Page 17 of Treated to a Mountain Man
I'd accused her of hiding, but I was the one who'd been hiding all along.
Chapter Seven
Cinnamon
The next morning, I couldn't bring myself to open the shop. I sat on my apartment floor in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, staring at nothing. I hadn't slept—every time I'd closed my eyes, I saw Sawyer's face, heard his words. Downstairs in the shop kitchen, the test batches of truffles I'd made the other night were probably already starting to bloom, that telltale white film that appears on chocolate when the temperature isn't controlled.
My phone buzzed with texts from Lucy asking if I was okay, if she should open the shop. I finally texted back: "Please open. I'm sick." Let her handle things today. I couldn't face customers, couldn't pretend everything was fine.
I heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to my apartment above the shop. Heavy footsteps. Then a knock that rattled the door.
"Cinn, I know you're in there. Your car's out back."
Sawyer.
"Go away," I called, not moving from my spot on the floor.
"I need to talk to you."
"We talked yesterday. You made yourself pretty clear."
"I was wrong." The words came muffled through the door. "I was a jackass. And I was wrong."
Something in his tone made me stand, though I didn't move toward the door. "What do you want, Sawyer?"
"To apologize. To explain. To..." A pause. "To make things right."
Against every smart instinct, I opened the door. He stood there holding a single mason jar filled with dark amber syrup, looking like he hadn't slept either. His flannel was wrinkled, his beard unkempt, and his eyes carried a rawness I'd never seen before.
"You look terrible," I said.
"Yeah, well. Guilt does that." He held up the jar. "Brought you this. First batch of what you earned. Rest will be ready after I finish the harvest."
I stepped aside, letting him enter. He set the jar on my kitchen counter, then turned to face me, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn't trust them.
"I searched for you online after you left," he said. "Not just the Sweet Cinn stuff. Other things. Pieces of your story."
I crossed my arms. "And?"
"Found enough to know I'm an idiot who judges people from my safe little mountain while they're out fighting real battles."
"That's your apology?"
He met my eyes directly. "I'm sorry. For what I said. For how I reacted. For making you feel ashamed when you've got nothing to be ashamed of."
"You said I was selling myself."
"You were surviving. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to see the difference."
I wanted to stay angry, but exhaustion was winning. I sank onto a kitchen stool. "Why are you really here, Sawyer?"
"Because you deserve that apology. Because you've worked too damn hard to let my ignorance wreck your chances." He moved closer, careful, like I might bolt. "Because these past few days have been..." He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "I haven't felt this alive in years. And I threw it away because I got scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Of wanting something. Someone. Of it mattering."
The honesty in his voice was chipping at my defenses, but I wasn't ready to give in. "I should have told you."
