Page 9 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

Cinnamon

The next morning, I couldn't bring myself to open the shop.

I sat on my apartment floor in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, staring at nothing.

I hadn't slept—every time I'd closed my eyes, I saw Sawyer's face, heard his words.

Downstairs in the shop kitchen, the test batches of truffles I'd made the other night were probably already starting to bloom, that telltale white film that appears on chocolate when the temperature isn't controlled.

My phone buzzed with texts from Lucy asking if I was okay, if she should open the shop. I finally texted back: "Please open. I'm sick." Let her handle things today. I couldn't face customers, couldn't pretend everything was fine.

I heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to my apartment above the shop. Heavy footsteps. Then a knock that rattled the door.

"Cinn, I know you're in there. Your car's out back."

Sawyer.

"Go away," I called, not moving from my spot on the floor.

"I need to talk to you."

"We talked yesterday. You made yourself pretty clear."

"I was wrong." The words came muffled through the door. "I was a jackass. And I was wrong."

Something in his tone made me stand, though I didn't move toward the door. "What do you want, Sawyer?"

"To apologize. To explain. To..." A pause. "To make things right."

Against every smart instinct, I opened the door. He stood there holding a single mason jar filled with dark amber syrup, looking like he hadn't slept either. His flannel was wrinkled, his beard unkempt, and his eyes carried a rawness I'd never seen before.

"You look terrible," I said.

"Yeah, well. Guilt does that." He held up the jar. "Brought you this. First batch of what you earned. Rest will be ready after I finish the harvest."

I stepped aside, letting him enter. He set the jar on my kitchen counter, then turned to face me, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn't trust them.

"I searched for you online after you left," he said. "Not just the Sweet Cinn stuff. Other things. Pieces of your story."

I crossed my arms. "And?"

"Found enough to know I'm an idiot who judges people from my safe little mountain while they're out fighting real battles."

"That's your apology?"

He met my eyes directly. "I'm sorry. For what I said. For how I reacted. For making you feel ashamed when you've got nothing to be ashamed of."

"You said I was selling myself."

"You were surviving. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to see the difference."

I wanted to stay angry, but exhaustion was winning. I sank onto a kitchen stool. "Why are you really here, Sawyer?"

"Because you deserve that apology. Because you've worked too damn hard to let my ignorance wreck your chances.

" He moved closer, careful, like I might bolt.

"Because these past few days have been..

." He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

"I haven't felt this alive in years. And I threw it away because I got scared. "

"Scared of what?"

"Of wanting something. Someone. Of it mattering."

The honesty in his voice was chipping at my defenses, but I wasn't ready to give in. "I should have told you."

"When? I made it pretty clear I wasn't interested in knowing you." He laughed, bitter. "You tried to share pieces of yourself and I kept shutting you down."

"The whole town will know soon. Will probably told everyone by now."

"Will won't say shit. He's got his own secrets." Sawyer's jaw tightened. "And if anyone in town has a problem with you, they can take it up with me."

"I don't need protecting."

"I know. But everyone needs someone in their corner."

I studied his face, looking for the catch. "Yesterday you threw my past in my face. Why should I trust you now?"

"You shouldn't. Not yet." He pulled his hands from his pockets, spread them. "But I'm asking for a chance to earn it. The competition's coming up. Let me help you win this thing. After that, if you want me gone, I'm gone."

"And if I don't?"

Something flashed in his eyes. "Then we figure out what this is. Because I know you feel it too."

My breath caught. "Feel what?"

"This thing between us that's been building since day one."

The air in the small kitchen suddenly felt charged. I stood, needing distance, but there wasn't anywhere to go in the tiny space.

"We should work on the truffles," I said. "Down in the shop kitchen. Where my equipment is."

"We should."

Neither of us moved.

"Sawyer—"

"I know. I fucked up. I don't deserve—" He stopped. "Let's just work. The rest can wait."

