Page 11 of A Very Grumpy Mountain Man

And I’m…happy.

What the hell is happening to me?

I spot Sienna near a booth selling fresh fruit, her dark hair pulled back into one of those loose braids she wears sometimes. She’s wearing a flowy yellow top and denim shorts that hug her hips, and her smile lights up the entire street. She’s chatting animatedly with an older woman selling jars of homemade preserves, and I swear the woman looks charmed just to be in her orbit.

Yeah. That makes two of us.

She turns, sees me, and waves so enthusiastically that I can’t help but smile. I must look ridiculous—this six-foot-three ex-loner mountain man, soft as hell for one girl and carrying her tote bag—but I don’t care.

Not even a little.

“Look what I found,” she says, holding up a small jar of blueberry jam like she’s discovered buried treasure. “The lady says she picked the berries herself. Can you believe that?”

I glance at the sweet little older woman, who gives me a wink. “Looks legit.”

Sienna beams and hands me the jar. “Put it in the bag, Mountain Man.”

I arch a brow. “Mountain Man?”

She shrugs, grinning. “It fits.”

Yeah, it probably does.

We spend the next hour walking the market. Sienna stops at every booth. Talks to every vendor. Sniffs every candle. And I follow her like some big, grumpy, willing puppy.

She buys tomatoes and fresh bread, a tiny bundle of flowers, and a hand-painted mug with a tiny chip, which she insists “gives it character.”

I carry everything, of course.

It’s funny. I used to hate crowds. Noise. Small talk. It all grated on me. But today, it doesn’t feel like that at all. With Sienna beside me, it’s all… background music. A quiet hum beneath her voice, her laughter, the way she slips her hand into mine every so often like it’s second nature.

It feels easy. Real.

And I never want it to end.

After one full lap around the market, Sienna turns to me, brushing a stray strand of hair off her cheek. “Hungry?”

“Always.”

“There’s this little sandwich shop down the block. Wanna go?”

I nod, and she loops her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I glance down at her hand on my forearm, her fingers warm through my flannel, and think, yeah—this must be what heaven feels like.

We grab lunch at a small café with outdoor seating, and Sienna insists on ordering us a “garden pesto melt” before I can object. Turns out, it’s incredible.

Halfway through mine, she grins, catching me licking sauce off my thumb.

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll never doubt your weird food combinations again.”

She giggles, sipping her lemonade. “That’s all I ask.”

The conversation flows easily like it did during our dinner date. We talk about everything and nothing. She tells me about the weird neighbors she had back in Orlando, the library job she loved, and how she fixed up furniture in her garage with tools she borrowed from her uncle.

I soak it all in like it’s gospel.

When we finish eating, I pay the bill before she can argue. I shrug when she gives me a look. “Let me spoil you a little.”

---