Page 22 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

T he Friday night after the storm, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror trying to tame my beard into something presentable.

At least I didn’t have to worry about my hair, one of the benefits of being bald.

Back when I’d discovered my hair was thinning rapidly, I’d decided to preemptively shave my head, and I had never regretted it.

But as an active firefighter, a beard had not been allowed.

Sure, a little scruff was unavoidable since we didn’t exactly have time to shave when we were spiked out, but ever since my involuntary retirement, I’d let my beard grow.

It was an unexpected source of pride now, evidence of me embracing a new piece of my identity I hadn’t been able to develop before.

Calloway and I had seen each other every day this week for coffee, dinners, book club, and nights spent reading side by side.

We’d kissed, a little longer and deeper each time.

He hadn’t asked me to spend the night again, and so we’d gone our separate ways each night.

I’d had to take matters into my own hand, so to speak, to bring some much-needed relief to my aching balls.

No way was I putting pressure on Calloway.

But tonight was different. Tonight was our first official date.

“It’s dinner,” I told my reflection, who looked unconvinced. “You’ve had dinner with him dozens of times.”

But this wasn’t dinner. This was me picking him up, taking him to Seattle for a poetry reading at Elliott Bay Books, followed by reservations at a restaurant Brianna had recommended with a knowing smile. This was intentional, declared, a real date with all that implied.

My phone buzzed with a text from Calloway.

Still planning to pick me up at 5?

Wouldn’t miss it.

Looking forward to it

Three simple words that made my belly tickle with a mix of nerves and excitement.

I’d watched him slowly open up, each small bravery adding up to something beautiful.

The way he’d left his hand in mine when we’d walked to Brianna’s last Tuesday.

How he’d begun suggesting activities instead of waiting for me to lead.

The soft smile that appeared more frequently now, usually when he thought I wasn’t looking.

I pulled on the sweater a helpful sales guy had helped me pick out after I’d told him I needed something for a date—a navy-blue lambswool that he’d insisted brought out my eyes.

“No matter how hot you look in flannel—and trust me, honey, you do—you want a different vibe for a date,” he’d told me, and a couple of hundred dollars later, I was all set with various options to choose from.

The drive to Calloway’s house took the usual three minutes, but I’d left early enough to sit in his driveway for two more, also a habit by now.

Through the window, I could see him moving around, probably changing shirts for the third time.

The thought made me smile. At least I wasn’t the only nervous one.

When he opened the door, my brain short-circuited momentarily. He wore charcoal gray slacks that fit perfectly, a burgundy sweater that made his skin glow, and a soft smile that hit me right in the heart.

“You look…” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like a bad romance novel. “Really good.”

Pink crept up his neck. “Th-thank you. You too.”

The drive to Seattle took seventy-five minutes, traffic cooperating for once.

Calloway had control of the music, introducing me to musicians I hadn’t listened to much, like Iron & Wine, Sufjan Stevens, Billy Eilish, and Lorde.

They were artists who crafted words like he did, carefully and with purpose.

We talked about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing more easily now that we’d learned each other’s rhythms.

“When was the last time you were at Elliott Bay?” I asked as we entered the city proper.

He snorted. “Three w-weeks ago. I t-tell myself to stay away, but I can’t.”

“Why would you want to stay away?”

“B-because I’m running out of sp-space for new books.”

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Pretty sure you could easily fit in another bookcase in your study.”

He playfully slapped my shoulder. “You’re an enabler.”

“If you’re expecting me to stop you from buying books, you got the wrong man.” I reached over and took his hand, threading our fingers together on the console between us. “As far as I’m concerned, you can buy all the books you want.”

He squeezed my fingers. “N-no, I think I have the r-right man.”

If he kept saying things like that, the fire inside me would burn out of control fast, and we might not even make it to dinner.

Elliott Bay Books was exactly what a bookstore should be, with warm lighting, exposed brick, and the comforting smell of paper and coffee.

The poetry reading was in the basement event space, already half full when we arrived.

I found us seats in the back corner where Calloway could hide and where I could see the exit, which worked for both of us.

“D-do you want coffee?” he asked, eyeing the small café bar.

