Page 1 of Mountain Man's Pumpkin Spice
1
MARISSA
The first time I met the mountain man, I was trying to bribe him with muffins.
That was the move. I showed up at his booth, armed with a container of pumpkin spice minis and a desperate smile. I needed his help since the riser I had ordered online two weeks earlier had shattered on impact that morning—and now my entire spice display was tragically flat.
He was behind a workbench under a canvas tent, sanding something long and heavy with thick forearms and zero interest in my chaos.
“I need a riser.” I held up my phone to show him my inspiration board. “Three tiers, sturdy, clean edges. Warm wood tone if possible.”
His eyes narrowed. His mouth twitched.
But he didn’t say a word. Just kept sanding whatever board he was working on like I hadn’t just politely—and might I add, adorably—asked for the one thing standing between me and a top-tier spice booth.
I waited a beat. Then I smiled and leaned in, letting the scent of cinnamon and cloves drift toward him.
“I’ll pay. In cash. Or pumpkin muffins. Your choice.”
His eyes finally flicked to mine. They were green, like dark pine, and suspicious.
“I don’t take custom orders,” he said, his voice so low and rough I felt it more than heard it.
“Good thing I’m not placing an order. I’m making a request.”
Still nothing.
I tapped the edge of the table. “I’m Marissa, by the way. And before you say no, just know this booth means a lot to me. It’s my first year solo. I’ve got the blends, the branding, and the jars, but I need height.”
He arched a brow.
“Display height,” I clarified, trying not to flinch. “Not…I mean, I’m five-four, so any help in that department would also be appreciated, but?—”
Okay, now I was rambling. His lips twitched. It wasn’t a smile. Not quite. But it was enough to make my pulse spike.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “Really?”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“But you also didn’t say no.”
He turned back to the board, grabbed a different sander, and started working like the conversation had never happened.
I left the muffins. Because if there was one thing I had learned about stubborn mountain men—which, okay, I hadn’t learned anything about them until right then—it was that food spoke louder than words. And these particular muffins were basically edible magic. They were from my grandmother’s recipe with a twist of cardamom that made grown men weep.
The Harvest Market buzzed around me as I headed back to my booth, dodging families with strollers and couples sharing funnel cakes. The October air carried the scent of apple cider and wood smoke, and despite my display crisis, I couldn’thelp but smile. This place—with its string lights and handmade everything—felt like stepping into a fairy tale.
My booth looked sad without proper elevation. Jars of turmeric blend and chai masala sat flat on a white tablecloth, practically begging customers to walk right past. I’d spent months perfecting these spice combinations, testing them on friends and coworkers until I was confident enough to quit my marketing job and dive headfirst into this dream.
A dream that currently looked like a garage sale.
I was rearranging jars for the third time when a shadow fell across my table. I looked up to find a woman about my age with paint-stained fingers and curious eyes.
“You’re the spice girl,” she said with a sweet smile. “I’m Melanie. Pottery booth, two rows over.”
“Marissa,” I said, grateful for the distraction. “Sorry. I was having a moment. I’m hoping the wood guy can help me with that.”
