Page 5 of Grizzly's Grump
Somewhere no one knows me. He doesn't need to know that I can't make the payments on the loan Troy took out, and the people who made it aren't exactly subtle about collecting it, but neither he nor anyone else needs to know that.
"I’ll be gone by the end of the week," I offer, "if that’s what it takes.”
He eyes me for a beat longer than necessary. The space between us pulls taut, like the stretch of dough right before it tears. The air feels weighted, expectant—thick with the kind of tension that lingers on the skin like steam after a hot shower.
There’s heat now, blooming low in my belly and spiraling up my spine, tightening something behind my ribs. My fingers twitch against the counter, unsure if they want to push him away or pull him closer. The tension between us isn’t hostile—not quite. But it isn’t friendly either. It’s something heavier. Something unspoken. Hungry. Strung tight like a taut wire or a garrote, humming with intent, like it’s waiting to strike.
Then, quietly, like it’s a truth he doesn’t want to admit, he says, “This town doesn’t stay quiet… not for long, anyway.”
There’s weight behind those words. Not just warning. Something closer to prophecy. I catch a flicker of something darker in his expression—regret, maybe. Or memory.
A gust of wind skates down the lane, rattling the awning. For a second, the air feels charged, like a storm building where no clouds exist. His gaze doesn’t flinch. He knows something I don’t.
And then he’s gone, but not before taking a cinnamon roll off the tray on the counter's ledge. Fingers brushing the edge of the napkin, a slow curl of heat lingering in the space he leaves behind.
No thanks. No smile. Just a giant, tattooed enigma wrapped in warning signs… a thundercloud in boots, holding back the storm. His boots crunch over the gravel with a steady rhythm, fading into the fog. But the sound of him, the sense of him, lingers. A presence that doesn’t just walk away—it imprints. Controlled power under rough denim and thick muscle, a slow-moving fault line in boots. Every instinct I have says stay away. So naturally, my heart leans closer.
I exhale. He looked at me. He definitely looked at me. And not like I was just another new face in town. More like I was a puzzle he didn’t ask for—but might want to solve, anyway.
I don’t know his name. But something about the way he looked at me made it very clear: he already knows mine. There’s a distinct, unmistakable feeling that this man doesn’t share. I’m not sure whether that excites me… or terrifies me. He’s not the only one, either. I swear I’ve felt eyes on me more than once since I pulled in. Not hostile. But not quite welcoming, either.
CHAPTER 2
CALDER
I’m halfway back from a dawn run through the north trail when it hits me.
I don’t run to stay in shape—I run to stay sane. To feel the ground under my feet, to push past the noise in my head until all that’s left is breath and heartbeat and the way the trees fold in around me like old friends. Out here, I don’t have to talk. I don’t have to explain the silence. The redwoods don’t care if I speak—they just let me be.
Most mornings, I hit the northern ridge, where the trail turns to rock and the mist rises thick through the ferns. The cold cuts deeper than you'd expect for this part of California—but I like it that way. Keeps me alert. Reminds me I’m alive. My usual route loops through the hollow behind Workshop Row, ends where the creek bends near the western edge of my property. By the time I circle back, the town’s still mostly asleep. And that’s just how I like it.
Except this morning, something’s different. The earth beneath my feet hums—not a tremor, not wind. Just... pressure. The kind I’ve only ever felt when the ley lines shift. It’s faint, but it’s there. And that’s never good.
Not the scent of pine or loam or creek water drying on my skin. Not a trace of oil or old wood I’m used to from my work. It's something else. Something sweet.
Sugar. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Sunshine.
And under it—her.
I stop dead in the middle of the trail, heart thudding against my ribs. My bear, never far from the surface, stirs—restless, alert, stretching toward something he’s been denied for too long. My teeth ache with the need to grit them, to force the feeling back down. I don’t want this. Not today. Maybe not ever.
But none of that matters. She’s here now—real, radiant, and impossible to ignore. The bond doesn’t give a damn if I’m ready. It settles in my gut, thick and heavy, like a weight I didn’t ask for—drawing tighter with every breath she takes. Fate doesn’t wait for permission. It just is—loud, undeniable, and already changing everything.
By the time I push through the trees and get a clear look at the edge of Workshop Row, the pink eyesore parked along the gravel pull-off tells me everything I need to know.
Who the hell paints a food truck cotton candy pink?
Apparently, my mate. No, I shake my head. No. Not again.
She’s moving inside, opening a side panel, flicking on lights, setting out signs in some frothy, too-cheerful script. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her mouth is moving like she’s singing or talking to herself, and there’s this... glow around her. Not literal. But close enough it makes me want to growl.
Sunshine. Chaos. Trouble.
I duck behind the shed and pace the length of the building, trying to shake off the rush of heat and scent crawling under my skin. I’m not ready for this.
I made peace with being alone. Or maybe I just got good at pretending.
After everything that happened with Mary Ann, there wasn’t room for more. One mistake—that’s all it took. One moment of letting my guard down, of trusting a human heart with the truth of who I am. She said she loved me. Said she could handle it. Until the first time she saw me after the mist cleared and couldn’t look me in the eye.
