Page 3 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
She’s right. I’m a year shy of my thirties. I’ve dreamed of finding the one, hoping to bump into him straight into adulthood. While I’ve had a few relationships, I learned from the beginning that love isn’t that easy.
Such a silly thought. I never imagined it would take this long. The only one holding me back is myself.
“I’ll think about it.” The words fall from my lips, and it feels like there’s a bit of truth behind them.
I can’t keep longing for a man who is so out of my reach; it isn’t funny. For a man who, I’m not even sure, remembers my name despite it being printed on my shirt.
Maybe… I’ll finally put myself out of my misery.
2
Wesley
For months now, the mountain has been my sanctuary of silence, a place to make me dead to the world. But even the dead dream of breathing again. Even if I needed to avoid people, humans need social interactions. It’s a scientific fact.
That’s what finally drove me to step into town a handful of weeks ago—a desperate, clawing need for a taste of life that wasn’t filtered through pine needles and solitude.
I found it in the most unlikely place — a bakery that looked like a fever dream of pink and blue. But through the glass, I saw her, and the world, for one reckless heartbeat, felt warm again.
Maribel.Laughing, her hands dusted with flour, a spot of sunlight in the sterile, fluorescent glow. I walked in, ordered a tart I didn’t want, and took a seat, claiming it as my own. I’ve been hooked ever since, a man starved trying to live on the mere scent of a feast.
It’s so sweet in here, I can taste the sugar on my tongue. My stomach clenches, and my hatred for sweets has yet to change despite how many tries I take to manage more than a couple of bites.
The next bite of cream cheese is the price of admission to watch her when she doesn’t think I’m looking. Right now, it’s through the reflection of the glass. I tell myself I’m just curious, that it’s harmless. But every time her laughter spills across the room, my fingers twitch, aching to trace the sound. I have a craving that needs to be met, and I don’t know how else to feed it.
As new information reaches my ears, secretly watching her doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
Maribel wants a husband. Somehow, no one in this town has already scooped her up and made her his. It’s a mystery I can’t solve, nor do I want to.
Just thinking about someone doing what I want to do is enough to make the next bite I taste sour.
Wesley Haverford was once a man who took what he wanted. Now look at me, stealing things like a thief in the shadows. Sneaking glances when she thinks I’m not looking. Listening in on conversations I’m not a part of. Anything to get more of a woman out of my reach.
The old me would have already charmed her into a date. One smirk and a few husky words could’ve gotten me far.
The man I am now just watches his own fractured reflection in the front window, drinking in the woman of his dreams from a distance.
Wesley Haverford, once a well-known CEO of Elysion Tech, turned creepy.
She wants a husband. And I, who have no right to want anything at all, want nothing more than to offer myself, knowing I’d be a poor gift.
Because the man I am today? No one wants me. The world chewed me up and spat me out because of a fabricated lie.
Knowing my luck, as terrible as it has been, she’d get uncomfortable, and I’d lose the one place I use to escape.
The voice, when it appears, is a gentle, melodic hum that surprises me, interrupting my solo staring contest and transforming my view into the sight of a passing SUV.
“Is it not to your liking?”
I startle, my spine snapping straight. Maribel stands beside my table, a cleaning rag in her hand and a slight, worried furrow between her brows. Her gaze is fixed on the evidence of my crime, the pumpkin roll, with its three reluctant bites taken from it.
When did she end her conversation with the other woman? Did thinking about my past swallow up her presence?
My mind empties. It’s one thing to observe her from a safe distance; it’s another entirely to be the sole focus of those soft brown eyes. The warmth in them is a physical touch, and it steals the air from my lungs.
She thinks her baking is bad. The thought brings a wave of panic. I cannot let her think that. I cannot be the reason that light dims.
“No,” I blurt out, the word too rough in the quiet hum of the bakery. I grimace and clear my throat. It’s rusty from disuse. “No, it’s perfect, Maribel.”
