Page 13 of Grizzly's Grump
But I can’t. I won't. Instead, I back away.
“I can have my brother Beau..."
"Brother Beau? Is he the local preacher?" she teases.
She's making jokes as the world is trying to come apart. I can't decide if that's going to be a helpful trait or a foolish one.
"Beau is a mechanic. I’ll have him look at the wiring tomorrow,” I say. “Your truck shouldn’t be doing that. It might be a sign of something else... something bigger."
I turn on my heel and walk off. I know that if I stay, I’ll do something neither of us will be able to walk away from.
I can still feel her eyes resting on me. It's like she already knows I’m not going to be able to stay away.
CHAPTER 5
CILLA
There’s a special kind of ache that comes from watching a man walk away like you’re both the problem and the solution—and knowing he’s probably right.
I stood at the edge of the gravel watching Calder’s broad back disappear around the side of his workshop, heading back toward the tree line, his long stride eating up the distance between us without a single glance back. The last thing he’d said—rough and low like it scraped against something inside him—still hummed in my chest.
Sure, it was about his brother looking at my food truck, but still it was for the following day, and I was determined to take that as a good sign that he expected me to be here come tomorrow. Progress.
By the time the sun caught the edge of his shoulders and the crunch of his boots faded around the corner, I was alone again. Just me, the lingering heat of his gaze, and the quiet crackle of tension I didn’t know what to do with. I didn’t move. I just stood there, letting the moment settle in the quiet space between breaths.
That afternoon, I handed out twelve samples of my grandmother’s sour cream blueberry scones, smiled until my cheeks hurt, and was told—point blank—that Redwood Rise didn’t need another bakery. Which was rich, considering Redwood Rise didn’t actually have a bakery. Just a café that served frozen baked goods—nothing fresh, nothing homemade. Marcy delivered that last one personally, with her arms crossed and her eyes sharp behind her too-perfect glasses.
“You’re not from here,” she’d said, like that explained everything.
Well, no, I’m not. Thanks for pointing that out. But give me a break; I’m trying. I’ve shown up with warm scones and my best smile, trying to connect with people whose roots run deeper than the redwoods that surround them. Even so, today, the town made sure I felt every inch of that difference—like I’m some puzzle piece that almost fits, but not quite.
But I’m not giving up. I will stop by the café again... this time with a pitch. What if I baked a line of things exclusively for her? What if I made a house scone or a variation of cinnamon rolls that no one could buy anywhere else, including my food truck? If I can’t win them over at the food truck counter, maybe I can win them from behind the one at the café-—one warm cup of coffee and pastry at a time.
I trudge the short walk back to the truck, exhausted and heavyhearted with rejection, and climb inside. The soft thunk of the door is the only sound besides my breath. The galley kitchen smells faintly of all things baking—vanilla, butter, cinnamon, and the rest. It should be comforting. Instead, it just makes the silence louder and reminds me of all the things missing in my life.
I kick off my clogs at the door and drop Nonna's recipe book on the tiny drop-down kitchen table like it might offer answers. It doesn’t. It just sits there, worn and steady and smelling faintlyof cinnamon and vanilla extract, while I make myself a strong cup of coffee and pour it into my favorite hand-thrown mug—the one with the glaze like river stone and a thumb-worn handle that always fits just right.
By the time night settles in with a thick mist, I can’t stop replaying his voice—gravel-warm, rough around the edges, threaded through with something darker. You’re already staying longer than you think.
And damn it, maybe he was right.
Now it’s evening, and I’m tucked into the little pull-off like I belong there. A hand-blown wine glass rests in one hand—the one I made when I still thought I’d marry Troy, back when love felt permanent and the future was something we sculpted together. The other cradles Nonna's recipe book, edges curled, butter stains worn into the spine. Its scent and feel are comforting even after all these years.
“You’d tell me to try again tomorrow,” I mutter, swirling the wine and staring at the trees. “But you never had to do this alone. Or get side-eyed by small-town denizens with loyalty issues, who think they're judges in a pastry contest.”
The book, being an inanimate object, doesn’t answer. But the memory of my grandmother’s voice—raspy, warm, half-Italian sass—rattles around in my head just the same.
'People always want fresh bread,'she’d say.'But they don’t always trust new ovens.'
I snort. “Thanks, Nonna. Very helpful."
A slight breeze comes through the window, reminding me I need to close it before I go to bed. I glance out toward the woods beyond the clearing. They seem darker than usual. Not just evening-dim. Thicker. Almost as if they're living beings about to pull their roots from the ground and take a step towards me. There’s something humming underneath it all—not a sound, but a feeling. A pressure behind my ribs, like the world has stilledand I’ve stumbled into the silence. It buzzes low, just beneath awareness, like the ground is alive and waiting for something.
There’s fog curling through the lower branches, and the air outside smells like moss, pine, and something warm and strange I can’t name. Maybe it’s the wine. Or the rejection. Or the ghost of my grandmother whispering in my ear. Or maybe I'm just horny and have had a crappy day. But before I know it, I’m slipping back into my clogs, already moving toward the trees before I realize I’ve made the choice.
The path is narrow, and the air and everything else all around me is slightly damp. Blackberry brambles snag the hem of my hoodie. Somewhere overhead, a bird calls once, sharp and strange, before going quiet. I stop beside a fallen log and set my wineglass on the moss.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Maybe this was a dumb idea.”
