Cider Kissed by the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #13)

CHAPTER ONE

Trent

I should have known my day was going to hell the moment I heard the car door slam like a gunshot through the morning quiet.

It was seven-thirty in the morning. The mist still clung to the apple trees, and some idiot was already here to ruin my peace.

I’d been up since five, pruning branches and enjoying the one time of day when no one expected me to be polite or helpful or any of the other things that came with running a business that depended on the public.

Through the trees, I caught sight of a small red sedan that had no business on my dirt roads.

It was a cute, shiny city car and probably had playlists named autumn vibes and pumpkin spice feels.

And it was probably driven by some soccer mom who thought apples came from the grocery store and wanted to give her precious little angels an authentic—social media—experience.

I was already irritated when the driver stepped out, and then the part of me that remembered how to breathe forgot its job.

My first thought was she didn’t belong here, but yet, she was autumn romanticized—curves and color and chaos.

My second thought was that she was perfectly shaped. Heavy hips and thick thighs. And her breasts… my body tightened uncomfortably as the image hit me hard—my mouth on her, sucking one thick nipple until she moaned.

Damn. Had it been that long since I’d had a woman in my bed that I was lusting after a complete stranger?

Focus, Lawson.

You’ve got trees to prune, cider to press. No time to think about how she looked in—or out of her soft sweater.

And if her silhouette wasn’t enough to turn me into a non-thinking man, she slammed the car door and turned toward the harvesting shed. Dark eyes framed by thick lashes, skin that looked soft as silk, and lips that were made for—

Shit. I scrubbed those thoughts from my mind. I had not time for a woman.

Then she took three steps, slipped on the gravel, and fell to her knees, her palms catching her weight. The leaves scattered around her like a spilled bouquet.

“Son of a—” The curses tumbled out sweet and filthy all at once. Not something you’d expect from a woman who looked like a fairytale princess.

My feet were moving before I made a conscious decision, boots pounding against the packed earth. She was already pushing herself up when I reached her, dirt streaked across one flushed cheek, and something protective and possessive clawed at my chest.

I didn’t even know her name, and already my instincts were lining up to play hero. That was dangerous. And stupid. And happening anyway.

“Stay still,” I commanded, dropping to one knee beside her. My hand hovered just short of her skin, torn between checking her scrapes and tracing the curve of her mouth.

She looked up at me and I got caught in those dark eyes. They reminded me of cider just before it ferments—sweet, sharp, and stronger than it looked. They were also filled with enough irritation to melt paint.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she said, as she brushed dirt off her palms. “Nothing says competent professional like eating dirt before introductions.”

She flashed a smile that could’ve thawed frost off apples. The kind of smile that didn’t apologize—it dared you to underestimate her. Most people took one look at my size and scowl and decided to stay quiet. This woman was sitting in the dirt, bleeding from scraped palms, and giving me attitude.

I liked it way more than I should have.

“Let me help you up.” I slid my arm around her waist and felt her sharp intake of breath at the contact. Hell, I felt it too—the way her curves fit perfectly against my side. And her scent. I leaned my head down unable to stop myself from breathing her in. Damn it, she smelled good.

She didn’t immediately step away and her hands somehow ended up pressed against my chest. For a heartbeat, we just stood there.

Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing shallow, and I had the insane urge to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

It would be too easy—just one tilt forward and my mouth would be on hers. Sweet. Messy. Completely unforgettable.

A cider kiss. The kind that lingered on your tongue and made you want to keep on drinking.

“Oh.” She snatched her hands away. Her eyes were wide, her breath shaky. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Her gaze darted to my chest. “I got blood on your shirt.”

For a second, it felt like the blood mattered less than the fact she’d touched me. Which was stupid. Dangerous. And way too damn flattering.

I glanced down seeing the small red dots barely discernable on the fabric. “You’re hurt.”

She shook her head, putting her hands behind her back. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” I fought the urge to reach for her hands and examine the damage myself.

“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 are my students. 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.”

“Did you just call me clumsy?” That eyebrow arch should’ve come with a warning label. It was the look women gave when they were about to destroy you with a smile.

“If the face-plant fits.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I swear I saw her cataloging my weaknesses like a military strategist in yoga pants.

“Oh, you absolute—” She caught herself and took a deep breath.

“You know what? Fine. Maybe I am clumsy. Maybe I do trip over my own feet more often than I care to admit. But I also have a master’s degree in education, five years of experience keeping small humans alive, and enough determination to make your life miserable until you cooperate. ”

Make my life miserable. Miserable didn’t usually come with perfume and a smile that made my spine buzz. She didn’t even have to touch me to mess with my day—just stood there like a walking, talking change in the weather. “Is that a threat, Ms. Foster?”

“It’s a promise.” She smiled sweetly. “I’ll be here every day next week learning everything I need to know about this place. You can either help me or watch me stumble around and probably break something expensive. Your choice.”

Leaves rustled in the silence between us, and it felt like the orchard itself was holding its breath. I didn’t know if I wanted to argue, kiss her, or bolt for the shed. Probably all three.

The smart play was to send her packing. But my body wasn’t interested in smart. My body wanted her everywhere she didn’t belong—knees in the dirt, mouth on mine, wearing one of my flannel shirts and nothing else.

I was going to regret this. I already knew it.

“Fine,” I heard myself say. “One week. But you follow my rules, do what I tell you, and the first time you become more trouble than you’re worth, you’re gone.”

The smile that spread across her face made my chest tight.

“Deal,” she said, extending her hand.

Her fingers were smaller than mine, warm from the sun, soft from whatever lotion second-grade teachers used.

And for one stupid second, I didn’t want to let go.

I turned it over and traced the small red lines that marred the smooth surface from her fall.

“Make sure you put something on these,” I ordered, dropping her hand and stepping back.

“Be here at seven tomorrow. And wear boots.”

She glanced down at her sneakers, then back at me with that challenging look. “Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah. Try not to break your neck on the way to your car.”

She winked. “No promises, boss.”

I watched her walk away, sneakers crunching through gravel and leaves, hips swaying like she knew damn well I couldn’t look away.

And just like that, I was done for.