Page 14 of Treated to a Mountain Man
But everything had changed.
I cleaned up the kitchen, my hands working from memory alone. Outside, Main Street was quiet, streetlights casting pools of yellow on empty sidewalks. This town had offered me a fresh start, a chance to be someone new. But you couldn't run from yourself, no matter how far you drove into the mountains.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, each step an effort. In the bathroom mirror, I looked the same as I had this morning—auburn hair, brown eyes, face that could play innocent or knowing depending on the angle. But Will's recognition had torn through three weeks of pretending. By morning, Sawyer would probably search my name online. Come dawn, he'd find Sweet Cinn and every digital sin.
The fear that had been simmering all day finally boiled over. I sank onto my bed, arms wrapped around my knees. The internet was forever. My past was forever. And now it was going to cost me everything—my business, my reputation in this town, and worst of all, whatever was building between Sawyer and me.
But I hadn't come this far to give up now. Time was running out—the competition was approaching fast. I needed Sawyer'ssyrup, needed his help, and somehow I'd have to face him tomorrow knowing he might already know the truth.
The odds of him accepting my past? About as good as maple syrup running in July. But I'd beaten worse odds before.
I sat up, wiping my eyes. Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Tonight, I had more batches to test, a recipe to refine. If this was all going to crash down, at least I'd go down swinging.
Chapter Six
Sawyer
The cabin felt too quiet after Cinn left. I stood at the window watching her taillights disappear down the mountain road, that knot in my gut telling me something was wrong. The way Will had acted. The way she'd deflected. The sudden illness that came on right when things got uncomfortable.
I knew bullshit when I heard it, and she'd been shoveling it hard.
I tried to focus on cleaning up the sugar shack, banking the fire in the evaporator, organizing the filters Will had delivered. But my mind kept circling back to that moment—Will's face going white when he saw her, the way he'd fussed with his wedding ring like a guilty man.
Back in the cabin, I cracked open a beer and sat at my laptop. The cursor blinked in the search bar, taunting me. Part of me didn't want to know. Part of me wanted to preserve the image of her I'd been building—the determined candy maker with blistered hands and fire in her eyes, who showed up before dawn with homemade muffins and faced every challenge I threw at her.
But I needed to know who I was really dealing with.
I typed her name: Cinnamon Moretti.
The first results were innocuous enough. Her shop's Facebook page. A mention in the Woodbridge Falls community newsletter about new businesses. Then, buried on the second page, I found it.
Sweet Cinn.
My stomach dropped as I clicked the link. The page was defunct, but cached versions remained. There she was—the same auburn hair, the same brown eyes, but presented so differently. Lingerie. Sultry poses. "Your favorite candy—Sweet Cinn. Taste what you've been missing."
I kept scrolling, each image another punch to the gut. OnlyFans links. "Premium content." Subscription tiers. Comments from men praising her videos, her chat sessions, her "special services."
I pushed back from the desk, my hands shaking. Not from anger exactly, but from something harder to name. Betrayal, yes. She'd been lying since the moment she showed up at my door. But also a fascination I didn't want to acknowledge. The woman in those images was beautiful, confident, owning her sexuality in a way that made my mouth go dry.
And beneath it all, disappointment that cut deeper than I expected. I'd started to let her in past barriers I'd built after Beth left, after Dad died, after everything went to hell. She'd made me laugh. Made me remember what it felt like to want someone.
Now I knew it was just another performance from someone who sold herself professionally.
I finished my beer and grabbed another, then another. Sleep didn't come until nearly dawn, and even then it was fitful, full of dreams where Cinn's brown eyes looked at me with that same expression Will had—guilty, ashamed, caught.
SHE SHOWED UP THE NEXTmorning like nothing had happened. Fresh coffee, orange cranberry scones, that bright smile that I now knew was fake.
"Morning," she said, holding out a thermos. "Ready to finish the harvest?"
I didn't take it. "We need to talk."
Her smile faltered. "About what?"
"About Sweet Cinn."
The thermos slipped from her hand, hitting the porch boards with a metallic thud. The lid popped off and hot coffee splashed across our boots. Neither of us moved to clean it up.
"How did you—"
