Page 5 of Mountain Man's Pumpkin Spice
Something warm settled in my chest at that admission. When was the last time a woman had complimented my hands? When was the last time a woman had complimented anything about me?
We made three more trips to her car, and with each one, I learned something new. She’d quit her retail job six months ago to pursue this dream. She’d been testing spice blends on anyone who would try them. She had a cat named Paprika who had very strong opinions about her cooking schedule.
“What about you?” she asked as we arranged the last of her inventory. “Have you always lived here?”
“Born and raised. Left when I was eighteen for the military, came back a few years ago.”
“Military?” Her eyes lit up with interest, not the usual pity or awkward thank-you-for-your-service that I got from most people. “What branch?”
“Navy.”
I didn’t elaborate, and thankfully, she didn’t push. Most people wanted details, wanted stories, wanted to know about deployments and operations and things I had no intention of discussing with a stranger. Even a beautiful stranger who smelled like cinnamon and looked at me like I was something worth looking at.
“Well, I’m glad you came back,” she said, and something in her tone made me look at her more closely. “This place needs people who care about it.”
“You’re not from here.” It wasn’t a question.
“Hartsville,” she said, naming a town just twenty minutes away. “But I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. My parents used to bring us up here for random Sunday drives.” Her expression grew soft, nostalgic. “This place feels like magic to me. The mountains, the people, the way everyone knows everyone else.”
“It’s not always as perfect as it looks. Small towns have their problems too.”
“I know, but I love it anyway. Actually, I’m hoping to open a shop here someday. Everyone needs spices, right? Maybe I’d even make baked goods for people to take home with them.”
The way she talked about it, with such genuine enthusiasm and hope, made something twist in my chest. When was the last time I’d wanted something that badly? When was the last timeI’d talked about the future like it held possibilities instead of just more of the same?
“That sounds nice,” I said, and I meant it.
“It does, doesn’t it?” She beamed at me, and I felt that strange warmth in my chest intensify. “I’d love to open it here, near the interstate and the inn where we’re staying, but it’s just land now. Maybe someday they’ll put in some strip malls.” She stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m rambling again. I tend to do that when I get excited about something.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s good to have dreams.”
“What about you? Your woodworking is really good. You could open your own shop.”
The statement caught me off guard. Work was mostly just a necessity these days. My focus had been on simpler things—getting through each day, keeping busy, and not thinking too hard about the past or the future.
“Haven’t given it much thought lately,” I said honestly.
She studied my face with those warm brown eyes, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she could see more than I wanted her to. “Maybe you should.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, another vendor approached her booth, drawn by the samples she’d set out earlier. I watched her transform—straightening her shoulders, putting on a bright smile, and launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her spice blends.
She was a natural at this. Passionate, knowledgeable, and somehow charming without being pushy. The vendor ended up buying three different blends and asking for her card.
“Impressive,” I said when the customer left.
“Thanks.” She looked pleased, but also a little surprised by the compliment. “I really love what I do.”
“It shows.”
We stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, and I realized I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go back to my own booth and spend the day sanding wood and making polite conversation with customers who wanted cutting boards and decorative bowls.
But other vendors were starting to arrive, and the market would officially open soon. I had my own booth to prepare.
“I should get going,” I said reluctantly.
“Of course.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I noticed she looked almost as reluctant as I felt. “Thank you for helping with all this. And for the coffee. And for the riser. You really didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to,” I said, cutting her off before she could start thanking me again.