We went downstairs to the shop kitchen. Lucy was busy with customers out front, the normal sounds of the shop muffled by the closed door. The test batches I'd made were indeed showing bloom, but that didn't matter now. We had work to do.

For the next hour, we fell into the familiar rhythm of candy-making. Testing ratios, adjusting temperatures, tasting and retasting. The work steadied my nerves, and Sawyer's presence—solid, focused, good at knowing what worked—helped ground me.

"Temperature's crucial here," I explained, showing him the thermometer. "One degree off and the texture's wrong."

"Like syrup," he said. "That sweet spot between liquid and candy."

Our hands brushed as he handed me a spoon. The touch sent heat through me that had nothing to do with the stove.

"Try this," I said, holding up a spoon with the latest batch of filling.

He leaned in, closed his lips around the spoon. His eyes shut, and he made a low sound of appreciation. "That's the one."

"You think?"

"Right balance. The maple comes through without overpowering the chocolate."

I tasted it myself, and he was right. After all the failed batches, we'd found it.

"We make a good team," he said quietly.

"In the kitchen, anyway."

"Maybe other places too." He moved closer. "Cinn, I need you to know something. Yesterday wasn't about you. It was about me being scared of feeling something real again."

"Sawyer—"

"No, let me say this." He was close enough now that I could smell wood smoke on his flannel. "You make me want things I'd given up on. Make me remember there's more to life than just getting through each day."

"You don't know me," I whispered.

"I know what matters. I know you show up even when you're hurting. I know you fight for what you want. I know you've survived things that would break most people." His hand came up to cup my cheek. "And I know I want you more than I've wanted anything in a long time."

"This is a bad idea."

"Probably." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "Tell me to stop."

Instead, I grabbed his flannel and pulled him down to me.

The kiss exploded between us—the tension and hunger of the past days igniting at once. His hands fisted in my hair as he backed me against the prep counter, and I moaned into his mouth.

"Been going crazy," he said against my lips. "Thinking about you. Wanting this."

The maple cream sat warming on the stove, and wicked inspiration struck. I dipped my finger in, then painted it across his lips.

"Cinn—"

I silenced him by licking the sweetness from his mouth, slow and thorough. He groaned, his hands tightening on my hips.

"My turn," he growled, reaching for the pot.

He drizzled warm maple down my throat, then followed with his mouth, his tongue tracing every sticky drop. When he reached my collarbone, he pulled my t-shirt down, exposing more skin to mark with sweetness.

"Upstairs," I gasped. "Now."

He grabbed the pot of maple cream. "Bringing this."

We barely made it to my apartment, stopping twice on the stairs—once so he could press me against the wall and kiss me senseless, once so I could grind against the hardness I felt through his jeans.

Inside my apartment, clothes disappeared fast. My t-shirt, his flannel, everything between us and skin. When he saw my black lace bra, he made a sound of pure appreciation.

"Been imagining this," he said, tracing the lace edge. "What you'd look like. Feel like."

"Reality living up to imagination?"

"Reality's better." He unhooked my bra with one hand, then caught my breast in his mouth, making me arch against him.

He walked me backward to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving my skin. When the backs of my knees hit the bed, he laid me down carefully, like I was something precious.

"Want to see you," he said, hooking his fingers in my sweatpants and pulling them down along with my underwear.

I lay there naked while he stood fully dressed, just looking at me with such heat in his eyes that I squirmed.

"Sawyer—"

"Shh. Let me look." His gaze traveled slowly down my body. "So fucking beautiful."

He set the maple cream on the nightstand, then stripped off his remaining clothes. I took a moment to appreciate what was revealed—broad chest, strong arms, and impressive evidence of how much he wanted this.

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

"Not yet." He grabbed the maple cream. "Got plans for you first."

He drizzled the warm cream over my breasts, creating patterns that made me shiver despite the heat. Then his mouth followed, licking and sucking every drop while I writhed beneath him.

"Taste so good," he murmured against my skin. "Better than any candy."

