Page 11 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"No." The word came quick, sharp. "No one waiting anywhere."
"Find that hard to believe." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
She kept her back to me, shoulders tense. "The lifestyle I had in New York... it wasn't conducive to relationships. When I decided to change my life, I left everything behind. Everyone."
She gripped the ladle tighter, knuckles white against the wood. I recognized the tone—I'd used it myself when people asked about Dad's death or Mom's condition. Some pain you kept close to the vest.
I waited until the silence stretched thin before speaking. "Fresh starts aren't easy."
"No," she agreed softly. "They're not."
We worked in companionable silence as the afternoon stretched toward evening. The sap had boiled down to proper density, and we drew off several gallons of finished syrup, filtering it through felt and grading it by color. This batch was even darker than yesterday's, with an almost molasses-like depth that would make it perfect for her candy making.
"Watch the way it sheets off the scoop," I demonstrated, lifting the ladle and letting the syrup run back into the pan. "See how it comes together at the bottom before dropping? That's how you know it's close. At 219 degrees, seven above boiling, it's perfect. One degree cooler and it's too thin. One degree hotter and you're headed toward candy."
She nodded, that focused look taking over her features. "Like soft-ball stage for candy. 235 to 240."
"You really do think in candy terms."
"Occupational hazard." She took the ladle from me, our fingers brushing. "Everything relates back to timing and temperature in my world."
The full moon was rising by the time we finished, its silver light cutting through the gathering storm clouds. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Cinn shivered despite her coat as we cleaned up the equipment.
"Getting cold," I observed.
"I'm fine," she said, but her teeth chattered slightly.
"Come here." Before I could second-guess myself, I pulled her against me, opening my coat and tucking her hands inside against my flannel shirt. "Better?"
She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into me with a small sigh. "Much."
She fit against me perfectly, soft curves pressed to my chest, her head tucking just under my chin. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with maple steam clung to her hair. My armswanted to wrap around her properly, pull her closer, find out if her lips tasted as delicious as her name suggested.
"You're like a furnace," she murmured against my chest.
"Mountain living—you run hot or you freeze."
She pulled back slightly to look up at me, moonlight catching in her expression. "A grizzly in plaid, keeping warm in his den."
"Grizzly?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Mm-hmm. Gruff, solitary, protective of his territory." Her hands pressed against my ribs through my shirt. "But apparently capable of sharing honey—or in this case, maple syrup—with the right persuasion."
"Careful," I warned, though my voice came out rougher than intended. "Grizzlies can be dangerous when provoked."
"I'm not afraid of you, Sawyer Blackwood."
The way she looked at me then—like she saw past every wall I'd built and wasn't scared of what she found there—made something crack in my chest. I wanted to kiss her. God, I wanted to carry her into my cabin, warm her properly in my bed, discover every secret she was keeping behind that knowing look.
Instead, I stepped back, letting the cold air rush between us.
"It's late," I said, my voice flat as pond water. "You should head back before the storm hits."
Her mouth tightened at the corners—a flash of hurt before she smoothed it away. "Right. Of course."
She gathered her things while I banked the fire, both of us avoiding eye contact. This was business, I reminded myself firmly. She needed syrup for her competition. I needed help with the harvest. Simple exchange of services, nothing more.
But as I watched her taillights disappear down the mountain road, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was lying to myself.
