Page 21 of Holly's Grizzly

He glances toward the windows where the snow’s still coming down in thick white sheets.

“If it’s not too much trouble to get out there,” I add.

Irving smiles and shakes his head. “No, it’s not too much trouble.”

We both get ready to venture out in the snow—me in my heavy hiking gear that’s dried out overnight, Irving in what he’s already got on, with a Carhartt jacket thrown on top. He doesn’t bother with any more layers or gear, and I arch a brow at him from where I’m all bundled up near the front door.

“The cold doesn’t bother you much, huh?”

“I have my grizzly to thank for that. I run warm because of him.”

Oh, I know how warm he runs.

Blazing, his incredible body heat. The memory of it makes me ache to curl up next to him again, maybe without the blankets between us this time.

Cheeks heating, I turn and open the door.

Winter hits me like a slap to the face. Flying flakes pelt my cheeks and stick in my hair, and I gulp in a deep lungful of frigid air.

It’s not nearly as painful today, when I’m not making a mad dash through the forest or pulling myself out of the river. It’s bracing, almost refreshing, and when I glance back over my shoulder, Irving is watching me with a small smile on his face.

“Just down that path,” he says, nodding to a building a couple dozen yards away from the main house.

As I start down what only marginally qualifies as a ‘path’ considering how much snow is already covering it, my boots slip on the layer of ice below, and Irving is right there. He scoops me up, lifting me into his arms and carrying me the rest of the way to his shop.

I huff a laugh. “Now you’re just showing off. I do know how to walk, you know.”

“Can’t be too careful,” he says in that low, gruff, delicious voice of his, even more tempting with how close he is.

Apparently he’s more than able to carry me with a single arm as he uses his free hand to open the door into his workshop and steps us both over the threshold before setting me back on my feet.

Inside, the whole place is decked out with tools and workbenches and projects in various phases of completion. A set of rocking chairs in one corner, an armoire in the other, a hugetable in the center of the room made of a slab of gorgeous oak, carefully carved and crafted into a beautiful showpiece.

“Irving,” I breathe, running my fingers over the table’s smooth, polished wood. “This is incredible.”

Irving shrugs, bashful again. “It’s something my grandfather taught me when I was growing up. And I just kept learning. I did my apprenticeship, and then spent some time with another highly renowned craftsman out of Portland who specializes in furniture-making, and eventually I found myself here.”

He tells me a bit about the other pieces he’s working on as we make a slow circuit of the room, some of the stories that come along with the custom orders he receives, and his passion for his work is clear in his voice. It shines through bright and endearing, and it’s just one more thing I admire about him.

It also makes me think more about my own work, work that’s started to feel less and less appealing over the last couple of years. As my priorities have shifted, so has the conviction I used to feel about being in corporate life, climbing ladders, all that bullshit. I’m still not sure what to do with all those nagging doubts about where my career path might lead, but it’s refreshing to hear Irving talk and see how much he’s accomplished for himself.

We stop near a wide work table at the back of the shop, and I lean against it, taking it all in.

“This is great,” I say. “All of this is so amazing, truly. Your shop, your life up here. I’m impressed.”

I swear I can see a bit of pink climbing over the line of his beard, but Irving just shrugs again. “It’s suits me pretty well. It’s home.”

“What made you choose to settle up here? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s always been… a part of my nature. The need for solitude.”

I nod. “I get that. It’s part of what made me get into hiking, the need to have some time alone with my thoughts and no one else around. The solitude can be incredible.”

He makes a low noise of agreement in the back of his throat, but his eyes go distant for a moment in thought. I take a page out of his book and wait to see if there’s anything more he might want to say.

“I grew up in Canada, in a place not all that different from this one. Mountains, forests, plenty of room to roam. But when I got my apprenticeship and had to move to the city, I thought it would be alright. Change of pace, you know? Something different.”

“And it didn’t exactly suit?” I guess.

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