Page 19 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

T he afternoon dragged by with agonizing slowness.

I’d checked my roof again: fine; replaced that one shingle: didn’t take more than a few minutes; cleaned up the minimal storm debris in my yard: fifteen minutes, tops; and even reorganized my tool shed: completely unnecessary.

All while trying not to think about dinner at Calloway’s.

About what had shifted between us in the storm-dark hours.

About the way he’d asked me to stay for five more minutes this morning, brave and vulnerable all at once.

By four o’clock, I gave up pretending to be productive and took a long, hot shower.

My leg was screaming from the morning’s tree work.

Crouching, climbing, and chainsaw vibration were exactly the things my physical therapist had told me to avoid.

But seeing Calloway’s grateful smile had been worth every twinge.

I stood in front of my closet longer than any grown man should, debating clothing choices like a teenager before finally settling on dark jeans and yet another flannel shirt.

How many of those did I even own? Not that it mattered.

We were friends having dinner. Friends who’d spent the night tangled together, breathing in sync while the storm raged outside.

Christ, I couldn’t even pretend anymore.

At a quarter to six, I loaded a bottle of wine into the truck.

I’d picked a decent Malbec I’d been saving for something special.

This felt special, even if I couldn’t quite name what “this” was.

The drive to Calloway’s took three minutes, so I parked around the corner and waited a few more minutes, then sat in his driveway for another two, gathering courage I hadn’t needed since my first day fighting fires.

You can face a wall of flame, but you’re scared of dinner?

I almost laughed at myself. But flames were predictable in their unpredictability.

They followed rules dictated by wind, fuel, and topography.

Calloway was something else entirely. A force of nature I didn’t understand yet but desperately wanted to.

I knocked at exactly six o’clock, and he answered so quickly he must’ve been waiting by the door.

Or maybe he’d seen me park in the driveway and had wondered what the hell was taking me so long.

He’d changed into a soft gray sweater and dark corduroys, wearing warm slippers that looked adorable on him.

“Hi, Fraser.”

“Hi.” I held out the wine, feeling awkward all over again. “Didn’t know what you were making, but this goes with almost everything.”

“Perfect. Come in.”

His house smelled incredible, like garlic and herbs, something rich and savory.

But underneath was that unique Calloway scent I’d woken up surrounded by, that of old books and lavender.

He had lavender sachets in his linen closet, he’d told me when I’d asked.

That was so like him that it had made me smile.

“Smells amazing in here,” I said, following him to the kitchen.

“J-just pasta.” He moved to the stove, stirring something in a large pot. “Nothing f-fancy.”

But I could see the effort he’d put in, with fresh herbs on the cutting board, homemade sauce simmering, the good dishes set out on the small table. He’d even lit a candle, its warm glow competing with the overhead light.

“Can I help?”

“Wine?” He gestured to a drawer. “C-corkscrew’s in there.”

I opened the bottle while he plated our food, moving around each other with ease again. It was almost enough to make me forget the awkwardness, the weight of unspoken things between us. Almost.

“This is incredible,” I said after the first bite. And it was—a roasted vegetable pasta with a sauce that tasted like sunshine and comfort.

“M-Marcus taught me.” He paused, like he was waiting for the usual stab of pain. “He said anyone who c-could read could cook. Just had to f-follow directions.”

“Smart man.”

“He was.” Calloway took a sip of wine, and I watched his throat work. “He would’ve l-liked you.”

The statement hung between us, heavy with implication. I wanted to ask what that meant, why it mattered if his dead partner would have approved of me. But Calloway was picking at his pasta, clearly wrestling with something, and I’d learned to let him find his own way to difficult words.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “About l-last night. This morning.”

My heart rate kicked up, but I kept my voice steady. “Yeah?”

“I haven’t sh-shared a bed with anyone since Marcus.

Haven’t w-wanted to.” He looked up, meeting my eyes with that mix of courage and fear I was learning to recognize.

“But with you, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt…

” He searched for words. “Like b-breathing again after holding my breath for s-s-seven years.”

