Mountain Man’s Autumn Angel (Wildwood Valley Harvest #6)

Chapter 1

LUCA

Time was running out to win over my future wife.

Her name was Melanie, and she sold pottery.

But not just pottery—her standard planters and vases were upstaged by her little ceramic figurines.

In this case, the figurines were angels.

She was pushing for early Christmas sales, but it appeared to be getting a poor response, at least from what I’d seen during my week of stalking her.

The harvest market was coming to an end. Tomorrow, awards would be doled out, and everyone would go home. Melanie would return to her small apartment a half hour away, where she lived with her sister, and I would have wasted an entire week that I could have spent getting to know her.

I had to say something, and now was my chance.

I stood near the gourmet popcorn booth, downing a bottle of water and mentally rehearsing my approach.

Hi, I’m Luca. I own this property. Your angels would be a great fit for the town’s first annual holiday craft fair.

Oh, and by the way, we’ve been chatting on Artsy-Craftsy for six months, and I’m pretty sure you’re the woman of my dreams. Very sure.

One hundred percent sure. No doubts whatsoever.

Yeah, that was one way to scare her off.

When the only potential customer moved away from Melanie’s booth, I crumpled up my water bottle, tossed it in the trash can next to me, and headed in that direction. If I didn’t start walking, I’d talk myself out of it again.

My heart pounded so hard against my ribs, I thought it might burst right out of my chest. Had a woman ever made me this nervous? No. Not even when I was thirteen, trying to get Cassie Moore to notice me.

Melanie was rearranging angels for what must have been the ninetieth time that day, so she didn’t see me until I was right at her table. When she looked up, I could see her eyes on me through the amber lenses of her sunglasses.

I waited for the professional, friendly smile to appear, but it didn’t. Instead, her lips parted and her jaw dropped slightly.

“Oh my God,” she said.

My heart sank. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Did she recognize me? That was impossible.

My avatar on the selling platform was merely a cartoon of a lumberjack—it didn’t look all that different from me.

She was staring at me, but the sunglasses hid the subtle things in her eyes that might have given me a hint about what she was thinking.

“You’re Luca Cook,” she said. “You’re the guy who owns all this.”

She gestured at her surroundings as if I owned all the booths, the food trucks, even the corn maze.

I had nothing to do with officially setting any of this up.

I’d simply loaned the land to the harvest market, making it clear I wasn’t going to help organize.

Of course, I’d snuck over and pitched in with manual labor almost every day, but I didn’t want to be in charge, talk to strangers, or deal with anything resembling teamwork.

I had enough of that, running the Christmas tree farm every year.

“That’s me,” I said. “And you’re Autumn Angel.”

She pulled off her sunglasses, and I got my first real look at those eyes I’d been trying to see for months through her profile photos. They were even more beautiful in person—a warm brown with flecks of gold that caught the autumn sunlight.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “When I signed up for this market, I never thought…I mean, what are the odds?”

My mouth went dry — she knew who I was. Now I’d have to explain why I’d been hiding behind a cartoon lumberjack. She’d tried multiple times to get my photo, but I’d always put her off.

“The odds of what?” I managed.

“Of meeting someone who actually gets it.” She gestured toward her display of angels. “Most people see these and think ‘Christmas decoration.’ But you called me Autumn Angel. You understand that angels aren’t just for December.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I felt lightheaded. She didn't recognize me from our messages or realize I was referencing her username on Artsy-Craftsy, the platform where she sold her creations. She thought I was just being poetic about her pottery.

“These are beautiful,” I said, picking up a small angel with outstretched wings. The ceramic was smooth and warm from the sun, painted in rich golds and deep oranges. “You made all of these?”

“Every one.” Pride lit up her face. “This batch is my autumn collection. I’ve been working on seasonal themes—angels for every time of year. These are meant to represent harvest, gratitude, and the golden light of fall.”

I turned the angel in my hands, studying the delicate brushwork. “The detail is incredible. How long have you been doing this?”

“About two years seriously. Before that, it was just a hobby.” She moved closer to point out features on the piece I was holding. “See how the wings have that burnished look? That’s from a special glaze technique I developed. It takes three firings to get it right.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself genuinely interested instead of just trying to find excuses to keep talking to her. “Where are you from?”

“We live on the other side of Hartsville, about a half hour away. My sister and I are sharing a tiny apartment while I try to get my pottery business off the ground.” She laughed, but there was something wistful in it.

“She’s been incredibly patient with me turning half our living room into a studio. ”

“And after the business takes off?”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it? My own place, a real studio, maybe even a little shop.” She gestured around at the festival. “Events like this are great, but what I’d really love is a permanent spot where people could browse year-round.”

An idea began forming in my head—dangerous and impulsive and probably stupid. “What if I told you I might know of a place?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“There’s going to be a Christmas craft fair here in December. Right on this same land. And—” I paused, my heart hammering again. “I’ve been thinking about making it a regular thing. Maybe quarterly festivals. Spring, summer, fall, winter.”

“That sounds amazing.” Her eyes lit up. “But wouldn’t it be expensive? All the permits and insurance and coordination?”

“Not if I have the right partner. Someone who knows the business and understands what vendors needed.” The words were coming out before I could stop them. “Someone like you.”

She stared at me. “Are you offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you a partnership. You help me plan and run these seasonal festivals, and in return, you get prime booth space at every event. Plus, the way this town is picking up, you could eventually set up a year-round shop here.”

“Melanie Hayes.” She extended her hand, and when I took it, I felt that same electric jolt I’d felt the first time she’d messaged me six months ago. “This is crazy, Luca. We just met, and you’re helping me with my business?”

“Sometimes the best opportunities are crazy,” I said, still holding her hand. “What do you say we walk around the festival together? You can tell me what you think works and what doesn’t. Consider it a working interview.”

She glanced back at her booth, then at the nearly empty pathways. The afternoon crowd was thinning out.

“I should probably pack up soon…”

“Or,” I said, “you could let me buy you dinner tonight.”

She bit her lip, considering. “A working dinner?”

“The most important kind.” I smiled. “It’s not the same as corn dogs and funnel cakes, but…”

She laughed—a real laugh that made her whole face light up. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

As we walked away from her booth, I kept stealing glances at her profile.

She had no idea that Luca Cook was the same person who’d been messaging her as “Lumberjack47” for months.

The man who knew her favorite color was sage green, that she drank her coffee with oat milk, and that she stayed up too late watching pottery tutorials on YouTube.

I should tell her. Right now, before this went any further.

But she was pointing out things about the other vendors’ setups, asking intelligent questions about foot traffic and logistics, and then there was the way she looked at me when I answered. Like I was interesting. Like I was worth her time.

When was the last time someone had looked at me like that in person?

I’d tell her later. After we’d had a chance to work together, to see if this partnership idea had real potential. After she got to know the real me, not just the cartoon avatar I’d presented online.

What could possibly go wrong?