Page 26 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"And you navigate forests for a living?" I teased.
"Trees don't move when you're not looking," he grumbled, but his eyes crinkled with humor.
When we finally emerged, disheveled and covered in bits of hay, we found ourselves at the contest booth section. I slowed, taking in my competition.
Belinda's Gilded Teacup booth looked like Marie Antoinette had decorated it—nothing but gilt edges, crystal dishes, and delicate lace doilies. Her Maple Versailles Petit Fours sat on tiered silver platters, each one a tiny architectural marvel. She stood behind her display in a cream-colored dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent, her fake British accent carrying as she described her "autumn teatime experience" to potential customers.
"Give me a break," Sawyer muttered in my ear.
Next was Caleb Fournier from North Country Confections. His booth had a rustic charm—burlap table runners, mason jars filled with candy corn, and wooden crates creating levels. His Caramel Apple Maple Crunch Bites looked delicious in a homey, approachable way. He caught my eye and gave a friendly wave, which I returned.
Miriam Keating's Sweet Hearth booth made me smile—she'd gone full Halloween kitsch with fake spider webs, plastic bats, and a fog machine that puffed every few minutes. Her Maple Candy Corn Creams were displayed in vintage apothecary jars, the tri-colored treats looking like fall candy perfection.
Jonas Harrington from Harbor View Sweets had taken an elegant approach—navy and gold bunting, nautical rope accents, and his Sea-Salt Maple Pear Caramels arranged like precious gems in a jewelry case.
"Tough competition," I murmured, doubt creeping in.
"None of them worked through the night after being vandalized," Sawyer reminded me. "None of them have what you have."
"Which is?"
"Heart. And my syrup." He squeezed my hand. "Come on, there's more to see."
We wandered through the craft section, admiring quilts that told stories in fabric and hand-thrown pottery glazed in fall colors. At the woodworking booth, Sawyer got into an animated discussion with the craftsman about different wood grains while I browsed carved maple leaf bowls, running my fingers over the smooth finish.
"For your shop," Sawyer said, purchasing one before I could protest. "To hold the candy everyone's going to be lining up for after this weekend."
The farmer's market section overflowed with late harvest bounty—pumpkins of every size and color, from tiny white ones to massive orange giants. We sampled apple butter on fresh bread, bought cider donuts still warm from the fryer, and watched a demonstration of antique cider pressing.
"Try this," Sawyer said, handing me a cup of hot cider spiked with cinnamon and nutmeg.
The warmth spread through me, chasing away the October chill. Around us, the festival hummed with life—children waited in line for face painting, emerging as tigers and butterflies. The local Methodist church sold bowls of thick beef stew and cornbread, the steam rising in the cool air.
We found ourselves at the pumpkin carving station, newspapers spread on picnic tables, families working together on their jack-o'-lanterns. We chose two medium pumpkins and settled at an empty spot.
"What are you making?" I asked, trying to peek at Sawyer's work.
He shifted to block my view. "It's a surprise."
I focused on my own pumpkin, carefully carving a jack-o'-lantern with diamond-shaped eyes and a crooked, mischievous grin. When I looked up, Sawyer had turned his pumpkin to face me. He'd carved a maple leaf with "C + S" in the center, so detailed I could see the veins of the leaf.
"Subtle," I said, but my voice came out thick with emotion.
"Figured I should mark the moment," he mentioned. "Our first festival together."
The word "first" hung between us, full of unspoken promises. I wanted to kiss him, festival crowd be damned, when I caught sight of the clock on the courthouse.
"Oh God, it's quarter to three," I said. "The judges!"
We rushed back to find Lucy handling a steady stream of customers, but relief crossed her face when she saw us.
"They announced the judging order," she said breathlessly. "You're fourth."
My stomach dropped. Fourth meant waiting, watching the other competitors present their entries first. Already I could see them preparing—Belinda adjusting her display, Caleb arranging his bites just so, Miriam adding more fog machine smoke for effect.
"Stop," Sawyer murmured, reading my panic. "Your candy speaks for itself."
Josephine Caldwell, the renowned pastry chef, followed by Conrad Bellows with his wire-rimmed spectacles, and Theo McKinley with an easy smile that revealed the gap between his two front teeth. They moved through the first three competitors with careful attention, taking notes, asking questions, their expressions unreadable.
