Page 6 of Sugar-Shacked with the Mountain Man
"How's the storm?" I ask, trying to ignore the way my heart races at his proximity.
"Still coming down. Might be longer than I thought." He moves to the window, and I follow. Outside is still a wall of white, if anything heavier than yesterday.
"Longer how?"
"Maybe a week."
A week. Trapped here with Kane, fighting this attraction that seems to grow stronger every time I look at him. The rational part of my brain knows I should be panicking about the Morrison deal, about Mom's medical bills, about my career.
Instead, I feel a flutter of excitement.
"I should call my office," I say, though I make no move toward my phone.
"No signal anyway. Tower's probably down."
Right. No way to contact the outside world. No way for Morrison to pressure me about closing the deal. No way for reality to intrude on whatever's building between Kane and me.
"So what do we do with ourselves?" I ask.
Kane's eyes darken at the question, and I realize how that sounded. Heat floods my cheeks, but I don't take it back.
"Well," he says, his voice rougher than usual, "I was thinking you might want to learn a little about what you're trying to buy."
"You mean the farm operation?"
"I mean what this place actually is, instead of what your spreadsheets say it is."
There's challenge in his voice, and something else. Hope, maybe, that if I understand what this place means to him, I'll somehow change my mind about the deal.
If only it were that simple.
"Okay," I say. "Show me."
He grins, and my stomach does a little flip. "Fair warning—this involves going outside. In the snow. Are you up for that, city girl?"
"I'll manage."
Twenty minutes later, I'm bundled in Kane's spare winter gear, which is hilariously too big for me. The snow pants are cinched tight and rolled up at the cuffs, the parka hangs nearly to my knees, and the boots are so large I have to wear three pairs of socks.
"You look ridiculous," Kane says, but there's affection in his voice.
"I feel ridiculous. But warm."
He leads me out into the winter wonderland that his farm has become. The snow is knee-deep and still falling steadily, transforming everything into a pristine landscape of white curves and shadows.
"This is the main sugar bush," he explains, gesturing toward rows of massive maple trees. "Some of these trees are over two hundred years old. My great-great-grandfather tapped some of them by hand."
I follow him between the trees, struggling to keep up in the oversized boots. Despite the awkwardness, there's something magical about being here, surrounded by ancient maples heavy with snow.
"How many trees do you tap?"
"About fifteen hundred. Each tree can produce ten to twelve gallons of sap during the season." He stops beside a particularly massive maple, placing his gloved hand on the bark. "This one's my favorite. We call her Big Bertha. She produces more sap than any three normal trees."
"Her?"
"All the old ones are female to us. They're nurturing, life-giving. They've watched over this land longer than any human."
There's reverence in his voice that I've never heard him use for anything else. This isn't just business to him—it's heritage, legacy, almost religion.
