Page 23 of Befriending the Bear
Brianna laughed, but there was an apology in her eyes. “Well, keep up the good work. Both of you.” She bustled back to her own booth.
“S-sorry,” Calloway muttered. “Small towns. Everyone thinks?—”
“Hey.” I waited until he looked at me. “Wearea good team. That’s all she meant.”
He searched my face for a moment, then nodded slowly. The tension eased from his shoulders, and we went back to our rhythm of him sorting, me selling, and me pretending not to notice how naturally we moved around each other. Brianna had only confirmed what I had felt myself, except I hadn’t been stupid enough to say anything.
By five o’clock, the festival was winding down. We’d sold three-quarters of our stock, which Eleanor declared a rousing success when she returned to help pack up.
“You two were wonderful.” She beamed. “We’ve never sold this many books on the first day. You’ll help tomorrow too, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I said as Calloway nodded.
“Excellent. Now go enjoy your evening.”
We helped load the remaining boxes into Pascal’s car—he’d volunteered to store them overnight—then found ourselves standing in the thinning crowd, suddenly directionless.
I was in pain, more than I cared to admit, but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Calloway yet. “Wanna come over for dinner?”
He hesitated. “How about we go to my place so I can cook?”
The implied “you need to sit down” was there, but I appreciated him not mothering me or making the decision for me. “Sounds perfect.”
Even more perfect, and far more important, was that apparently, he didn’t want the day to end either. Or was I reading too much into this?
Only one way to find out.
9
CALLOWAY
My kitchen had never felt smaller than it did with Fraser in it. He sat at my little table, leg stretched out carefully, watching me move between the stove and the counter with those patient green eyes. I’d insisted he rest while I cooked. His leg had been bothering him more than he’d admitted all day, and the careful way he’d lowered himself into the chair confirmed it.
“I feel useless sitting here,” he said for the third time.
“You’re k-keeping me company.” I stirred the pot of beef and barley soup I’d started that morning in the slow cooker, knowing I’d be too tired after the festival to cook from scratch. “That’s not useless.”
“Still.” But he smiled, settling back in his chair. “It smells amazing.”
“My grandmother’s r-recipe.” I pulled bowls from the cabinet, trying not to be too aware of how domestic this felt. How right. “She used to say the s-secret was?—”
“Love?” Fraser guessed, teasing.
“Time,” I corrected, smiling despite myself. “Everything good takes t-time.”
“Wise woman.”
I ladled soup into bowls, then cut thick slices of the crusty bread I’d picked up from Brianna’s yesterday. My hands were steady now, here in my own space, doing familiar things. The festival crowds had drained me more than I’d expected, but this—quiet companionship, simple food, Fraser’s presence—was slowly refilling whatever internal reserves I’d depleted.
“This is incredible,” Fraser said after his first spoonful. “I might need this recipe.”
“F-family secret,” I said, but I was already mentally writing it down for him.
We ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the clink of spoons against bowls and the old house settling around us.
“Thank you for today. For noticing when I needed a break. For not making me ask.”
I looked up from my bowl. “We all n-need someone to notice.”
