Page 8 of Grizzly's Grump
The first woman I meet—Marcy from the café—eyes me like I’ve rolled in with a wrecking ball and unwanted competition, instead of a rolling bakery. She doesn’t say a word about the permits, but I catch her glance at the temporary plate duct-taped to my bumper. There’s a flicker of something else there too—like she’s sizing me up, not just as competition, but as a question she’s not ready to answer. I barely finish introducing myself before she gives me a tight-lipped smile and says, “We like things simple here.”
Translation: Don’t make waves, cupcake girl.
Noted.
Now I’m down a cinnamon roll, a little pride, and my last good nerve. I retreat into the truck, muttering, "It’s the Northern California coast. It should be warmer than this."
The morning mist clings to my hoodie, and the cold seeps through the soles of my shoes. I know better than to take it personally. Some places just need time.
But it’s hard not to feel like I’ve parked a candy-colored bullseye in the center of a place that speaks in looks and judgments instead of words. Every cheerful stripe on the truck might as well be a flare signaling how badly I don’t belong. But there’s something else too. A hush beneath the noise. The airhere hums—not loud, but constant, like a wire strung too tight. I feel it in my skin sometimes, especially when I pass the redwood grove at the edge of town. Like the land is holding its breath.
Each day feels longer than the last, my bright paint job growing dim beneath the weight of indifference and second glances that never turn into hellos. Then there’s him. Calder Hayes.
I only learned his name after three days of referring to him in my head as "Lumberjack Thor." It took a run-in at the local hardware store when I was trying to MacGyver a fix for the espresso machine and the clerk asked where I was parked. I said, “Next to the very large and very broody workshop guy.”
The clerk laughed and said, “Ah, Calder Hayes,” like it explained everything. Maybe it did—the name sticks to him in my brain like warm caramel on an apple. Considering the size, bulk and tattoos, it's a wonder I think of something gooey when I think of him, which shouldn’t be nearly as often as it is.
And I think of him at the oddest and most random times—when I’m kneading dough and the silky stretch of it makes me wonder what those big hands would feel like on my skin. When I’m under the outdoor shower and the thought of his gaze slipping over me has me fumbling to twist the faucet to cold. When I curl up in bed above the cab and catch myself staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s alone too. When the wind rattles the awning and I remember the weight of his gaze, steady and solid like he could anchor me if I let him. He’s not just under my skin—he’s in my damn head, showing up in quiet moments like a whisper I can’t quite shake.
Broody. Silent. He looked like he was carved straight from the redwoods—tall, broad, rough-edged, and so solid I swear he could stop a truck with just his stare. There’s a quiet power in the way he carries himself, like he’s part of the surrounding landscape, something elemental and untamed. And when helooks at me—really looks when he doesn't think I'll notice—it’s not just heat that flushes through me. It’s awareness. A hum that starts deep and won’t let go.
I was smoothing glaze over a tray of apple galettes when I looked up and caught him watching me again—just for a second, from across the gravel. Our eyes locked, and for the briefest moment, everything else faded. Something in that gaze pinned me in place. It wasn’t just the size or the way he filled the space like an immovable object. It was the heat beneath the ice, the weight of a question neither of us asked, and the unspoken tension that buzzed like a live current between us.
I shouldn’t find it sexy.vI shouldn’t find him sexy.
But here I am, arguing with myself while I whip frosting, and wondering what it would be like to smear it all over his naked body and then lick it off.
Maybe it’s because he’s the opposite of Troy in every way—gruff instead of slick, silent instead of sweet-talking. Real instead of curated-for-Instagram.
Troy and Lola looked like they’d stepped out of a catalog ad for my food truck—sun-kissed skin, perfect white smiles, and coordinated aprons that made them seem like a dream team. I used to joke that Lola should’ve been the face of the brand instead of me. Half a joke, half the truth. And now, when I think about it, I can almost hear my grandmother’s voice: no one trusts a skinny chef—least of all a skinny pastry chef.
Calder, though? He wouldn’t pose for a picture—hell, he wouldn’t even stand still long enough for the camera to find him. There’s something wild threaded through him, something raw and restless. Like if you blinked, you’d miss him slipping back into the trees, vanishing into the mist before you could call his name.
And yet—he came back.
He took the cinnamon roll I offered yesterday, and he didn’t tell me to leave. I'm going to take that as a win. A small win, but a win nonetheless. That counts for something in my book.
Today, I’ll try again. Because that’s what I do—keep showing up, keep baking, keep holding the line. I’ll keep pretending I’m not developing a full-blown crush on a man who’s said less than twenty words to me. But there’s something about Calder Hayes I can’t shake. Something in the way his eyes linger, in the quiet gravel of his voice, in the tension that rolls off him like thunder tucked beneath skin.
It’s reckless and irrational and has absolutely nothing to do with logic—and yet, here I am, heart fluttering like a teenager’s every time he’s near.
Maybe it’s because Calder is the opposite of Troy in every way—gruff instead of slick, silent instead of sweet-talking, raw instead of curated. Troy was safe, predictable—a perfectly plated dessert with no heat beneath.
Calder? He stirs things in me I didn’t even know anyone could stir. Emotions, cravings, girly parts—every last one of them sits up and pays attention when he’s near, like they’ve been waiting for someone just like him to walk by and wreck my peace.
I finish packing up a few warm pastries onto a paper tray and scribble
Thanks—for not calling the sheriff—Cilla.
I hesitate before signing it. Would it seem too eager? Like I want him to know my name—really know it, not just hear it in passing? Too forward? Too hopeful?
I mean, the man’s barely said twenty words to me in total, and yet here I am, obsessing over a handwritten thank-you like it's a love note.
But something about him makes me want to be seen. Not just as the girl with the pink food truck, but as me—messy, earnest, and maybe a little too invested in a man who broods better than he speaks.
Then I grab the small step stool—the one I always keep tucked beside the door since the truck’s step is just high enough to make climbing in and out awkward. Normally, I’d set it down and step off properly, especially with my hands full. But today, distracted and overconfident, I figure I’ll just skip using the step stool. I tell myself I’ve done this hop a thousand times before.
What could go wrong? So, instead of using the stool like a sane person, I leap off like I’ve got catlike reflexes and Olympic form to back me up.
