Page 6 of Treated to a Mountain Man
Chapter Three
Cinnamon
Five o'clock in the morning was never my favorite time of day, but I'd gotten used to it—the early mornings of candy preparation were nothing compared to the late nights of my previous career. I winced at the memory as I lined a wicker basket with a checkered cloth, arranging still-warm pumpkin walnut muffins and cranberry orange scones beside thermoses of homemade vegetable soup.
"Get it together, Cinn," I muttered, rolling my shoulders to ease the familiar tension that settled between my shoulder blades whenever I thought too much about the past. "Today is about maple syrup, not memories."
I'd been up since three, baking furiously in my tiny kitchen above the shop, determined to show up with more than just tenacity. If Sawyer Blackwood thought I was some pampered city girl who'd crack at the first blister, he had another thing coming. The homemade pastries were a peace offering—and maybe a little more bribery. I'd packed roast turkey sandwiches with cranberry aioli, trail mix studded with dark chocolate, and two additional thermoses of the strongest coffee I could brew.
The sky was still dark when I maneuvered my compact SUV up the mountain road, knuckles white on the steering wheel as the tires crunched over loose gravel. Dawn was just breaking as I pulled into the clearing, the first rays of sunlight warming the weathered logs of the cabin. Sawyer was already outside, arranging tools beside a pickup truck.
I grabbed the basket and coffees, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. He straightened, his eyebrows lifting slightly when he saw me, which gave me a small surge of satisfaction.
"You showed up," he said, his voice rough-edged like tree bark.
“I said I would.” I thrust a coffee toward him. "I brought it black, but there are sugar packets in the basket if you want some."
His deep blue eyes narrowed as he accepted the cup. "Thanks."
He took a sip, his eyes widening slightly. "This is strong enough to strip paint.”
"You're welcome," I said, lifting the basket. "I also brought breakfast. Figured we could both use the fuel."
He peered into the basket, and for a moment, I swore his lips twitched toward a smile before he masked it. "Trying to soften me up with baked goods, Moretti?"
"Cinn," I corrected automatically. "And no, just being practical. Can't work on an empty stomach."
Sawyer reached in and took a muffin, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “Not bad.”
Coming from him, it felt like a five-star review. We ate quietly, the forest around us gradually coming alive with birdsong and the rustling of wind through flame-colored leaves. The light strengthened, revealing the rich tapestry of autumn—crimson maples, golden birches, the deep green of pines. Despite my nervousness about the day ahead, I couldn't help but appreciate the beauty.
"Ready to work?" Sawyer asked, setting his empty thermos aside.
I nodded, dusting crumbs from my hands. "What first?"
"We'll start with tapping." He gestured toward a stand of maples on the ridge. "Late season harvesting is different—we only tap select trees that still have good sap flow."
I followed him to a shed where he handed me work gloves, a drill, a hammer, metal spiles, and buckets. The gloves were comically large on my hands, but I slipped them on without complaint. Sawyer demonstrated the process on the first tree—drilling a hole at a slight upward angle, hammering in the spile, and hanging a bucket to catch the sap.
"Simple," he said, stepping back. "Your turn."
It was not simple.
My first attempt with the drill slipped off the bark, nearly sending me sprawling. The second time, I couldn't drill deep enough. When I finally managed to make a proper hole, I hammered the spile in crooked. Sap immediately began oozing around the edges, running down the bark and onto my gloves.
"You're wasting good syrup," Sawyer commented dryly.
I gritted my teeth. "I'm getting the hang of it."
"Are you? Because from here it looks like you're making a mess of perfectly good sap."
I yanked the spile out, sap spraying across my face. "Shit!"
Sawyer didn't even try to hide his amusement. "City girls shouldn't play with trees."
"I'm not playing," I snapped, wiping resin from my cheek. "And I'm not a 'city girl.' I grew up in rural Pennsylvania."
"Could've fooled me."
