Sugar for the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #14)

1. Maribel

Maribel

The bell above the door jingles, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air that smells of woodsmoke and dying leaves. It’s a welcome scent, one that perfectly complements the warm, spiced sugar haze that fills the bakery.

I’m just sliding a tray of maple-pecan pinwheels into the display case to restock when I see a couple, probably in their late twenties, entering hand-in-hand.

Behind me, Sasha works on coating caramel apples while Ruth wraps them in plastic, tying them off with glistening, differently colored ribbons.

With free hands, I station myself at the register, a smile already taking place over my lips. Greeting them happily, I watch the same scene play out every time a new face walks in.

They approach the glass display cases, their eyes growing bigger than their stomachs as they see desserts that look far too good to turn down. It’s never an easy pick, and there’s always a discussion that follows.

“Oh, look at the spiced pumpkin cheesecake,” the woman says, her voice a warm, eager hum. “And the apple crumble bars! We have to try one of each.”

The man beside her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, grins down at her. “You say that like we can’t come back another day to enjoy a different one,” he teases, but his eyes are full of amusement. He points a finger toward the scone selection. “But what about those? They look incredible.”

Back and forth, they try to decide which of our creations is the tastiest looking.

I wear a gentle, professional smile, but my own heart gives a painful, familiar squeeze.

My gaze catches on their linked hands, the way his thumb absently strokes her knuckle, seemingly engaged in their own private conversation, without a word being spoken.

“It’s the season for so many limited-time recipes.

Hard to go wrong. We have a pumpkin roll that’s to die for. ”

Only making their decision more difficult, I stifle a laugh when the woman groans dramatically.

They continue their debate, a gentle, happy negotiation that takes minutes. Since the shop is quiet, I’m in no rush to move them along. The best thing to do is let them consider buying more than they need.

In the corner of my eye, I watch them. The hollow ache that opens up behind my flour-dusted apron is a physical thing, a cavity the warmth of the ovens can’t quite fill.

I spend my days surrounded by the ingredients for joy—rich chocolate, fragrant cinnamon, tart apples roasted with brown sugar. The setting is perfect for romantic moments, so by now, I should be used to this longing sensation that weighs heavily in my chest.

But as I watch him lean in to whisper something that makes her laugh, a soft, private sound that gets lost in the sounds of pans clanging and plastic crinkling, I can’t help but wonder.

What would it be like to have someone to gush with?

Not just a customer appreciating this morning’s baked goods, but a boyfriend, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, talking me out of heading face-first into a sugar coma.

A sigh leaves me without thought as I try not to think about it. Unfortunately, the thought comes every time I see happy couples.

There’s only one man I can picture myself ever wanting, and he’s in an entirely different world than I am. Something deep inside reminds me that my fantasy of a happily ever after can’t be possible without him in it. The man, I’m sure, is meant to be my other half.

The way I react when he’s near isn’t like anything I’ve experienced with another man before.

While they decide on a slice of cheesecake and two pumpkin-flavored cookies, my thoughts cloud as I package up their goods. Ringing them out, I’m left thanking them and watching with the same sensation rolling around in my chest.

Longing. Jealousy. My poor heart is being tugged back and forth every time I think about finding something like that.

Can my Mr. Right just come inside the bakery and throw a wedding ring at me, please?

Groaning, I push off the counter, ready to shove down these pesky feelings like I always do. Turning, I manage to take all but two steps away before another customer makes their way inside the shop.

Spinning back on my heel to do the same cheerful script all over again, my greeting gets lodged in my throat just as the bell above the door finishes ringing.

My favorite customer must’ve known he’s crossed my mind again. Talk about timing. Here he is making an appearance. Bringing in another gust of wind, the door shuts behind him.

His jaw is set in that same permanent, grumpy line. Windswept sandy blond hair falls just so, artfully messy, and a light stubble dusts his jaw, revealing that he must not have remembered to shave this morning.

His eyes—a cool, assessing blue that always seems to hold a sliver of the mountain’s frost—make a slow sweep of the room. Taking in the empty tables, the daily specials on the chalkboard, and everywhere else, they finally drag in my direction.

They pass over me for just a flicker, a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to kick my heart into a frantic, silly rhythm against my ribs. My smile, once easy and professional, feels awkward.

No smile comes to his lips, unlike most of the customers who step inside this place. He looks like he doesn’t even want to be here.

Yet, he’s one of our regulars. Three days a week, he appears like the wind dragged him in.

Despite sticking out like a sore thumb, I know he’s residing in Willowbrook Ridge.

If it weren’t for my catching glimpses of his truck coming down the mountain, I’d think he’d be from one of the surrounding cities.

