Page 5 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"I'm not a company," she said, voice softer but fierce. "I'm one person trying to make something from nothing. All I'm asking is enough syrup to enter the contest."
The desperation in her voice hit home—it echoed how Dad sounded when he realized what Sweetland had done to us. For a split second, I felt a twinge of sympathy. Then I remembered how trust had gutted my family.
"You're asking the wrong person," I said, the words coming rougher than intended. "My trust ran out years ago."
She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Please. There must be something I could do."
A ridiculous idea flashed through my head—guaranteed to send her scurrying back to her little shop. "You want my syrup so badly? Fine. Only way you'll get it is if you work the harvest yourself."
I expected shock or outrage. Instead, those big brown eyes narrowed in calculation, then: "Deal."
"What?" I must have misheard.
"I said, deal." She thrust out her hand. "I'll work your harvest for enough syrup to make my competition entry."
I stared at her outstretched hand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to huff off in those impractical shoes and leave me in peace.
"You've got no idea what you're agreeing to," I said. "Harvesting sap is backbreaking work. Long hours in the cold. It's not something city folks just jump into."
Her hand didn't waver. "I'm tougher than I look. And I learn fast."
"It could take up to a week of work for what you'd need."
"Then I'll work a week."
"Your shop—"
"I have part-time help. Lucy can cover for me."
I dragged my hand through my beard, thrown by her resolve. Nobody in their right mind would agree to what I'd just suggested. Yet here she stood, hand extended, eyes locked on mine like she'd stare me down all night if needed.
Against every instinct, I reached out and clasped her hand. Her fingers were warm despite the chill, with calluses I hadn't expected. The handshake lasted a heartbeat too long before I dropped my grip.
"Fine," I grunted. "Be here at dawn. Wear layers, nothing fancy. Bring lunch, water, and work gloves if you've got 'em. If not, I have extras."
Her face lit up with a smile that transformed her from pretty to something that threatened to knock the wind right out of me. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. You won't regret this."
"Sawyer," I corrected, already regretting it. "And save your thanks. Most folks don't last the first day."
"I'm not most folks." Something in her voice—a hard edge beneath the sweetness—made me believe her.
"We'll see." I nodded at the box still perched on my railing. "Take your candy with you."
"It's a gift," she insisted. "Try it or burn it, but it's yours."
Before I could argue, she was already bouncing back to her car, practically skipping down my steps. I watched as she backed around in the clearing with surprising skill and disappeared down the mountain road, taillights swallowed by darkness.
The woods fell quiet again, but something felt different—like the air before a storm. I picked up the box she'd left, meaning to chuck it in the trash, but found myself carrying it inside instead.
Under the cabin's lamplight, I examined the package—black box with gold trim and a simple stamp:Sugar & Spice. Inside lay an assortment of chocolates and candies, each one appearing crafted by hand. Grudgingly impressed, I bit into a dark chocolate piece.
The flavor hit me hard—bitter chocolate giving way to rich cream laced with coffee and a nutty undertone. I couldn't stop the low grunt of approval that escaped me before I caught myself, annoyed at my own reaction. Damn thing was perfect.
I shut the box and set it aside, trying to ignore a spark of curiosity about what her maple creation might taste like. Dawn would come early, and I'd bet good money Cinnamon Moretti would run back to town after a few hours of real work. Then I could return to my quiet life.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind in the trees.
Then I reached for the box on my nightstand and ate another chocolate. Fuck.
