Page 1 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
1
Maribel
The bell above the door jingles, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air that smells of woodsmoke and dying leaves. It’s a welcome scent, one that perfectly complements the warm, spiced sugar haze that fills the bakery.
I’m just sliding a tray of maple-pecan pinwheels into the display case to restock when I see a couple, probably in their late twenties, entering hand-in-hand.
Behind me, Sasha works on coating caramel apples while Ruth wraps them in plastic, tying them off with glistening, differently colored ribbons.
With free hands, I station myself at the register, a smile already taking place over my lips. Greeting them happily, I watch the same scene play out every time a new face walks in.
They approach the glass display cases, their eyes growing bigger than their stomachs as they see desserts that look far toogood to turn down. It’s never an easy pick, and there’s always a discussion that follows.
“Oh, look at the spiced pumpkin cheesecake,” the woman says, her voice a warm, eager hum. “And the apple crumble bars! We have to try one of each.”
The man beside her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, grins down at her. “You say that like we can’t come back another day to enjoy a different one,” he teases, but his eyes are full of amusement. He points a finger toward the scone selection. “But what about those? They look incredible.”
Back and forth, they try to decide which of our creations is the tastiest looking.
I wear a gentle, professional smile, but my own heart gives a painful, familiar squeeze. My gaze catches on their linked hands, the way his thumb absently strokes her knuckle, seemingly engaged in their own private conversation, without a word being spoken. “It’s the season for so many limited-time recipes. Hard to go wrong. We have a pumpkin roll that’s todiefor.”
Only making their decision more difficult, I stifle a laugh when the woman groans dramatically.
They continue their debate, a gentle, happy negotiation that takes minutes. Since the shop is quiet, I’m in no rush to move them along. The best thing to do is let them consider buying more than they need.
In the corner of my eye, I watch them. The hollow ache that opens up behind my flour-dusted apron is a physical thing, a cavity the warmth of the ovens can’t quite fill.
I spend my days surrounded by the ingredients for joy—rich chocolate, fragrant cinnamon, tart apples roasted with brown sugar. The setting is perfect for romantic moments, so by now, I should be used to this longing sensation that weighs heavily in my chest.
But as I watch him lean in to whisper something that makes her laugh, a soft, private sound that gets lost in the sounds of pans clanging and plastic crinkling, I can’t help but wonder. What would it be like to have someone to gush with? Not just a customer appreciating this morning’s baked goods, but a boyfriend, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, talking me out of heading face-first into a sugar coma.
A sigh leaves me without thought as I try not to think about it. Unfortunately, the thought comes every time I see happy couples.
There’s only one man I can picture myself ever wanting, and he’s in an entirely different world than I am. Something deep inside reminds me that my fantasy of a happily ever after can’t be possible without him in it. The man, I’m sure, is meant to be my other half.
The way I react when he’s near isn’t like anything I’ve experienced with another man before.
While they decide on a slice of cheesecake and two pumpkin-flavored cookies, my thoughts cloud as I package up their goods. Ringing them out, I’m left thanking them and watching with the same sensation rolling around in my chest.
Longing. Jealousy. My poor heart is being tugged back and forth every time I think about finding something like that.
Can my Mr. Right just come inside the bakery and throw a wedding ring at me, please?
Groaning, I push off the counter, ready to shove down these pesky feelings like I always do. Turning, I manage to take all but two steps away before another customer makes their way inside the shop.
Spinning back on my heel to do the same cheerful script all over again, my greeting gets lodged in my throat just as the bell above the door finishes ringing.
My favorite customer must’ve known he’s crossed my mind again. Talk about timing. Here he is making an appearance. Bringing in another gust of wind, the door shuts behind him.
His jaw is set in that same permanent, grumpy line. Windswept sandy blond hair falls just so, artfully messy, and a light stubble dusts his jaw, revealing that he must not have remembered to shave this morning.
His eyes—a cool, assessing blue that always seems to hold a sliver of the mountain’s frost—make a slow sweep of the room. Taking in the empty tables, the daily specials on the chalkboard, and everywhere else, they finally drag in my direction.
They pass over me for just a flicker, a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to kick my heart into a frantic, silly rhythm against my ribs. My smile, once easy and professional, feels awkward.
No smile comes to his lips, unlike most of the customers who step inside this place. He looks like he doesn’t even want to be here.
Yet, he’s one of our regulars. Three days a week, he appears like the wind dragged him in.
