Page 2 of Mountain Man's Corn Maze Cutie
The man was infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. And unfortunately, also gorgeous. Even scowling at me like I was some kind of criminal, he was hands down the most attractive man I’d ever seen in person. Broad shoulders stretched his gray Henley to its limits, and his dark hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it. Probably from dealing with “messy stuff” vendors like me.
“And you are?” I asked, realizing we’d been arguing for five minutes and I didn’t even know his name.
“Marc Fowler. I built the corn maze.”
Of course, he did. Of course the gorgeous, grumpy man was the one responsible for the maze that half my customers disappeared into after buying my only open-bag product.
“Well, Marc Fowler, I’m Cecelia Whitney, and this is my livelihood.” I swept my hand around to indicate my booth. “I can’t exactly change my entire product line because one person might have slipped on some popcorn.”
“You could put up signs warning people not to take open containers into the maze.”
“I could. But I won’t.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”
“Because it’s ridiculous. People eat while they walk around. That’s the whole point of festival food. It’s supposed to be portable.”
Marc stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of something woodsy and masculine. Probably sawdust and pine from building mazes. It shouldn’t have been attractive, but somehow it was.
“My maze took me three weeks to design and two weeks to build,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I used military tactical planning to create something challenging but safe. I can’t have people turning it into a snack bar.”
“Military tactical planning?” I couldn’t help but smile. “For a corn maze?”
“Don’t.” His voice was sharp. “Don’t make fun of it.”
The smile faded from my face. “I wasn’t making fun of it. I was just—it’s impressive. Taking it that seriously.”
Something flickered across his features, too quick for me to identify.
“Look,” I said, trying for a more reasonable tone. “I understand you’re proud of your work. I’m proud of mine too. But I can’t control what people do after they buy from me any more than you can control whether they get lost in your maze.”
“I can control the maze. That’s the point. Every dead end, every turn, every exit—it’s all planned.”
“Must be nice having that much control over something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. Just that life isn’t usually that neat and organized.”
“Some things should be.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. He was standing close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They were gray, I realized. Storm gray, like clouds gathering over the mountains.
“How about a compromise?” I heard myself saying, even though compromising was the last thing I wanted to do.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll put up a small sign suggesting people finish their snacks before entering the maze. But I’m not making it a big warning sign, and I’m not changing what I sell.”
Marc considered this, his gaze never leaving my face. I wondered what he was seeing. Probably a stubborn vendor in a floral sundress and cardigan, hair escaping from its ponytail after a long morning of selling.
“And if someone gets hurt?” he asked.
“Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. But I’m betting it won’t.”
“You’re betting a lot on that.”
“I’m betting on common sense. Most people don’t go into a corn maze while juggling food.”
