2. Ashe
ASHE
W ood settles. Really? That was my parting line?
The words ran through my mind all night, chasing me into morning.
Maybe that was part of the reason I was standing at Marissa’s booth before the vendors were scheduled to arrive, checking the stand.
The wood hadn’t really settled, but I did find a joint that needed to be tightened.
It probably would have been fine, but let’s be honest—I wanted an excuse to see her again.
“You’re here,” she said when she approached her table, holding a gigantic box and wearing a big smile.
I looked around. A few vendors were setting up down the row, but the tables nearby were still empty.
“Just checking on things,” I said, stepping around the table. “The stand is holding up well. There’s coffee that way if you want to grab some. How do you like yours?”
“Warm and sweet, just like me.”
She set the box on the table and turned to face me with a big smile. Was she flirting? It sure felt like she was flirting. And I was enjoying every second of it.
But suddenly it hit me. “You have more to unload, don’t you?”
She nodded. “But it’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Let’s go.”
I gestured for her to lead the way, but she didn’t budge. She just eyed me.
“You know you don’t have to do all this to get muffins.”
“What makes you think I’m doing this to get muffins?”
“People say you’re not usually this nice.”
My eyebrows rose. “You been talking about me?”
I should be offended, but I wasn’t. Not in the slightest. In fact, the idea of her asking around about me threatened to turn my permanent scowl into a smile.
“There were a bunch of locals at the lodge last night,” she said. “Big cocktail party for the vendors. We were asking questions about the mountain men around here.”
Mountain men. She kept using that term for me.
I’d had a lot of labels in my life. Navy SEAL.
Veteran. Construction worker. Son. Brother.
Friend. But mountain man? That was new. Though I supposed to a city girl like her, maybe that’s exactly what I looked like—some gruff guy who lived in the woods and built things with his hands.
Not entirely wrong, if I was being honest.
“Come on,” I said, changing the subject before she could ask more questions about what people had said. “Show me where your car is.”
She hesitated for a moment, like she wanted to push the conversation further, but then she smiled and grabbed her keys. “It’s just over in the vendor lot. Fair warning, though—I may have overpacked.”
That turned out to be the understatement of the century. Her compact SUV was stuffed to the roof with boxes, bags, and what looked like enough spice inventory to stock a small grocery store.
“Jesus.” I stared at the mountain of supplies. “How did you even fit in there to drive?”
“Very carefully.” She laughed. “And I may have had to use my rearview mirrors more than usual.”
I shook my head and reached for the nearest box. It was heavier than expected, and I caught a whiff of cinnamon and something else—cardamom, maybe?—as I lifted it.
“So what’s your story?” she asked as we started the trek back to her booth.
“I do my job, keep to myself, and help when someone actually needs it.”
“And what is your job? Besides making beautiful wooden risers out of scrap wood?”
I glanced at her sideways. She was genuinely curious, not just making small talk.
“Construction crew during the day. Woodworking at night when I feel like it.”
“That explains the hands.” She immediately turned pink. “I mean the calluses. You have working hands. Not that I was looking at your hands specifically, I just?—”
“You were looking at my hands,” I said, and I couldn’t keep the amusement out of my voice.
“Maybe a little. They’re nice hands.”
Something warm settled in my chest at that admission. When was the last time a woman had complimented my hands? When was the last time a woman had complimented anything about me?
We made three more trips to her car, and with each one, I learned something new. She’d quit her retail job six months ago to pursue this dream. She’d been testing spice blends on anyone who would try them. She had a cat named Paprika who had very strong opinions about her cooking schedule.
“What about you?” she asked as we arranged the last of her inventory. “Have you always lived here?”
“Born and raised. Left when I was eighteen for the military, came back a few years ago.”
“Military?” Her eyes lit up with interest, not the usual pity or awkward thank-you-for-your-service that I got from most people. “What branch?”
“Navy.”
I didn’t elaborate, and thankfully, she didn’t push.