He’s from here, but I only ever see him right here at Bake Me Happy.

It seems like he hides away from the rest of the world; this one place is his way of experiencing some life.

“Good afternoon, Wesley.” Finding my voice, I keep my words steady as he comes at me smelling like a mixture of pine and sandalwood. His cologne is like a breath of fresh air compared to the sugar I inhale constantly.

He slides his hands into his pockets and stares down at the pastries. His brow furrows as he studies the holiday specials like he can’t decide which he wants to pick this time around.

Will he even finish his treat this time? Or will he stare at it for another hour like yesterday?

When he parts his lips, I find myself holding my breath. I cherish every word he speaks as if it’s something valuable, and I lean in instinctively.

“Good afternoon.” Coming out as a low purr that settles under my skin and stays there, his eyes don’t budge from the different options.

What I would do to get this man to finish his greeting off by saying my name…

“If you’re struggling to decide, I made the pumpkin roll perfectly this morning. It’s a hot seller.” Flattening my palms against the counter, I can already feel the heat collecting on my palms. I’m getting nervous. Not a bad nervous, not even close.

More like I’m worried that today might be the day I finally blurt out my feelings. One of these days, it’s going to happen. I’m just waiting for the slip to come out.

His eyes flick toward the roll, lingering like he’s on the fence. Should I tell him everything I’ve baked on the display? He looks like an intelligent man; I bet he’d catch onto the truth.

I really like it when he eats what I’ve made. I secretly hope that one of the bites he’ll take, he’ll taste all the love I pour into my work.

Finally, he nods his head, and I pause before grabbing a platter.

“Eating inside again?” I already know the answer, but I have to ask.

He always picks the same seat, as long as the bakery isn’t busy. Like he’s afraid of people, he keeps his distance from the world.

“If you don’t mind.” Reaching behind him, he takes his time digging out his card.

Like him, I take my own time. Can’t rush this. Once he has what he’s here for, I won’t have any excuse to share the space with him. Even if it’s just a few extra seconds, I need this.

Fingers grazing against mine, he hands me the same card that holds more weight than most do. The only source that tells me who he is. Wesley Haverford.

A name I’ve only ever muttered out loud when I’m by myself or in my thoughts.

He thanks me softly before I have to give him his goods. Unfortunately, I can only watch him as he sits. Settling comfortably, his eyes move toward the glass window as he silently watches as leaves scrape by and cars pass in a blur. I’m not surprised that he doesn’t immediately dig into the slice.

Breathing in deep, a sigh leaves my lips as someone approaches me from behind. One look to the side, and Sasha’s hunched over the back of the display to see how business is performing. Or she could be here to see what’s taken me away for so long.

My boss has this weird, keen sense of reading minds, or maybe expressions. She can always tell when my heart aches or when my thoughts are clouded. Perhaps she sensed a call that urged her to pull me back before I began searching for tasks to complete here to stay within his sight.

All she has to do is follow my eyes, and she’ll be able to see who is at fault. Even better, she’s well aware of how much space Wesley takes up in my heart.

“You know…” Sasha flicks her eyes toward Wesley for a second before she leans down to combine some trays to fit even more baked goods.

“Benjie was just telling me about this company the other day, that his sister tried getting involved in before she met her husband. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Cupid…something.”

I grimace as she tries to remember the name. “Cupid’s Bloom Co.”

As she’s snapping her fingers with a nod, my stomach clenches up. What a silly question. A lot of people have heard about the company. Many of the married couples that come through the front door have achieved success through the arranged marriage service.

Has my pining heart gone for so long that my boss has to suggest finding love through some artificial method? I’m craving romance, not contracts. Ugh.

It doesn’t help that I did, during a moment of weakness, look into their high success rates and wonder if it could be that easy.

Lifting my gaze, I glance over Wesley as he cradles his plastic fork, only a single bite taken from his slice of pumpkin roll, as his gaze remains locked onto the outside world.

If he signed up for the silly company, would we match?

“You’re not getting any younger, you know?” Tucking two pans against her side, Sasha’s smile softens. “Getting married was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

She’s right. I’m a year shy of my thirties. I’ve dreamed of finding the one, hoping to bump into him straight into adulthood. While I’ve had a few relationships, I learned from the beginning that love isn’t that easy.

Such a silly thought. I never imagined it would take this long. The only one holding me back is myself.

“I’ll think about it.” The words fall from my lips, and it feels like there’s a bit of truth behind them.

I can’t keep longing for a man who is so out of my reach; it isn’t funny. For a man who, I’m not even sure, remembers my name despite it being printed on my shirt.

Maybe… I’ll finally put myself out of my misery.