Page 4 of Grizzly's Grump
Not just functional. Beautiful. Crafted. And suddenly, it clicks. He’s not just a grumpy recluse with a drill. He’s an artist. A brooding, silently judging, annoyingly hot furniture-making artist.
Well, alrighty then.
I spend the next hour prepping two dozen rolls and frosting them like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. I need customers. Smiles. Momentum. A reason not to tuck tail and head back to Sacramento with nothing but debt and day-old batter.
By noon, two women pass by and give me a polite smile. They slow as they approach, and I perk up, offering my warmest grin.
"Morning, ladies! First one's on the house—I'm the new sugar slinger in town," I say.
They exchange a look but step up anyway. One orders a cookie; the other asks about the cinnamon rolls.
"They're legendary," I assure them. "Best on this side of the Sierras. Probably the other side, too, but I try to stay humble."
That earns a half-laugh.
"You’re not from around here, are you?" the cookie one asks, curious but not unfriendly.
"Not even a little," I say. "But I’m hoping to stick around long enough to earn my stripes. And maybe convert the town one cupcake at a time."
The cinnamon roll woman gives a small smile, but her eyes flick toward the workshop. "Just be careful where you park. Not everyone likes surprises."
“Is it just him?” I ask, nodding subtly toward the building.
She hesitates. “He’s the loudest about it. But folks around here… they don’t love change. Or newcomers.”
Another exchanged glance. Then a murmur of thanks, and they disappear into the mist. It’s not a line, but it’s something. And it keeps me busy enough that I don’t hear him coming.
I’m mid-pour with a fresh batch of glaze when I hear it—low, rough, and so close it sends a jolt straight through my spine. His voice doesn’t just arrive; it snakes through the open service window, all grit and gravel, like smoke that knows how to crawl beneath a door.
"You shouldn’t be here."
I whirl around. He’s at the window, jaw tight, arms folded. Close enough that I can see the faint scar beneath his left eye and the flecks of sawdust clinging to the hair at his temple. His eyes—gray and stormy—pin me in place like a challenge I didn’t know I was issuing.
“Excuse me?” I say, keeping my tone light.
“You’re not from here. You’re not one of us.”
My chin lifts before I even realize it. There’s a jolt in my chest—like instinct rearing its head, daring me to hold the line. Not fear. Something sharper. Interest, maybe. Defiance, definitely.
“Didn’t realize I needed to be part of a special club to sell baked goods. If I have to be, who do I speak to about joining? Somehow I don't think you're the chairman of either the Welcome or Membership Committees.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares. Measuring again. I’m not sure why I find so much pleasure in teasing him, but I do.
That bear-in-the-woods energy clings to him—feral and unmoving, like he’s carved from the same redwood trunks for which this town was named. But there’s something new behind it now. Heat, slow and simmering, curled tight in his gaze. Something that hums just beneath the surface, unspoken and unyielding.
The kind of heat that makes your breath catch. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission—it just claims space and dares you to move closer.
I was never one not to take a dare or pick up a gauntlet.
“Cinnamon roll?” I offer.
His nostrils flare. He takes a slow breath through his nose, like he’s scenting the air. Like I’m something he’s deciding whether to ignore or devour.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. Then lower as a slow smile begins to tug at his lips before he squashes it and gives me another sexy glower.
Well, that’s new.
“Look,” I say, softening both my tone and my demeanor. “I’m not trying to stir anything up. I think my truck is about to giveup the ghost, and I'm going to need to make some money to get it fixed and get out of your hair. I just needed to be somewhere quiet."