Most people wanted details, wanted stories, wanted to know about deployments and operations and things I had no intention of discussing with a stranger.
Even a beautiful stranger who smelled like cinnamon and looked at me like I was something worth looking at.
“Well, I’m glad you came back,” she said, and something in her tone made me look at her more closely. “This place needs people who care about it.”
“You’re not from here.” It wasn’t a question.
“Hartsville,” she said, naming a town just twenty minutes away.
“But I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.
My parents used to bring us up here for random Sunday drives.
” Her expression grew soft, nostalgic. “This place feels like magic to me. The mountains, the people, the way everyone knows everyone else.”
“It’s not always as perfect as it looks. Small towns have their problems too.”
“I know, but I love it anyway. Actually, I’m hoping to open a shop here someday. Everyone needs spices, right? Maybe I’d even make baked goods for people to take home with them.”
The way she talked about it, with such genuine enthusiasm and hope, made something twist in my chest. When was the last time I’d wanted something that badly? When was the last time I’d talked about the future like it held possibilities instead of just more of the same?
“That sounds nice,” I said, and I meant it.
“It does, doesn’t it?” She beamed at me, and I felt that strange warmth in my chest intensify.
“I’d love to open it here, near the interstate and the inn where we’re staying, but it’s just land now.
Maybe someday they’ll put in some strip malls.
” She stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed.
“Sorry. I’m rambling again. I tend to do that when I get excited about something. ”
“Don’t apologize. It’s good to have dreams.”
“What about you? Your woodworking is really good. You could open your own shop.”
The statement caught me off guard. Work was mostly just a necessity these days. My focus had been on simpler things—getting through each day, keeping busy, and not thinking too hard about the past or the future.
“Haven’t given it much thought lately,” I said honestly.
She studied my face with those warm brown eyes, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she could see more than I wanted her to. “Maybe you should.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, another vendor approached her booth, drawn by the samples she’d set out earlier. I watched her transform—straightening her shoulders, putting on a bright smile, and launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her spice blends.
She was a natural at this. Passionate, knowledgeable, and somehow charming without being pushy. The vendor ended up buying three different blends and asking for her card.
“Impressive,” I said when the customer left.
“Thanks.” She looked pleased, but also a little surprised by the compliment. “I really love what I do.”
“It shows.”
We stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, and I realized I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go back to my own booth and spend the day sanding wood and making polite conversation with customers who wanted cutting boards and decorative bowls.
But other vendors were starting to arrive, and the market would officially open soon. I had my own booth to prepare.
“I should get going,” I said reluctantly.
“Of course.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I noticed she looked almost as reluctant as I felt. “Thank you for helping with all this. And for the coffee. And for the riser. You really didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to,” I said, cutting her off before she could start thanking me again.
That seemed to surprise her. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” I picked up my empty coffee cup and started backing away before I could do something stupid like ask her to have lunch with me or tell her she looked beautiful in the morning light. “I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so,” she said softly.
I was halfway back to my booth before the full meaning of her words hit me. She hoped so. Not just a polite response, but genuine hope that our paths would cross again.
Well, hell. If that wasn’t an invitation, I didn’t know what was.
I spent the next hour setting up my own display, but my mind kept wandering to the woman three rows over. The way she’d blushed when she mentioned looking at my hands. The passion in her voice when she talked about her bakery dreams. The way she’d said she hoped to see me around.
By the time the market officially opened and customers started filtering in, I’d already decided I was going to find an excuse to visit her booth before the day was through. Maybe I’d buy some spices. God knew my pantry could use the upgrade. Maybe I’d just walk by and see how she was doing.
Or maybe, if I was feeling particularly brave, I’d ask her to dinner.
The thought of getting Marissa somewhere private, somewhere we could talk without interruption, somewhere I could find out if the chemistry I felt between us was real or just wishful thinking on my part, sent heat racing through my veins.
Yeah. I was definitely going to find a reason to see her again.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to get her into my bed.