Page 21 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"A reminder," I said. "Of what I survived. Of who I used to be."
"And who are you now?"
I turned to look at him. "Still figuring that out."
He pressed a kiss to the tattoo, then to my shoulder. "Well, whoever you are, were, and want to be, I'm glad you're here."
Later, after we'd showered off the sticky sweetness and returned to the shop kitchen, we finished the truffles properly. The batch was perfect—everything we'd been working toward.
"We're going to win this thing," Sawyer said, boxing up the candies carefully.
"You really think so?"
"I know so. Your candy is amazing. You are too."
I looked at him, this gruff mountain man who'd broken down my walls even as I'd broken down his. "What happens after the competition?"
"We figure it out as we go. But Cinn?" He pulled me close. "I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
"Good," I said, resting my head against his chest. "Because I think I'd like you to stay."
He kissed the top of my head. "Then I will. Now, I better get back. Still got syrup to finish. I'll bring the rest when it's done."
"Sawyer?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the apology. For giving us a chance."
He tilted my chin up, kissing me softly. "Thank you for being brave enough to let me try."
The competition was coming fast, but for the first time since arriving in Woodbridge Falls, I felt truly ready. Not just for the contest, but for whatever came after. For building something real with someone who saw all of me—past and present—and wanted me anyway.
Chapter Eight
Sawyer
Afew days had passed since Cinn and I had turned her kitchen into our personal playground. The harvest was complete, all the syrup bottled and stored, and her competition truffles had finally reached that sweet spot we'd been chasing—not too sweet, with just enough smoky depth from my syrup to make them memorable.
Tomorrow the Autumn Harvest Festival would open, and with it, the competition that would determine whether Cinn's shop survived. She'd been buzzing with nervous energy when I left her place this morning, going over her checklist for the tenth time.
Which is why the text that came through while I was splitting wood made my blood run cold.
911. Shop broken into. Everything ruined.
I dropped the axe and grabbed my keys, not bothering to change out of my work clothes. The twenty-minute drive down the mountain felt like hours. I took the curves too fast, tires squealing. When I pulled up behind Sugar & Spice, I found Cinn standing in the alley, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the back door hanging off its hinges.
"How bad?" I asked, pulling her against me.
"See for yourself." Her voice was flat, defeated.
The refrigerator door hung open—they'd pried it so hard the seal was damaged, letting all the cold air out. The cream and butter had spoiled overnight, giving off a sour smell that mixed with chocolate and flour. The six dozen competitiontruffles she'd spent days perfecting were ruined—stomped into the floor, leaving dark chocolate smears across the tiles like skid marks. They'd smashed the jar of specialty Belgian chocolate she'd special-ordered, scattered the gold leaf into the flour they'd poured everywhere, and emptied most of the maple syrup I'd given her. Glass shards glittered in the sticky mess on the floor, our shoes making wet, tacky sounds with each step.
"Christ," I breathed.
"All my competition entries. Gone." She bent to pick up a gold leaf that had somehow survived, holding it up to the light. "I already called Lucy, told her not to come in today. The specialty chocolate alone takes two days to order."
Her hands were shaking. Not just a tremor—real shaking, like her body couldn't process what had happened. I'd seen that kind of shock before, when Dad found out Sweetland had screwed us over.
