Page 4 of Mountain Man's Pumpkin Spice
I looked around. A few vendors were setting up down the row, but the tables nearby were still empty.
“Just checking on things,” I said, stepping around the table. “The stand is holding up well. There’s coffee that way if you want to grab some. How do you like yours?”
“Warm and sweet, just like me.”
She set the box on the table and turned to face me with a big smile. Was she flirting? It sure felt like she was flirting. And I was enjoying every second of it.
But suddenly it hit me. “You have more to unload, don’t you?”
She nodded. “But it’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Let’s go.”
I gestured for her to lead the way, but she didn’t budge. She just eyed me.
“You know you don’t have to do all this to get muffins.”
“What makes you think I’m doing this to get muffins?”
“People say you’re not usually this nice.”
My eyebrows rose. “You been talking about me?”
I should be offended, but I wasn’t. Not in the slightest. In fact, the idea of her asking around about me threatened to turn my permanent scowl into a smile.
“There were a bunch of locals at the lodge last night,” she said. “Big cocktail party for the vendors. We were asking questions about the mountain men around here.”
Mountain men. She kept using that term for me. I’d had a lot of labels in my life. Navy SEAL. Veteran. Construction worker. Son. Brother. Friend. But mountain man? That was new. Though I supposed to a city girl like her, maybe that’s exactly what I looked like—some gruff guy who lived in the woods and built things with his hands.
Not entirely wrong, if I was being honest.
“Come on,” I said, changing the subject before she could ask more questions about what people had said. “Show me where your car is.”
She hesitated for a moment, like she wanted to push the conversation further, but then she smiled and grabbed her keys. “It’s just over in the vendor lot. Fair warning, though—I may have overpacked.”
That turned out to be the understatement of the century. Her compact SUV was stuffed to the roof with boxes, bags, and what looked like enough spice inventory to stock a small grocery store.
“Jesus.” I stared at the mountain of supplies. “How did you even fit in there to drive?”
“Very carefully.” She laughed. “And I may have had to use my rearview mirrors more than usual.”
I shook my head and reached for the nearest box. It was heavier than expected, and I caught a whiff of cinnamon and something else—cardamom, maybe?—as I lifted it.
“So what’s your story?” she asked as we started the trek back to her booth.
“I do my job, keep to myself, and help when someone actually needs it.”
“And what is your job? Besides making beautiful wooden risers out of scrap wood?”
I glanced at her sideways. She was genuinely curious, not just making small talk.
“Construction crew during the day. Woodworking at night when I feel like it.”
“That explains the hands.” She immediately turned pink. “I mean the calluses. You have working hands. Not that I was looking at your hands specifically, I just?—”
“You were looking at my hands,” I said, and I couldn’t keep the amusement out of my voice.
“Maybe a little. They’re nice hands.”
