Page 30 of Grizzly's Grump
"Eli's right," says Jonah. "Keep her grounded while we figure it out. She trusts you. That’s something."
I nod slowly, but my bear's already made the call—silent and immovable. Keep her close. Protect her. Claim her. It's not a whisper or suggestion. It's instinct carved into bone, the unshakable truth that drives every beat of my heart.
The hum of the ley line is back now. Subtle, but steady—a low vibration threading through the air like a pulse I can feel morethan hear. It knots in my gut, sets my bear to pacing. Not a roar yet, but a warning. A promise.
I don’t know what the line wants with her. But I know what I have to do. Keep her close. Keep her safe. Whatever's coming, she won't face it alone.
Outside, the wind kicks up, rustling the branches and sending a shiver through the trees. Another flicker dances along the edge of my vision—a streetlight sputtering, unsure. Then another pulse ripples through the ground, subtle but steady, like a heartbeat from the earth itself, warning of what’s to come.
Back at the food truck, the glow from the overhead light flickers once—then steadies, casting long, uncertain shadows across the lot. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my bear bristles, unsettled by the stillness that follows. Something's shifted again. And just beyond the windows of the food truck, in the half-light, I catch a shape.
An owl... perched right outside her window—its eyes locked on the inside like it knows exactly who lies just beyond the glass. A sentinel. A judge. Maybe even a threat. One thing is clear—it’s watching her. And my bear won’t let that go unanswered.
CHAPTER 11
CILLA
Iwake to the scent of peaches, almonds, and something wild—untamed and earthy—that brushes against the edges of last night’s memories and sends a flutter of anticipation through me. For one disoriented second, I think I’m back in Nonna’s kitchen, barefoot on cracked linoleum, the air thick with the scent of honey-glazed bread and toasted almonds, her humming drifting through the air like a lullaby.
Calder’s scent lingers—cedar, warm skin, and something primal. It clings to the sheets, to me, wrapping around my body like a brand. My breath catches as the memory of his touch sparks to life, low and shivery, vivid as lightning.
He’s gone. I can feel it before I even reach for the space he left behind—cool sheets, still air, no trace of cedar and skin. A flicker of disappointment pulses before I can brace. I breathe through it, refusing to give it a name.
My heart gives a strange, involuntary lurch. It’s a flicker of disappointment I try to tamp down, smoothing over the ache before it can dig in and grow teeth. I breathe past it, forcing a steady rhythm, willing it away before it dares to sprout questions I’m not ready to voice—questions I’m not sure I want the answers to.
It’s barely dawn. The food truck is dim but not dark, my automatic lights doing their soft glow thing thanks to the solar rig I set up the day I parked in Redwood Rise. Outside, something stirs against the stillness. Birds? Wind? A dream I haven’t shaken off?
I sit up slowly, my muscles voicing every memory of last night in stiff protest. Heat rushes to my cheeks as flashes of Calder's hands, his mouth, the way he moved against me flicker through my mind. My thighs ache—not in pain, but with a pleasure that lingers, lazy and satisfying. My head swims with thoughts that refuse to settle, a tangle of questions and sensations, emotions and memories that leave me breathless before the day even begins.
What do you even call the emotional aftermath of giving your body—and maybe more—to a grumpy bear shifter who laid himself bare under a sky fractured with ley line thunder and lightning? How do you name the aching, breathless mess of feelings that wake up with you the next morning, when magic still clings to your skin and nothing feels quite real—but none of it feels like a mistake??
The memory clings to my skin—not just the feel of him, but the sheer wildness of it all. It leaves me aching in ways I don’t understand, equal parts wonder and wariness. My body remembers. My heart pretends not to, even as I lie here in the cramped bed of my food truck, haunted by the image of him shifting—of raw power unleashed under a sky charged with ley line thunder and lightning.
Unwise? Unfinished? Unforgettable?
Probably all the above. And it’s not over. Not even close. It stirs a longing I didn’t expect, the kind that wraps around old grief and something tender I’ve been too afraid to name. Buried dreams and memories resurface—sharp, bright, and sudden—and I’m no longer sure what aches more: the past or the impossible pull of the present.
I slide down into the main part of the truck, tugging on a soft tee and a pair of leggings as I go. My bare feet thud against the cool floor as I move automatically toward the cupboards. I reach for my mixing bowls before I have a chance to overthink. Baking is the only thing that ever quiets my mind. If I’m elbow-deep in flour and coaxing something delicate and stubborn into rising, the world can wait.
This morning’s project: Nonna’s honey-almond bread—a recipe woven with memory and meaning. It’s one of the few recipes she never shared. She only baked it when the world felt too sharp, when grief, joy, or change hung in the air like fog. Her kitchen became a sanctuary, the bread her quiet way of making sense of things. It was never on the café menu. She saved it for the sacred, for mornings when the world roared too loud.
Flour, honey, almonds—her version of armor. She mixed with care, kneaded with memory, imagining her own Nonna at her side. Steady hands. Warm smile. The soft hum of an old Italian lullaby curling through the room like a blessing. Each loaf wasn’t just comfort—it was ritual and refuge, strength folded into golden crusts and sweet almond crumb.
I’ve only made it once since she passed, the memory too raw to touch. But today, I need her strength like air. Something solid. Something that whispers I’m not alone.
And maybe—if it turns out well—I’ll offer it to Marcy to serve exclusively atThe Rusty Fork.The peach scones turned out to be delicious, and I think I'd rather offer them in my own business. Besides, Nonna would like it if I used her bread as a peace offering wrapped in honey and almonds. A quiet gesture of goodwill. One more root winding its way into this wild, wary town—a minor act of connection, a way of saying I see you, and I want to stay.
My clogs are somewhere in the corner, but I don’t bother. The floor’s cool under my feet as I start mixing—honey thick and golden, eggs whisked until frothy, ground almonds added by memory instead of measurement. The scent rises fast, warm and nutty and sweet, curling through the small space like a promise.
By the time the dough is rising under a towel, I’ve already showered and pulled back on the soft tee and leggings, shoved my curls into a loose knot on top of my head, and scrubbed every inch of the counters like the act alone could chase off the lingering shadows in my chest.
The ache is still there—low and rhythmic—but no longer sharp. It's settled into the kind of heaviness I recognize, like an old scar that twinges when the weather changes. The sort of pain that used to be grief and has since morphed into something quieter, bearable. A companion more than a wound. I carry it the way you carry stories—etched deep, softened by time, familiar enough to fold into the background as life moves on.
I’ve made it through heartbreak, betrayal, and starting over with nothing but a dream and a truck full of flour—confusing sex and bear-shifter revelations don’t even crack the top five.
A soft knock at the food truck’s service window jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. The scent of honey and almonds still hangs in the air, grounding me as I turn toward the sound, heart lifting with cautious curiosity.
Marcy Bell, of all people, is peeking in through the window, one hand fidgeting with the strap of her oversized bag, her brows drawn together like she’s still deciding whether this was a good idea. There’s a hesitation in her stance, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that softens just slightly as the scent of baking hits her.
