Page 14 of Grizzly's Grump
Maybe it is, but I don’t turn back.
I stare up through the canopy, where fog filters the moonlight in silver threads. It’s eerily beautiful. Quiet in a heavy, echoing way that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. I should feel nervous. Or unsettled. Instead, I feel... seen.
Not watched.
Known.
The air stills for a beat. Then I hear it—heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, treading over damp earth.
I spin around just as Calder emerges from the shadows as if someone carved him out of them. Flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, his dark hair damp and tousled, strands clinging to his temple like he’s been out here for hours, swallowed by the trees.
As I stumble, my heel clips the edge of the log—and I knock over the wineglass. It tips and lands on the rocks with a sharp crack. I flinch. A jagged line runs through the base, just below the curve I’d tried to smooth with love and intention, back whenI thought forever was something you could pour into glass. I realize I'm more upset about the loss of the wine than the glass.
Maybe I'm finally getting over Troy. Maybe the man approaching me, who caused me to shatter that glass, is the reason.
Calder's gaze locks on mine—intense, unreadable.
He doesn’t speak. Just steps beside me and picks up a thick limb of firewood like it weighs nothing. My eyes rake over him before I can stop myself—broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms, damp curls brushing the nape of his neck. He smells like cedar, wood smoke, and something warmer I don’t dare name—something that pulls at me, quiet and magnetic.
“You following me?” I ask, aiming for teasing, but my voice comes out breathy.
“No,” he says. “You’re on my land.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods and tosses the log onto a growing pile I hadn’t even noticed he’d started. “Yep.”
Of course, it is.
“Great,” I mutter. “So now I’m trespassing and talking to ghosts.”
Calder gives me a long look. "Whose ghost are you talking to?"
"No one in particular. I figured it was better than talking to people who either ignore me or grunt like conversation’s optional."
He grunts again. "I don’t talk unless there’s something worth saying."
"Wow. So this must be a rare event." I lift the recipe book. “My Nonna's. She’s dead, still bossy as hell, and still somehow manages to make more sense than half the living.”
He makes a sound—half grunt, half chuckle—and keeps collecting wood.
"You collecting that for anyone in particular?" I ask.
He nods and tosses the log onto the growing pile. “I saw the firepit and the plastic outdoor chair. Figured you might be planning to roast marshmallows or something.”
I should go. I really should, but I don’t. Instead I say, "You're not wrong. I was thinking about making my own marshmallows and graham crackers, roasting the marshmallows and making homemade s'mores."
He goes back to collecting wood. “Rough day?” he asks after a stretch of silence.
I sigh and drop onto the fallen tree. He settles beside me—not too close, but close enough that our knees brush when I lean slightly toward him. A jolt races up my spine. He doesn’t move away, and neither do I.
“Let’s see. I got scolded by the town café queen; the foot traffic fell into two groups—half wanted the free samples and the others just ignored me.”
Calder’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “They’ll come around.”
I glance at him sideways. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “No. But sometimes I wish I could forget who I am.”
