Page 18 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"When? I made it pretty clear I wasn't interested in knowing you." He laughed, bitter. "You tried to share pieces of yourself and I kept shutting you down."
"The whole town will know soon. Will probably told everyone by now."
"Will won't say shit. He's got his own secrets." Sawyer's jaw tightened. "And if anyone in town has a problem with you, they can take it up with me."
"I don't need protecting."
"I know. But everyone needs someone in their corner."
I studied his face, looking for the catch. "Yesterday you threw my past in my face. Why should I trust you now?"
"You shouldn't. Not yet." He pulled his hands from his pockets, spread them. "But I'm asking for a chance to earn it. The competition's coming up. Let me help you win this thing. After that, if you want me gone, I'm gone."
"And if I don't?"
Something flashed in his eyes. "Then we figure out what this is. Because I know you feel it too."
My breath caught. "Feel what?"
"This thing between us that's been building since day one."
The air in the small kitchen suddenly felt charged. I stood, needing distance, but there wasn't anywhere to go in the tiny space.
"We should work on the truffles," I said. "Down in the shop kitchen. Where my equipment is."
"We should."
Neither of us moved.
"Sawyer—"
"I know. I fucked up. I don't deserve—" He stopped. "Let's just work. The rest can wait."
We went downstairs to the shop kitchen. Lucy was busy with customers out front, the normal sounds of the shop muffled by the closed door. The test batches I'd made were indeed showing bloom, but that didn't matter now. We had work to do.
For the next hour, we fell into the familiar rhythm of candy-making. Testing ratios, adjusting temperatures, tasting and retasting. The work steadied my nerves, and Sawyer's presence—solid, focused, good at knowing what worked—helped ground me.
"Temperature's crucial here," I explained, showing him the thermometer. "One degree off and the texture's wrong."
"Like syrup," he said. "That sweet spot between liquid and candy."
Our hands brushed as he handed me a spoon. The touch sent heat through me that had nothing to do with the stove.
"Try this," I said, holding up a spoon with the latest batch of filling.
He leaned in, closed his lips around the spoon. His eyes shut, and he made a low sound of appreciation. "That's the one."
"You think?"
"Right balance. The maple comes through without overpowering the chocolate."
I tasted it myself, and he was right. After all the failed batches, we'd found it.
"We make a good team," he said quietly.
"In the kitchen, anyway."
"Maybe other places too." He moved closer. "Cinn, I need you to know something. Yesterday wasn't about you. It was about me being scared of feeling something real again."
