Page 2 of Cider Kissed By the Mountain Man
“Just a typical day for me. I’ve got the grace of a drunk giraffe.” She smiled again—big, shameless, and entirely unbothered by the fact that she’d faceplanted on the gravel driveway.
Drunk giraffe.Despite my best efforts, my lips twitched. “You make a habit of falling down?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress devastatingly handsome orchard owners.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and I watched her eyes widen in horror. “I mean—that’s not—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
I blinked. Did she just—flirt? I was torn between laughing and pressing her against the wall. The blush that crept up her neck was fascinating. And arousing as hell. It was the color of fall apples—deep red, slow-spreading—and I wanted to bite.
“Devastatingly handsome?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Don’t let it go to your head. I also thought my sneakers were appropriate orchard exploring footwear, so my judgment is clearly suspect.”
When was the last time someone had talked back to me like this? When was the last time someone had made me want to smile instead of growl?
It felt like whiplash—wanting to kiss her and kick her off my land at the same time.
Hell, maybe I’d lost my edge. Or maybe this woman was just that good at getting under it.
“You shouldn’t be here this early,” I said, falling back on familiar territory. “We don’t open until nine.”
The words were harsh, but necessary. I needed to control the conversation. Deflect the heat that was rushing over me. Go back to being the grump with boundary lines and orchard rules.
“And naturally you are the owner, Trent Lawson.”
“Naturally.”
Her tone had teeth, and I liked the way she didn’t flinch when I deadpanned back. Most people did. She didn’t just stand her ground—she leaned into it.
“Well, I’m Abby Foster. Second-grade teacher at Lone Mountain Elementary, bringer of small children and educational chaos.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, which did nothing for my concentration. The move stretched the lightweight green sweater she wore over her breasts. It was a move that should’ve been innocent, but all it did was frame the very parts I’d been trying not to stare at.
And she knew it. Oh, she definitely knew.
“I called yesterday about volunteering to help prepare for my class’s field trip. The delightful woman who answered said to come by this morning, though she failed to mention you’d be lurking in the trees like some kind of antisocial lumberjack.”
Of course, Martha had told her to come early. The woman has been trying to marry me and my brother off since we hit puberty. She was staple of the orchard so I couldn’t fire her for her matchmaking attempts even if they were annoying as hell.
Antisocial lumberjack.The corner of my mouth twitched again. Hell, she wasn’t wrong. I disliked people. I ran a hand over the stubble covering my jaw and tried not to be amused by her complete lack of filter.
“Right. The field trip.” I’d completely forgotten about that call. Martha had mentioned something about a teacher, but I’d been dealing with pruning and yet another broken piece of equipment until late last night. And, honestly, I hadn’t been paying attention. Martha usually took care of things like that. “Look, Ms. Foster—”
“Actually, it’s Ms. Foster to people I don’t like and Abby to people I do. You can figure out which category you’re in.”
The challenge in her voice made the attraction I was feeling hitch up a notch. It wasn’t just the sass. It was the spark in her eyes—like she’d already figured out I wouldn’t be able to resist her. I’d been insulted by experts, but somehow this curvy woman with dirt on her face and sass for days was getting under my skin in ways I couldn’t explain.
“Ms. Foster,” I said deliberately, and watched her eyes flash. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need help. I’ve been running field trips since before your students were born.” The words came out sharper than intended, like I needed to remind her—and myself—that this wasn’t a flirtation. It was a boundary. One I’d better hope held.
“How reassuring. And I’m sure your customer service skills have only improved with age.” She took a step closer, and I caught another hint of that intoxicating scent. Crisp apples and something soft—vanilla, maybe. Or honey. Something you didn’t notice until it was already under your skin.
“But here’s the thing, Mr. Lawson—these aremystudents. Twenty-two seven-year-olds who’ve been talking about nothing but apple picking for weeks. That means I need to know every inch of this place, every safety concern, every educational opportunity.”
The way she said every inch made my mind go places it had no business going. I could show her every inch, all right. Every inch of the orchard, every inch of my—
Bad idea. Very bad idea. I didn’t mix business and pleasure. I didn’t mix anything. But she was standing there like temptation in white sneakers and lip gloss, and I was a man—dammit—not a monk.
Get it together, Lawson.
“This isn’t a playground,” I said, falling back on my default setting of surly and unwelcoming. “It’s a working orchard. I’ve got safety protocols already in place. Even for clumsy teachers.”