He worked his way down, painting maple across my stomach, circling my navel, going lower until I was trembling with need.

"Please," I gasped.

"Please what?" He looked up at me from between my thighs, his expression wicked.

"Touch me. Taste me. Something."

He drizzled maple on my inner thigh, then licked it off in one long stroke that had me grabbing the sheets. Did the same to the other thigh, working his way higher, teasing until I was desperate.

When his mouth finally found where I needed him, I cried out. He took his time, reading my responses, alternating between broad strokes with his tongue and focused attention that had me climbing fast. When he slipped two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot, I shattered.

"That's one," he said, crawling up my body. "Want to see how many times I can make you come tonight."

"My turn," I said, still breathless, pushing him onto his back.

I grabbed the maple cream, drizzling it down his chest. Then I took my time licking it off, enjoying the way his muscles tensed under my tongue. When I reached his cock, I painted a stripe of maple down its length.

"Fuck, Cinn—"

I took him in my mouth, the sweetness of maple mixing with his taste. I worked him thoroughly, using everything I knew—but this time because I wanted to, not because I had to. The sounds he made, the way his hands gripped my hair, the curses that fell from his lips—all of it made me wet again.

"Stop," he gasped, pulling me up. "Need to be inside you. Need to fuck you."

"Yes," I said, straddling him. "But first—"

I reached for the maple cream, drizzling it over my breasts again. "Clean me up?"

He sat up, his mouth immediately on me, licking and sucking while I ground against him. The head of his cock teased my entrance, and we both groaned at the contact.

"Condom?" he asked against my breast.

"Pill. Clean. You?"

"Same."

I sank down onto him slowly, both of us groaning as he filled me completely. For a moment we stayed still, adjusting to the sensation.

"You feel amazing," he said, then laughed. "Fuck, that sounds like a line."

"Then stop talking," I said, starting to move.

We found our rhythm quickly, me riding him while he played with my breasts, still sticky with maple. When he sat up fully, changing the angle, I gasped at how deep he went.

"That's it," he encouraged as I moved faster. "Take what you need."

He reached between us, his thumb finding my clit, and the combination had me coming again, clenching around him.

Before I could catch my breath, he flipped us over, driving into me hard and fast. The headboard banged against the wall as he fucked me with an intensity that had me climbing toward another orgasm.

"One more," he commanded. "Give me one more."

He shifted angle slightly, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars. When I came for the third time, he followed, my name on his lips as he emptied himself inside me.

We collapsed together, thoroughly spent, sticky with sweat and maple. As I shifted to get comfortable, he caught sight of the crossed candy canes tattooed at the small of my back.

"What's this?" he asked, tracing them with his finger.

"A reminder," I said. "Of what I survived. Of who I used to be."

"And who are you now?"

I turned to look at him. "Still figuring that out."

He pressed a kiss to the tattoo, then to my shoulder. "Well, whoever you are, were, and want to be, I'm glad you're here."

Later, after we'd showered off the sticky sweetness and returned to the shop kitchen, we finished the truffles properly. The batch was perfect—everything we'd been working toward.

"We're going to win this thing," Sawyer said, boxing up the candies carefully.

"You really think so?"

"I know so. Your candy is amazing. You are too."

I looked at him, this gruff mountain man who'd broken down my walls even as I'd broken down his. "What happens after the competition?"

"We figure it out as we go. But Cinn?" He pulled me close. "I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

"Good," I said, resting my head against his chest. "Because I think I'd like you to stay."

He kissed the top of my head. "Then I will. Now, I better get back. Still got syrup to finish. I'll bring the rest when it's done."

"Sawyer?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For the apology. For giving us a chance."

He tilted my chin up, kissing me softly. "Thank you for being brave enough to let me try."

The competition was coming fast, but for the first time since arriving in Woodbridge Falls, I felt truly ready. Not just for the contest, but for whatever came after. For building something real with someone who saw all of me—past and present—and wanted me anyway.