“I’ll get it. You save our seats.”

But he shook his head, a flash of determination crossing his face. “I can d-do it.”

I watched him navigate the counter, pointing instead of speaking, returning with two cups and a triumphant expression that made me want to kiss him right there in the bookstore.

The reading was by a young Pacific Northwest poet whose work focused on queerness and nature.

Their words were raw, honest, full of imagery that made me think of Calloway’s garden—things growing wild, thriving outside prescribed boundaries.

I snuck glances at him throughout, watching how he leaned forward during particularly resonant passages, how his lips moved slightly like he was tasting the words.

“That was incredible,” I said when it ended, the audience dispersing into a book-signing line and discussion clusters.

“The p-part about salmon…” Calloway’s eyes were bright. “How they c-carry the forest to the sea,” Calloway finished, his voice soft with wonder. “I’d never thought of it that way before.”

“Want to get the book signed?” I asked, but he shook his head.

“Too many p-people. But maybe…” He glanced toward the poetry section. “Could we look around?”

We spent the next hour wandering the shelves. Calloway moved through the store like it was a cathedral, touching spines reverently, pulling out volumes to show me passages he loved. I followed, content to watch him in his element, seeing the confidence that emerged when he was surrounded by books.

“Oh!” He stopped suddenly in front of a display. “I’ve been w-waiting for this to release.”

“Get it,” I said. “Early birthday present.”

“My birthday isn’t until F-February.”

“Really early then.”

He laughed, that free sound I was still getting used to, and added the book to the growing stack in his arms. By the time we left, he’d accumulated seven books, despite his protests that he already had too many.

“You can never have too many books,” I said, loading them into the truck. “That’s like saying you can have too much air.”

The restaurant Brianna had suggested was small and intimate, tucked into a Capitol Hill side street.

Candlelit tables, exposed beams, the kind of place that took reservations seriously.

It was certainly a hell of a lot more upscale than what I was used to, but Calloway was worth it.

And my guess was that he’d been in places like this often, having lived in New York City.

Not gonna lie, that did make me a little nervous, like I somehow had to measure up.

“Reservation for Fraser Strickland,” I told the hostess.

“Right this way, gentlemen.” She led us to a cozy table all the way in the back, like I had requested, so we’d have some privacy.

The way Calloway’s eyes lit up told me I’d picked the right spot.

We settled in, Calloway visibly relaxing with his back to the wall and a clear view of the room and me with my eyes on the emergency exit. The menu was Pacific Northwest cuisine with a French twist, exactly the kind of thing Marcus would’ve loved, according to what Calloway had told me.

“This is c-cute,” he said, looking around the restaurant. “I l-like that it’s not so l-loud. You can hear each other.”

“Exactly. I find it so hard to have conversations when you have to yell to make yourself be heard.”

When the waiter came, I ordered for both of us—not because Calloway couldn’t, but because we’d discussed it in the truck and he wanted me to. Date nights were for enjoying, not struggling through interactions with strangers.

“Tell me about your f-favorite fire,” Calloway said once we were alone again. “Not the worst or the b-biggest. Your favorite.”

It was such a perfectly Calloway question—unexpected, thoughtful, designed to elicit stories. I thought about it while our wine arrived, a Willamette Valley pinot noir that cost a fortune and tasted like any other wine, but maybe that was my lack of a more refined palate.

“Montana, 2015. Late-season prescribed burn that got away from us a little. Not dangerous, but not quite as controlled as we would’ve liked. We ended up having to stay out an extra night, camping right there in the burn scar.”

“Why was it your f-favorite?”

“Because that night, after we contained it, the whole crew sat around watching the edges still glowing. No danger anymore, just these ribbons of orange in the darkness. And this kid, Martinez, actually, the mouse guy, started singing. Quietly at first, some song his grandmother taught him. Then others joined in, and it became magical.”

I paused, remembering. “Twenty of us, covered in ash and exhausted, singing into the dark while the mountain glowed around us. It was…church, kind of. Sacred.”

Calloway’s eyes were soft in the candlelight. “You miss them.”

“Every day. But that’s the thing about family. They’re still family even when you’re apart.”