Page 1 of Mountain Man's Flirty Farmgirl
1
SIENNA
Almost there. Almost there.
Just a few more steps. Okay, a few hundred more steps, but I was almost there.
All around me, big, handsome men were helping other merchants at this farmers market—cleverly called a harvest market—carting items from their vehicles to their booths. I’d waited a couple of minutes for help, but all the guys were taken. That was when I told myself I didn’t need help.
This was my fourth trip—the most difficult haul of all. My arms trembled under the weight. Who knew tomatoes could be so heavy? I probably should have packed them in a plastic crate, but boxes worked fine around the farm. It should be okay here, right?
A subtle shift in the box seemed to answer that question. Oh, no. This wasn’t good.
I sped up my steps, as though that could help. Even if I took off at a run, this was happening. And it was happening between here and the table.
Just as I’d decided to come to a stop and set down the box, the bottom fell out and tomatoes dropped as though they were raining from the sky.
“Fuck!”
The word slipped out before I knew it was going to. I could see my daddy’s frown as though he were standing in front of me.
“Nice girls don’t say words like that,” he always said.
“Need help with that?”
The voice came from just behind me. It was male and gruff. The words were friendly, but not the tone. I’d apparently labeled myself a nuisance just minutes after setting foot in this small mountain town.
I looked down. The box was empty. The bottom? Open. That gave me a clearer view of the pile of tomatoes at my feet. On my feet. Behind my feet. Everywhere.
“Fuck,” I said again.
Heat rose to my face. I knew my dad’s take on profanity was not only wrong, but misogynistic, but suddenly it seemed like good advice. A male stranger was behind me, and I wanted to be seen as a “nice girl.”
Whatever that meant.
I turned to look at the man behind me. Correction, themountainof a man behind me. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it could stop a runaway truck. Dark stubble, thick arms, black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders. And those eyes—icy blue and somehow hotter than fire as they stared down at me.
He wasn’t smiling. Not even a little. In fact, he looked like he regretted speaking at all.
“I’ve got it,” I said, waving my hands like that could make the disaster at my feet disappear. “No big deal. Totally fine. I love a good tomato shower.”
His brow twitched. “Clearly.”
I crouched to gather them, trying not to think about the fact that at least three had burst open like bloody water balloons. Juice smeared down my calf. One was rolling toward an older lady with a walker, and I had to lunge for it like a goalie saving the game.
“You don’t have a crate?” he asked, the gravel in his voice bordering on judgmental.
“Oh, I had one. Then I thought, ‘Why not ditch the crate and go full chaos with cardboard?’ Clearly, I make excellent decisions.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the white moving truck parked behind him.
“Stay there,” he said.
“Wait, what? No, really, you don’t have to?—”
But he was already walking away, muttering something I couldn’t hear. Probably about tourists or idiots or some combination of the two.
He disappeared behind the truck for a second, then reemerged carrying a black plastic produce crate with one hand like it weighed nothing. Not that crates like that were all that heavy, just awkward to carry, as I’d learned from a young age.
