Page 2 of Mountain Man's Pumpkin Spice
She glanced at my flat display, then toward the wood booth where Mountain Man was still working. “Ah. You met Ashe.”
“Ashe.” I tested the name. It fit—solid, no-nonsense, slightly intimidating. “He said he’d see what he could do.”
Melanie’s eyebrows shot up. “He said that? To you? On the first day of the market?”
“Was that bad?”
“Honey, Ashe Singleton doesn’t do custom requests. It’s kind of legend around here. But if he said he’d see what he could do, he meant it.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest. “Good to know.”
“Just don’t take it personally if he grunts at you for the next week. He’s not much for conversation.”
I thought about those pine-green eyes and the almost-smile. “I noticed.”
Melanie grinned. “But he makes beautiful things. And he’s got a soft spot for people who actually need help, even if he pretends otherwise.”
After she left, I threw myself into organizing what I could. Customers trickled by—some curious about my blends, others just enjoying the samples I’d set out. A little girl with pigtails declared my cinnamon sugar blend “better than candy,” which might have been the highlight of my day.
It was nearly noon when I heard heavy footsteps approaching. I looked up to find Ashe standing at the edge of my booth, a measuring tape in one hand and what looked like a sketch in the other.
He didn’t say hello. Just started measuring my table.
“Um,” I said, watching him work. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure it fits.”
“Making sure what fits?”
He showed me the sketch—rough, but detailed. A three-tiered wooden riser with clean lines and subtle curves. It was exactly what I’d imagined, only better.
“This is perfect,” I said. “But I thought you didn’t take custom orders?”
“I don’t.” He tucked the sketch into his back pocket. “This is scrap wood.”
I bit back a smile. “Scrap wood that happens to be exactly what I need?”
“Lucky coincidence.”
“Uh-huh.” I leaned against my table, studying his face. He was probably mid-thirties, with the kind of rugged features that belonged in a cologne ad—if cologne ads featured men who looked like they could build a house with their bare hands. “What’s it going to cost me?”
“Muffins were good.”
“That’s it?”
For the first time, he looked directly at me. Really looked. Like he was trying to figure out some complicated puzzle.
“You said this booth means a lot to you,” he said.
“It does.”
“Then we’re even.”
Before I could argue—or thank him properly—he was walking away.
“Wait!” I called after him. “When will it be ready?”
“End of day,” he said without turning around. “I’ll bring it by after closing.”
