it in the trash, knowing what that meant but not ready to examine it too closely.

Maybe it was time to stop protecting myself from everything good that tried to find me.