Page 2 of Mountain Man's Flirty Farmgirl
“Here.” He dropped it beside me.
“Oh, thank you! That’s—seriously, you just saved me.”
He didn’t respond, just crouched and started helping me gather the tomatoes. His fingers brushed mine once, and it was like someone lit a match under my skin. I froze for a beat too long. His jaw tightened.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, cheeks going full sunburn.
“You’re bleeding.”
I blinked. “What?”
He pointed at my shin. I glanced down. A thin red line of tomato juice mixed with what was apparently actual blood from a scrape I hadn’t even felt.
“Oh.” I tried to laugh it off. “Occupational hazard. You should see me after peach season.”
His eyes flicked up to mine. Something unreadable crossed his face.
Then he stood, lifting the crate full of rescued tomatoes without a word. “Where’s your booth?”
“Over there. Two rows up, past the kettle corn guy. Left of the honey table.”
His only response was a grunted, “Follow me.”
So I did. And I watched the way people stepped aside as he passed—nodding, waving, some even choosing not to say anything at all, just giving him space. They knew not to poke the bear.
He didn’t look back once. Just kept moving with a purpose I found oddly charming, like the world was on fire and he was the only one who knew where the extinguisher was.
When we reached my booth, he set down the crate with care. Then he straightened and glanced around, taking in the empty tables around me.
“You don’t have help?” he asked.
“Nope. Just me. All solo, all week.”
“You carrying all your crap by yourself?”
I blinked at the word crap. I kind of loved it.
“I’ve made three trips already and only lost produce on the last one, so I’d say I’m batting pretty strong,” I said.
That almost earned me a smile. Not quite, but there was definitely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something softer. Maybe it was confusion, like he didn’t understand what planet I came from.
“Well,” I said, brushing my hands on my capris, “thank you. Seriously. You did not have to do that.”
He shrugged, stepping back like he was already done with me. “Crate stays with me.”
“Of course. I don’t steal crates on first meetings.”
He gave me a look. Not mean, just unreadable. Then he turned to go.
“I’m Sienna, by the way,” I called after him.
He stopped and turned back. His gaze moved over me, lingering just a second too long. Not in a creepy way, but like he was trying to memorize something he didn’t understand.
“Blade,” he said.
Then he walked away, and I was left standing behind my table, covered in tomato juice and blushing like I’d just been handed a prize ribbon for Most Flustered Vendor.
Blade. Big, grumpy, helpful Blade. He was hot as sin.
