Page 7 of Befriending the Bear
Of course.
I set the phone aside without responding further. Eleanor would see through any excuses I made anyway. The woman had been a high school English teacher for forty years. She could spot bullshit at fifty paces.
The afternoon stretched ahead like an accusation. I tried to return to my book, but the words swam. Tried to work on my memoir, but the cursor blinked at me mockingly. Even my garden, usually a reliable source of calm, felt like too much effort. Instead, I stood at the window, watching the street like some Victorian spinster waiting for scandal.
Get a grip, Calloway.
But my traitorous mind kept circling back to those careful hands, the way Fraser had moved to catch me without hesitation despite his own obvious pain. When was the last time someone had touched me with intent? Not the accidental brush of fingers at a checkout counter or the clinical efficiency of my doctor, but real, deliberate contact?
Seven years, three months, and eleven days.
I turned from the window, disgusted with myself for keeping count. This was precisely why I’d structured my life the way I had—no room for these kinds of dangerous thoughts. Tomorrow, I’d go back to my routine. Collins for groceries,carefully timed to avoid the morning rush. My usual table at the library, tucked in the back corner where no one bothered me. Online book club in the evening, where I could be eloquent and witty behind the safety of a screen name.
I wouldn’t think about moss-green eyes or scarred hands or handsome bears. Or the way Fraser had said my name, careful and correct, like it mattered that he get it right.
By Thursday, I’d almost convinced myself the encounter had been a fluke. A moment of temporary insanity brought on by too much caffeine or not enough sleep. I’d successfully avoided Main Street for two days, taking the long way around to get to Collins, eating crackers and peanut butter rather than risk another run-in at Brianna’s.
But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.
I was bent over the basil plants, harvesting the last good leaves before the frost got them, when I heard it: the distinctive tap-step rhythm of someone walking with a cane. My body knew before my brain caught up, every muscle tensing like a prey animal sensing a predator.
Except that wasn’t right, was it? Fraser wasn’t hunting me. He was walking down my street, probably heading to the park or the river trail or any of a dozen places that had nothing to do with me. The fact that he was passing my house meant nothing. Forestville was small. Everyone passed everyone’s house eventually.
I stayed frozen, secateurs in hand, hoping the overgrown rosemary would hide me from view. But then the footsteps stopped. “That’s quite a garden.”
His voice carried easily over the low fence, warm and appreciative. I straightened slowly, my back protesting the movement, and found Fraser standing on the sidewalk. He looked…good. Very good. Worn jeans that fit just right, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that had nobusiness being that distracting. The late afternoon sun caught the silver in his beard, making it shimmer.
“Th-thank you.” The words came out steadier than expected, maybe because I was in my own territory. “End of s-s-season cleanup.”
“I can smell the basil from here.” He shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the cane. “I used to grow herbs at my place in Montana. Never could keep basil alive though. Too much water, I think.”
It was such a normal conversation. The kind neighbors had over fences all the time. Except my heart was racing and my hands were sweating inside my gardening gloves, and I couldn’t stop noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“It likes to be a l-little dry,” I managed. “Between waterings.”
“Good to know.” He glanced at the house, then back at me. “This is a beautiful place.”
“T-thank you.”
“Did you grow up here?”
I blinked. Why did he keep asking questions as if he didn’t realize how bad my stutter was? Didn’t he care that it would take me ages to answer? “I d-did. M-m-moved to New York C-City for college and l-l-lived there for a long t-time. Came b-b-back after…”
After Marcus. After I’d lost the one person who mattered most to me in the whole world. “After,” I repeated, and left it at that.
Fraser didn’t push, didn’t ask for details. He nodded like “after” was a complete sentence, which I supposed it was. The most complete sentence I could manage when it came to that particular subject.
“I get it,” he said quietly. “Sometimes ‘after’ is all we’ve got.”
The understanding in his voice made me breathe a little easier. What was his “after?” After the accident that gave him the cane? After leaving Montana? After something else entirely?
“Well,” he said, shifting his weight again. I was learning to read the signs of his pain, the subtle adjustments that meant standing was becoming difficult. “I should let you get back to your basil. Just wanted to say it’s nice to see a garden this well-loved. Makes the neighborhood feel more like home.”
He started to turn away, and something in me—the same reckless part that had issued the book club invitation—surged forward.
“W-w-wait.” The word exploded out of me, too loud for the quiet street. Fraser paused, looking back with those patient moss-green eyes. “Would you…? Would you l-like some? B-basil? I have t-t-too much.”
His face transformed with that smile, the one that made him look years younger despite the silver in his beard. “I’d love some. If you’re sure you can spare it.”
