Mountain Man’s Pumpkin Spice (Wildwood Valley Harvest #2)

1. Marissa

MARISSA

T he first time I met the mountain man, I was trying to bribe him with muffins.

That was the move. I showed up at his booth, armed with a container of pumpkin spice minis and a desperate smile. I needed his help since the riser I had ordered online two weeks earlier had shattered on impact that morning—and now my entire spice display was tragically flat.

He was behind a workbench under a canvas tent, sanding something long and heavy with thick forearms and zero interest in my chaos.

“I need a riser.” I held up my phone to show him my inspiration board. “Three tiers, sturdy, clean edges. Warm wood tone if possible.”

His eyes narrowed. His mouth twitched.

But he didn’t say a word. Just kept sanding whatever board he was working on like I hadn’t just politely—and might I add, adorably—asked for the one thing standing between me and a top-tier spice booth.

I waited a beat. Then I smiled and leaned in, letting the scent of cinnamon and cloves drift toward him.

“I’ll pay. In cash. Or pumpkin muffins. Your choice.”

His eyes finally flicked to mine. They were green, like dark pine, and suspicious.

“I don’t take custom orders,” he said, his voice so low and rough I felt it more than heard it.

“Good thing I’m not placing an order. I’m making a request.”

Still nothing.

I tapped the edge of the table. “I’m Marissa, by the way. And before you say no, just know this booth means a lot to me. It’s my first year solo. I’ve got the blends, the branding, and the jars, but I need height.”

He arched a brow.

“Display height,” I clarified, trying not to flinch. “Not…I mean, I’m five-four, so any help in that department would also be appreciated, but?—”

Okay, now I was rambling. His lips twitched. It wasn’t a smile. Not quite. But it was enough to make my pulse spike.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

My jaw dropped. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“But you also didn’t say no.”

He turned back to the board, grabbed a different sander, and started working like the conversation had never happened.

I left the muffins. Because if there was one thing I had learned about stubborn mountain men—which, okay, I hadn’t learned anything about them until right then—it was that food spoke louder than words.

And these particular muffins were basically edible magic.

They were from my grandmother’s recipe with a twist of cardamom that made grown men weep.

The Harvest Market buzzed around me as I headed back to my booth, dodging families with strollers and couples sharing funnel cakes.

The October air carried the scent of apple cider and wood smoke, and despite my display crisis, I couldn’t help but smile.

This place—with its string lights and handmade everything—felt like stepping into a fairy tale.

My booth looked sad without proper elevation.

Jars of turmeric blend and chai masala sat flat on a white tablecloth, practically begging customers to walk right past. I’d spent months perfecting these spice combinations, testing them on friends and coworkers until I was confident enough to quit my marketing job and dive headfirst into this dream.

A dream that currently looked like a garage sale.

I was rearranging jars for the third time when a shadow fell across my table. I looked up to find a woman about my age with paint-stained fingers and curious eyes.

“You’re the spice girl,” she said with a sweet smile. “I’m Melanie. Pottery booth, two rows over.”

“Marissa,” I said, grateful for the distraction. “Sorry. I was having a moment. I’m hoping the wood guy can help me with that.”

She glanced at my flat display, then toward the wood booth where Mountain Man was still working. “Ah. You met Ashe.”

“Ashe.” I tested the name. It fit—solid, no-nonsense, slightly intimidating. “He said he’d see what he could do.”

Melanie’s eyebrows shot up. “He said that? To you? On the first day of the market?”

“Was that bad?”

“Honey, Ashe Singleton doesn’t do custom requests. It’s kind of legend around here. But if he said he’d see what he could do, he meant it.”

Something warm unfurled in my chest. “Good to know.”

“Just don’t take it personally if he grunts at you for the next week. He’s not much for conversation.”

I thought about those pine-green eyes and the almost-smile. “I noticed.”

