Page 12 of Treated to a Mountain Man
Back in the cabin, I stood at the window watching the storm clouds swallow the moon
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the walls that matched my mood. Her scent lingered on my shirt where she'd pressed against me, and I found myself breathing it in like some lovesick teenager.
"Get a grip," I muttered, but my mind wouldn't let go of how she'd felt in my arms. Soft. Warm. Right in a way that scared the crap out of me.
I knew almost nothing about her beyond the surface. Former city girl, grandmother's recipes, struggling shop. But there was more—layers of hurt and determination that matched my own. When she'd talked about fresh starts, I'd heard the echo of my own struggles in her voice. Whatever had driven her to this small mountain town, it wasn't just a whim. The tension in her voice when she'd mentioned New York—it was like watching syrup reach that critical temperature, right before it could burn and turn bitter.
The wind picked up outside, rattling the windows and sending leaves skittering across the porch. I should have insisted she stay, at least until the worst of the weather passed. But that would have been dangerous for entirely different reasons. Already I was imagining her here, warming herself by my fire, maybe sharing the dinner I was half-heartedly contemplating, the flames reflecting in her eyes as we talked about things that didn't matter and things that did.
I walked through the cabin, checking locks out of habit. In the kitchen, I noticed she'd left one of her hair ties on the counter—a simple brown elastic that had probably fallen from her pocket. I picked it up, running it between my fingers. Such a small thing, but it made her presence feel lingering, like she'd marked my space somehow.
"Purely business," I said aloud to the empty room, but the words rang hollow.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge and dropped into my recliner, flipping on the TV to some mindless football game. But I couldn't focus on the plays, couldn't care about the score. My thoughts kept drifting to tomorrow, to seeing her again, to watching her attack each task like she had something to prove, with occasional flashes of vulnerability when she thought I wasn't looking.
The game droned on, but my mind was elsewhere—on the way she'd laughed at Tommy's rainbow business plan, how her eyes had softened when I talked about family, the perfect way her feminine form fit against my chest.
The truth was, Cinnamon Moretti had gotten under my skin in just two days. And the scariest part? I wasn't sure I wanted to dig her out.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I took a long pull of beer, knowing sleep would be elusive tonight. Not because of the storm, but because somewhere down the mountain, she was probably soaking in a bath, washing away the day's sticky sweetness, and I couldn't stop wondering if she was thinking about me too.
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall. Tomorrow we'd need to work fast before the weather turned completely. But right now, holding that hair tie and nursing my beer, I let myself admit what I'd been fighting since she first showed up on my porch.
"You're in trouble, Blackwood," I told myself. The hair tie was soft between my fingers, still holding the faint scent of vanilla. I pocketed it instead of tossing it in the trash, knowing what that meant but not ready to examine it too closely.
Maybe it was time to stop protecting myself from everything good that tried to find me.
Chapter Five
Cinnamon
The next morning dawned crystal clear, last night's storm having washed the world clean. I arrived at Sawyer's place with fresh blueberry muffins and strong coffee, my body still sore but manageable. At least this way I wouldn’t need to look for a gym anytime soon. The routine was becoming familiar now—the crunch of gravel under my tires, the way morning light hit the cabin, Sawyer already at work when I pulled up.
"Storm didn't scare you off," he said by way of greeting, accepting the coffee I offered.
"Takes more than a little rain to keep me away." I handed him a muffin. "Besides, we've got syrup to make."
We worked through the morning collecting sap from the buckets we'd set, the storm having filled some to overflowing. The forest smelled fresh and earthy, pine and wet leaves mixing with the sweet scent of the maple sap. I found myself stealing glances at Sawyer as we worked, remembering how he'd held me yesterday, how warm his chest had been through his flannel.
Around eleven, the sound of an engine broke through our comfortable rhythm. A delivery truck rumbled up the dirt road, its sides emblazoned with "Mountain Supply Co."
"That'll be Will with the filters I ordered," Sawyer said, setting down his bucket.
The truck pulled to a stop and a man in his early thirties climbed out, his red-gold beard catching the slant of autumn sunlight. He had the tired, slightly rumpled look of someone who spent long days behind the wheel, navigating windingmountain routes. His eyes swept the clearing, landing on me, and I saw the exact moment recognition hit.
His face went pale, then flushed red. His wedding band caught the light as he nervously twisted it around his finger.
"Hey, Sawyer," Will said, his voice pitched too high. "Got your order here."
I kept my expression neutral, but my stomach dropped like I'd swallowed lead. I knew that look—the guilty recognition of a former client. Not a physical client, thank God, but I remembered his profile from my OnlyFans VIP tier. RedMountain82. He'd submitted verification photos for private content access, always generous with tips and compliments in the chat.
"Morning, Will," Sawyer replied, moving toward the truck. "This is Cinn. She's helping with the harvest."
Will's eyes darted to me then away, like looking directly at me might burn him. "Ma'am," he mumbled, grabbing boxes from the truck bed with unnecessary speed.
"Nice to meet you," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my throat.
The next few minutes stretched unbearably long. Will fumbled with paperwork, dropped a box twice, and practically sprinted back to his truck after Sawyer signed for the delivery. The engine hadn't even faded down the mountain before Sawyer turned to me with narrowed eyes.
