Page 8 of Befriending the Bear
I was already moving, grateful for the excuse to do something with my hands. I grabbed a clean basket from the garden shed and started cutting generous bunches of basil, adding some oregano and thyme for good measure. The familiar actions helped calm my racing pulse, though I was acutely aware of Fraser watching from the sidewalk.
“You really know your way around a garden,” he observed. “Everything looks so healthy. Happy.”
Happy. What a strange word to use for plants. But looking at them through his eyes, I could see it—the way the tomatoes reached eagerly for their stakes, how the herbs spilled over their boundaries with enthusiastic growth. My garden was happy in a way I’d forgotten I could be.
I carried the basket to the gate, hesitating only a moment before opening it. This was new territory. I never invited peopleinto my space. But Fraser stayed on the sidewalk side, respecting the boundary even as I crossed it.
“Here.” I held out the basket, proud that my hands barely shook. “The b-basil makes good pesto. F-freeze it in ice cube t-trays.”
“That’s brilliant.” He accepted the basket carefully, our fingers brushing for a second. “Thank you, Calloway. This is really generous.”
I should have retreated then, gone back to my safe garden and closed the gate between us. Instead, I said, “The oregano d-dries well. Hang it upside d-down in bunches.”
“I’ll do that.” He cradled the basket like it was precious, and a tender warmth flooded me. “Maybe you could show me sometime? I’ve got a little space behind my house that could use some attention. Might be nice to grow something besides regrets.”
The invitation hung between us, delicate as spider silk. I could brush it away, pretend I hadn’t heard. Return to my careful isolation, where the only things that depended on me had roots and leaves instead of warm eyes and careful hands.
“M-maybe.” Fraser’s smile was worth every stuttered syllable.
“No pressure. But the offer’s there.”
A car passed, Mrs. Morrison from two doors down. She waved enthusiastically, her eyes bright with curiosity at seeing me actually talking to someone. By tomorrow, half the street would know Calloway Gilstrap had been seen conversing with the new man in town. The thought should’ve sent me running.
Instead, I stayed where I was, memorizing the golden flecks in Fraser’s eyes.
“I should go,” he said finally, though he made no immediate move to leave. “Don’t want the herbs to wilt. But, Calloway? I’m really glad we ran into each other the other day. Literally.”
Heat crept up my neck. “M-me too.”
And the terrifying thing was, I meant it.
I watched him walk away, that careful tap-step rhythm fading into the distance. The basket looked right in his hands, like he was someone who understood the value of things grown with patience and care. When he turned the corner, I finally breathed out.
Oh god, what had I done?
4
FRASER
Friday came too fast and not fast enough.
I’d spent the morning at physical therapy, gritting my teeth through exercises designed to improve flexibility in my damaged leg. The therapist, a cheerful sadist named Beth, kept reminding me that pain meant progress. I kept reminding her that pain meant pain, but I did the work anyway. If I was going to show up at book club tonight—and I was, despite telling myself all week I wouldn’t—I wanted to do it without grimacing every time I shifted position.
Yesterday afternoon, I’d been at Brianna’s, nursing my third cup of coffee and pretending to read the local paper. The truth was, I’d watched the door for an hour, hoping to catch a glimpse of Calloway. According to Jamie, three o’clock was his usual time on Thursdays, but the clock had crept past the hour without any sign of him.
“You waiting for someone?” Brianna had asked, refilling my cup without being asked.
“Just enjoying the atmosphere,” I’d lied.
She’d given me a look that said she wasn’t buying it but was too polite to call me out. “Well, if you’re still here at four, I’m putting you to work. These tables won’t wipe themselves.”
I’d smiled despite my disappointment. “Fair enough.”
But four came and went with no Calloway. Maybe he was avoiding Main Street. Maybe he was avoiding me. The thought stung more than it should have, considering we’d only met twice. But there’d been something in his eyes when we’d talked in his garden, a flicker of possibility that had kept me awake half the night.
But surely, he’d come to book club, right?
By six-thirty, I was home, showered, and second-guessing every clothing choice I owned. What did one wear to a small-town book club? My usual flannel seemed too casual, but anything dressier would look like I was trying too hard. Which I was, but that didn’t mean I needed to advertise it.
