Page 9 of Grizzly's Grump
Bad move. The second my feet hit the uneven gravel, my ankle twists with dramatic flair, as if auditioning for a pratfall reel. A sharp jolt shoots up my leg, and I flail—the tray wobbling dangerously in my arms, grace utterly forgotten—before stumbling into a barely saved landing that would make a baby deer look like a ballerina.
I mutter something unladylike, straighten up, and that’s when I see it—the tire on the rear driver’s side. Flatter than bread dough after a yeast massacre. Because of course it is.
"Damn it," I mutter, staring at it.
I crouch to get a better look, awkwardly setting the pastry tray on the nearest flat surface—only it's not actually flat. The tray tilts, and I fumble to catch a rogue pastry before it tumbles to its doom. With the pastries finally secured and my dignity barely intact, I brush my hand over the tire and sigh. There’s a nail embedded right near the edge. It must’ve happened when I pulled in.
Perfect. Now I’m stuck.
I've got no spare. Well, I do; it's the one that's now flat. Troy needed a haircut and to get his teeth whitened when we jerkedoff the old tire and put this one on just north of Mendocino. I've got no local connections, aside from a growly woodworker and a café owner who looks like she wants to approach me with an outstretched cross and mutter, 'Be gone, Satan' in her best Church Lady voice. And judging by the way the town’s been looking at me, there’s no miracle, pastry-craving cavalry coming.
I close my eyes and remind myself that I am the eternal optimist.
Okay, universe. I get it. One thing at a time.
The gravel crunches behind me. I start to spin around, half-expecting another disapproving local or maybe Marcy with a clipboard, and tip back, landing on my ass with a splat and sending small pieces of gravel everywhere, including one into the truck, which chips the paint. Just swell.
I turn to focus my glare on the cause of this chaos, ready to unleash every ounce of my frustration—but the fire fizzles the second I lay eyes on him. Calder. Of course it's him. The man is a walking contradiction—my favorite fantasy and biggest irritation rolled into one flannel-wrapped package. And right now, standing there with the mist curling around his boots and a shadowed intensity in his gaze, he’s far too gorgeous to stay mad at. Damn it.
His rolled flannel sleeves expose muscular forearms that look sculpted, the kind of arms you’d find on a romance novel cover—except real and right in front of me. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, like he’s just stepped out of a shower or maybe returned from a run through the misty woods. Then his eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable, with that barely tamed wildness flickering in their depths—and hold. My breath catches, caught somewhere between instinct and infatuation.
“Hey,” I say, voice brighter than I feel. “If you’re here to tell me there’s a ‘No Pink Trucks’ ordinance, I kind of figured that out.”
He doesn’t speak. Instead, he crouches next to the tire, inspects it, then rises and disappears around the side of his shop.
I blink. “Right. Okay. Good talk.”
A few minutes later, he’s back—with a jack, a wrench, and a patch kit. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Just gets to work.
I get up off my ass and then stand there awkwardly, tray in hand, heart thudding. “You don’t have to...”
He glances up, and something about the look in his eyes silences me.
Not cruel. Not annoyed. Just... resolute. Like he’s already decided this is happening and doesn't need my input. All righty then.
I sit on the edge of the step and watch as he inspects the tire in silence. There’s a rhythm to the way he moves—efficient, focused, grounded. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he’d rather be doing this, or anything else, other than talking.
When he’s done, he wipes his hands on a rag and stands. “Yep, you’ve got yourself a nice little flat tire. Spare?”
“You’re looking at it,” I answer as I offer him the tray of goodies. “Bribe? Reward?”
He hesitates, then takes it.
“Thanks,” I say. “Truly.”
He nods, a flicker of something—approval, maybe? Amusement?—tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, not quite, but something warmer than I expected. Then, without a word, he turns and walks away, boots crunching softly over gravel like punctuation at the end of a sentence I don’t quite understand.
No goodbye. No smirk—because really, do romantic heroes even smirk? I don’t think so. Just that slow, deliberate stride, the kind that says he’s not just walking away—he’s melting back into the land itself. Like the mountain made him, and now it’s pulling him home, step by step. Solid. Unshakeable. Untouchable.
I watch him go, warmth blooming in my chest despite everything. Something stirs in the stillness between us—like the air changes after he’s gone. I tell myself it’s just hormones. Wishful thinking. But deep down, I wonder if it’s something else entirely.
Maybe the town’s not ready for me. Maybe Calder Hayes isn’t either. Am I even ready for them? I don't know, but something tells me we’re about to find out.
Maybe next time, he won’t walk away so fast.
CHAPTER 4
CALDER