The confession hit me like a physical thing. I set down my fork, giving him my full attention. “Calloway?—”

“I know we said we’d t-take it slow. Day by day. And I want that. I n-need that. But I also need you to know that last night meant s-something to me.” His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his wine glass. “You m-mean something to me.”

“You mean something to me too,” I said, the words inadequate for the feeling that had been building inside me since that first collision in the parking lot.

This slow burn between us was killing me.

Thirty years jumping into wildfires, and I’d never felt heat like this, the kind that started in your chest and spread outward until every nerve ending was on high alert.

“More than I expected. More than I was ready for.”

He smiled. “We’re a p-pair of disasters, aren’t we?”

“Maybe, but the best kind. The kind that understand each other.”

We finished dinner with easier conversation, talking about books we’d been reading, plans for the library’s winter programs, anything but the electricity crackling between us. When our plates were empty, Calloway stood to clear them, but I caught his hand.

“Let me. You cooked.”

He hesitated, then nodded, settling back in his chair while I loaded the dishwasher. Domestic and simple, but I was hyperaware of his eyes on me as I moved around his kitchen like I belonged there.

“D-do you want to w-watch a documentary?” he suggested when I finished. “There’s one about Yellowstone that l-looks interesting.”

“Sounds perfect.”

We moved to the living room, and he turned on the TV.

He’d already pre-selected the documentary, which gave me all the warm flutters inside.

He’d known I would appreciate the topic.

He started to sit in the armchair, then seemed to reconsider, settling on the couch instead.

Not quite touching distance, but closer than before.

The documentary was beautiful, all sweeping vistas and hidden ecosystems. But I ended up watching Calloway more than the screen. The way his face lit up during the segments about wolf reintroduction, how he leaned forward when they discussed the underground fungal networks connecting trees.

“Did you know,” he asked after we’d taken a short break to refill our wine glasses, “that trees can recognize their own seedlings? They’ll f-funnel nutrients to their offspring through the fungal n-network.”

“Really?”

He nodded, animated in the way he got when discussing something he loved. “They take c-care of each other. Even acr-cross species sometimes. If one tree is sick, others will s-send it resources.”

“Like a forest community.”

“Exactly.” He turned to face me more fully. “Makes you wonder what else w-we don’t understand about connection.”

I didn’t have answers other than that I definitely felt deeply connected to Calloway, but that was too much, too soon.

The documentary resumed, but the air between us had changed. Every shift of position, every breath felt magnified. When Calloway shivered slightly, I grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and offered it to him.

“Share?” he asked, so quietly I almost missed it.

I moved closer, and we arranged the blanket over both of us. It required sitting near enough that our thighs touched, and I felt him tense, then slowly relax. On screen, geysers erupted, but all I could focus on was the warm weight of Calloway beside me.

By the time the credits rolled, we’d shifted incrementally closer. Calloway’s head rested against my shoulder, and my arm had found its way around him. It felt natural and terrifying and like everything I’d been missing without knowing it.

“I should go.”

“Mmm.” He sat motionless.

Neither of us moved. The room was dark except for the TV’s blue glow, creating a bubble of intimacy that felt too precious to break. Calloway turned his face up to say something—probably another thank you I didn’t need—but the words died on his lips.

We were so close that I could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, could count the laugh lines that spoke of happier times. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up, a question and permission all at once.

“Calloway…” I gave him one last chance to retreat.

Instead, he leaned in.

The kiss was tentative, barely a brush of lips, but it sent electricity through every nerve ending. Calloway made a soft sound—surprise or relief or maybe both—and I brought my hand up to cup his jaw, keeping the touch gentle, letting him set the pace.

He pressed closer, braver now, and the kiss deepened. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of wine and the basil from dinner. One of his hands fisted in my shirt, not pulling me closer but anchoring himself, like he needed proof this was real.

Our tongues met, sparks flickering all inside me, and started a slow slide, a sensual dance of push and pull. Kissing him was like watching a ground fire suddenly crown out. All that banked heat erupting into something bright and consuming and almost impossible to stop.