Page 2 of Sugar-Shacked with the Mountain Man
"Lady, I don't care if you're offering Fort Knox. This place isn't for sale." He steps closer, and suddenly I'm very aware of how much space he takes up, how the scent of wood smoke and something purely masculine fills my senses. For a moment, neither of us speaks, the air thick with tension.
"You know what?" I snap, surprising myself. "Fine. Be stubborn. But we're stuck here together whether you like it or not, so maybe we can at least be civil about it."
"Civil?" He barks out a laugh. "How about you civilly explain why your company thinks it can destroy everything my family has built."
"Morrison & Associates doesn't destroy—"
"Bullshit." His green eyes flash. "I've seen what happens to the places your company 'develops.' Strip malls and condos where family farms used to be."
The accusation hits uncomfortably close to home. Isn't that exactly what happens? Isn't that exactly what I help make happen? The thought makes my chest tight, so I push it away. "Look, I'm just here to do my job," I say, trying to sound professional. "If you don't want to sell, that's your choice. But I still have to present the offer."
"Not tonight, you don't." Kane turns back to the fire, dismissing me. "Tonight we survive. Tomorrow we can go back to being enemies."
Enemies.The word shouldn't send a little thrill through me, but it does.
I look around the space more carefully. It's rustic but well-maintained, with the evaporator dominating one wall. Despite myself, I'm curious.
"This is where you make the maple syrup?"
He glances over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his features. "Yeah, it's the sugar shack. Though we're in maintenance season now. Won't start tapping until late February."
"It's not what I expected."
"What did you expect? Some quaint cottage with gingham curtains?"
I flush because that's not far from what I imagined. "Maybe."
"This is a business, not a tourist attraction. Takes forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup. Takes time, patience, and a hell of a lot of work." There's pride in his voice, and something else. Love, maybe. The kind of deep connection to something that I've never felt about my job, no matter how successful I've been.
"Must be satisfying," I say quietly.
"It was." His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the hostility fades. "Until companies like yours decided to turn working farms into shopping centers." He notices me shiver. "You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia," he says, his voice gentler. "There's some dry clothes in the storage room. They'll be too big, but they're warm."
I hesitate. "I'm not changing in front of you."
"Wouldn't dream of it, princess."
The nickname shouldn't affect me, but there's something in the way he says it that makes me squeeze my thighs together ever so slightly.
He shows me to a small storage room, pulling out a flannel shirt and work pants. When he hands them to me, our fingers brush, and I feel a jolt of electricity that has nothing to do with static.
From the way his breath catches, he feels it too.
"I'll just..." I trail off, staring at our joined hands.
"Yeah," he says roughly, pulling away. "I'll be out here."
In the storage room, I peel off my wet business suit, my heart pounding. This is insane. I'm attracted to a man who wants to throw me off his property. A man who represents everything I've been taught to see as backward and unprofitable.
The flannel shirt smells like him—pine and woodsmoke and something clean and masculine. When I pull it on, the soft fabric caresses my skin, and I have to bite back a sound at the sensation.
When I emerge, Kane nearly drops the wrench he's holding. The flannel hangs almost to my knees, sleeves rolled up multiple times. The work pants are cinched with a belt and cuffed.
"Better?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Better," he agrees.
I move closer to the evaporator, holding my hands out to the warmth. The firelight dances across my face, and I can feel Kane watching me. "How long have you been running this place?" I ask.
