Page 4 of Mountain Man's Flirty Farmgirl
I didn’t say anything. Just grabbed a bundle of zip ties and started walking toward her booth. I could hear her rushing behind me to keep up.
“It’s probably not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I mean, it’s a little chaotic. I had a whole vision when I packed everything, but in person, it doesn’t always come together the same way, you know?”
I had no idea. But I nodded anyway.
We reached her table, and I had to admit, it wasn’t bad. Straw bales flanked either side, one stacked with baskets of shiny apples, the other with little jars of caramel dip and wooden sticks. Corn stalks were tied to the table legs. Her warm cider jugs were arranged neatly with mismatched mugs, and even her little chalkboard sign looked halfway professional.
It looked like her. Sunshiny and earthy and a little too eager.
I crouched to assess the table legs, found where I could anchor the cord safely without making it a tripping hazard, then fed the line through the grass from the nearest pole. When I stood to adjust the cider plate she’d placed off-center, her eyes were already on me.
“You’re a harvest superhero,” she said with a soft laugh. “Here to rescue poor frazzled vendors who didn’t read the instructions.”
I grunted. She smiled.
When I plugged in the plate and flipped the switch, the little red light came on, and she actually clapped. “Yes! You’re amazing. Do you want a cup of cider? I could put a cinnamon stick in it. It’s farm-pressed. My neighbor does all the apple harvesting.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, the first one’s free.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. But I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. I had to test the connections and make sure her cords weren’t going to short out. I crouched again, twisting one of the ties just a little tighter.
That’s when I felt her eyes on me, lingering. Then she cleared her throat, clearly caught.
“You know…you don’t have to do all of this.”
“I know.”
Her smile was softer this time, a little hesitant. “But you’re doing it anyway.”
I stood. “Booth like this could win.”
She lit up like the sunrise. “You think so?”
“Maybe. If you moved the mums to the front corners. Right now they’re fighting the caramel jars for attention.”
She blinked at me, stunned. “Wait, you actually—? You’re like a booth whisperer.”
I didn’t respond. Just walked over, picked up the mum pots, and set them in new positions.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s way better.”
“You’ll want your sign angled out too,” I muttered, crouching to move it. “Not flat to the table. No one sees it until they’re right in front of you.”
“You’re really good at this.”
“I’ve hauled a lot of setups.”
“Still, thank you.”
Just then, one of the teen volunteers came around the corner with a box of sandwiches. “Lunch drop!” she called. “Turkey or veggie?”
I grabbed a turkey box, then looked at Sienna. She took a veggie, plopping onto the hay bale at the end of her booth and patting the space beside her.
I hesitated, then I sat. The cider machine gave a soft hiss. Kids laughed in the distance. And for a minute, the buzz of the market faded into the background.
We ate in silence at first. She chewed with her mouth closed. I didn’t force conversation.
