Page 3 of Mountain Man's Pumpkin Spice
I watched him disappear into the crowd, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery. Melanie was right—Ashe Singleton was definitely not much for conversation. But there was something about the way he had looked at me, like he saw past the desperate spice vendor to the person underneath.
The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of customers and sales. Word spread about my blends, and by closing time, I had sold nearly half my inventory. Not bad for a flat display and zero marketing budget.
As vendors started packing up around me, I found myself glancing toward Ashe’s booth every few minutes. The market was winding down, string lights casting warm pools of light as families headed toward the parking lot. I was wiping down my table when I heard the sound of something heavy being set down behind me.
I turned to find Ashe. His hand was on the most beautiful wooden riser I had ever seen. It was exactly like his sketch, but the reality was even better—smooth honey-colored wood with subtle grain patterns that caught the light.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, running my fingers along the top tier. “This is incredible.”
“Scrap wood,” he said again, but there was something softer in his voice now.
“The most gorgeous scrap wood in the history of scrap wood.”
That almost-smile was back. “You want help setting it up?”
“Yes, please.”
We worked in comfortable silence, arranging my jars on the three levels. The transformation was incredible—my booth went from amateur to professional in minutes. The warm wood complemented my spice labels perfectly, and the height created visual interest that drew the eye.
“Perfect.” I stepped back to admire our work. “Absolutely perfect.”
When I turned to thank him, I found him watching me with those dark green eyes, and something electric passed between us. The noise faded into background hum, and for a moment, it was just us in this little bubble of wood shavings and cinnamon scent.
“Marissa,” he said, and hearing my name in that rough voice did things to my insides.
“Ashe,” I said back, testing the weight of his name on my tongue.
He cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “I should go.”
“Right. Of course.” I fumbled for my purse. “Let me pay you?—”
“No.”
“But—”
“I said no.” He was already backing away, like I might force money on him if he stayed too long. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Market runs all week,” he said. “Your booth will need adjusting. Wood settles.”
It was probably an excuse—the riser looked solid as a rock—but I wasn’t about to argue.
“Tomorrow, then,” I agreed.
He nodded once and disappeared into the evening crowd, leaving me alone with my beautiful new display and a chest full of butterflies.
I spent the next hour packing up, but I couldn’t stop smiling. Tomorrow suddenly felt full of possibility.
2
ASHE
Wood settles. Really? That was my parting line?
The words ran through my mind all night, chasing me into morning. Maybe that was part of the reason I was standing at Marissa’s booth before the vendors were scheduled to arrive, checking the stand. The wood hadn’t really settled, but I did find a joint that needed to be tightened. It probably would have been fine, but let’s be honest—I wanted an excuse to see her again.
“You’re here,” she said when she approached her table, holding a gigantic box and wearing a big smile.