Melanie grinned. “But he makes beautiful things. And he’s got a soft spot for people who actually need help, even if he pretends otherwise.”

After she left, I threw myself into organizing what I could. Customers trickled by—some curious about my blends, others just enjoying the samples I’d set out. A little girl with pigtails declared my cinnamon sugar blend “better than candy,” which might have been the highlight of my day.

It was nearly noon when I heard heavy footsteps approaching. I looked up to find Ashe standing at the edge of my booth, a measuring tape in one hand and what looked like a sketch in the other.

He didn’t say hello. Just started measuring my table.

“Um,” I said, watching him work. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure it fits.”

“Making sure what fits?”

He showed me the sketch—rough, but detailed. A three-tiered wooden riser with clean lines and subtle curves. It was exactly what I’d imagined, only better.

“This is perfect,” I said. “But I thought you didn’t take custom orders?”

“I don’t.” He tucked the sketch into his back pocket. “This is scrap wood.”

I bit back a smile. “Scrap wood that happens to be exactly what I need?”

“Lucky coincidence.”

“Uh-huh.” I leaned against my table, studying his face. He was probably mid-thirties, with the kind of rugged features that belonged in a cologne ad—if cologne ads featured men who looked like they could build a house with their bare hands. “What’s it going to cost me?”

“Muffins were good.”

“That’s it?”

For the first time, he looked directly at me. Really looked. Like he was trying to figure out some complicated puzzle.

“You said this booth means a lot to you,” he said.

“It does.”

“Then we’re even.”

Before I could argue—or thank him properly—he was walking away.

“Wait!” I called after him. “When will it be ready?”

“End of day,” he said without turning around. “I’ll bring it by after closing.”

I watched him disappear into the crowd, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery. Melanie was right—Ashe Singleton was definitely not much for conversation. But there was something about the way he had looked at me, like he saw past the desperate spice vendor to the person underneath.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of customers and sales. Word spread about my blends, and by closing time, I had sold nearly half my inventory. Not bad for a flat display and zero marketing budget.

As vendors started packing up around me, I found myself glancing toward Ashe’s booth every few minutes.

The market was winding down, string lights casting warm pools of light as families headed toward the parking lot.

I was wiping down my table when I heard the sound of something heavy being set down behind me.

I turned to find Ashe. His hand was on the most beautiful wooden riser I had ever seen. It was exactly like his sketch, but the reality was even better—smooth honey-colored wood with subtle grain patterns that caught the light.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, running my fingers along the top tier. “This is incredible.”

“Scrap wood,” he said again, but there was something softer in his voice now.

“The most gorgeous scrap wood in the history of scrap wood.”

That almost-smile was back. “You want help setting it up?”

“Yes, please.”

We worked in comfortable silence, arranging my jars on the three levels. The transformation was incredible—my booth went from amateur to professional in minutes. The warm wood complemented my spice labels perfectly, and the height created visual interest that drew the eye.

“Perfect.” I stepped back to admire our work. “Absolutely perfect.”

When I turned to thank him, I found him watching me with those dark green eyes, and something electric passed between us. The noise faded into background hum, and for a moment, it was just us in this little bubble of wood shavings and cinnamon scent.

“Marissa,” he said, and hearing my name in that rough voice did things to my insides.

“Ashe,” I said back, testing the weight of his name on my tongue.

He cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “I should go.”

“Right. Of course.” I fumbled for my purse. “Let me pay you?—”

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no.” He was already backing away, like I might force money on him if he stayed too long. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Market runs all week,” he said. “Your booth will need adjusting. Wood settles.”

It was probably an excuse—the riser looked solid as a rock—but I wasn’t about to argue.

“Tomorrow, then,” I agreed.

He nodded once and disappeared into the evening crowd, leaving me alone with my beautiful new display and a chest full of butterflies.

I spent the next hour packing up, but I couldn’t stop smiling. Tomorrow suddenly felt full of possibility.