Page 9 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"Full moon tonight," he commented as the sky began to darken outside. "Old timers say the resin runs strongest when the moon is full."
"Is that true?"
He shrugged. "I notice a difference. Could be the temperature, could be the moon. Could be the trees just know things we don't."
By sunset, my body was beyond exhaustion. Every movement sent fiery daggers through my lumbar vertebrae, and my bandaged hands throbbed in time with my heartbeat. But we'd produced the first small batch of what Sawyer called "midnight amber"—syrup so dark it was almost black, with a complex smokiness that made my candy maker's imagination run wild with possibilities.
"That's enough for today," Sawyer finally announced, banking the fire in the firebox. "We'll continue tomorrow."
I nodded, too tired to even pretend I wasn't relieved. As I gathered my things, preparing to head back to town, Sawyer handed me a small glass jar filled with the syrup we'd made.
"Sample," he said gruffly. "For your recipe testing."
I cradled the jar like it was precious—which, to me, it was. "Thank you."
He just inclined his head, avoiding my eyes. "Dawn tomorrow. Don't be late."
"I'll be here," I promised, making my way carefully to my car. Before sliding in, I turned back to him. "You'll see, Sawyer. I don't quit."
His expression was unreadable in the gathering dusk, the rising moon casting silver highlights across his features. "We'll see."
The drive back to town was a haze of pain and pure resolve. By the time I climbed the stairs to my apartment above the shop, I felt like something the cat dragged in. I ran a bath, pouring in Epsom salts and lavender oil, then peeled off my filthy clothes with wincing movements.
Sinking into the warm water, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge just how brutally hard the day had been. Tears stung my eyes—not just from physical pain, but from the emotional toll of pushing through, of proving myself, of fighting the ghosts of my past with every tree I tapped.
"Worth it," I whispered to the empty bathroom, glancing at the jar of syrup sitting on the edge of the sink. "It has to be worth it."
As the salt soothed my screaming muscles, I thought of Nonna, how her hands had looked much like mine now—blistered and raw from work, but capable of creating such beauty. "Le mani del lavoro sono le mani della dignità," she'd say. ‘Working hands are hands of dignity.’
The water gradually cooled, but my thoughts remained hot, drifting treacherously to Sawyer—the surprising tenderness in his touch as he'd doctored my hands, the flecks of gold in his deep blue eyes when they caught the sunlight, the way his flannel shirt stretched across broad shoulders as he worked. It had been months since I'd been with anyone, longer still since I'd felt genuine attraction rather than just going through the motions.
The thought of him—likely in his own shower right now—sent a pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with the bathwater. I imagined water sliding down his chest, over those broad shoulders. Would those muscles in his arms feel as hard as they looked?
"Stop it," I scolded myself, sinking deeper into the tub. "He's just a means to an end. A supplier, not a—"
But I couldn't fool myself. Something about Sawyer stirred me in a way I hadn't felt in years. The focus in his eyes when he tested the product he’d worked so hard to make. The careful touch of his fingers on my injured hands. The way his voice dropped when he talked about the trees and the land.
I closed my eyes and let myself imagine his beard scratching lightly against my skin as his mouth moved down my neck. Those big hands sliding up my legs. His broad body pressing mine against the cabin wall.
A small moan escaped my lips, echoing against the bathroom tiles.
I turned the tap back on and splashed cold water on my face, trying to cool the heat spreading through me. This was ridiculous. I had a contest to win. A shop to save. I couldn't afford to get distracted by fantasies about a man who made it clear he wanted nothing to do with someone like me.
Sawyer Blackwood would have to remain strictly business.
Tomorrow was another day closer to winning that Halloween Candy Competition—and salvaging everything I'd come here for.
Chapter Four
Sawyer
The second day started much like the first—Cinn showing up before dawn with that resolute set to her jaw and another basket of food that made my stomach growl before I even opened it. This time she'd brought apple cider donuts still warm from frying, and they melted on my tongue like sweet autumn mornings from childhood.
"Trying to fatten me up?" I asked, reaching for a second one.
"Just being neighborly," she said, but there was mischief in those eyes that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.
"Different menu today," I noted. "No muffins or scones?"
