Page 5 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

CALLOWAY

I made it three blocks before the full weight of what I’d done crashed over me like a rogue wave.

My hands shook as I fumbled with my keys at the front door, nearly dropping them twice before managing to get inside.

The poetry book—now slightly scuffed from its encounter with asphalt—felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

I set it carefully on the hall table and pressed my back against the closed door, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

What the hell had I been thinking?

Book club. Friday. We’re doing poetry.

The words echoed in my head, each repetition making them more absurd.

I’d invited a stranger—a gorgeous, patient, interesting stranger—to book club.

Me. The man who hadn’t voluntarily initiated a social interaction in seven years had stuttered through an invitation to a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a romance novel written specifically to his tastes.

Tall frame. Broad shoulders. Weathered hands.

Gorgeous moss-green eyes that had shown nothing but kindness and patience.

That voice, low and careful, like he was used to talking people through dangerous situations.

God, I even loved his beard, and I didn’t usually like longer beards.

Same with his bald head, shaved smooth and shiny.

But most of all, it was the way he’d been so patient while I fought with my words, not rushing or finishing my sentences or looking away in discomfort. Just…waiting.

I pushed off from the door and headed for the kitchen, needing the ritual of tea to ground me.

My reflection caught in the hallway mirror, and I stopped.

Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. I looked alive in a way that terrified me.

“Absolutely not,” I told my reflection. “You’re f-f-forty-eight years old. You’re not d-doing this.”

The stutter mocked me even in my own home, worse now because of the adrenaline still coursing through my system.

This was exactly why I’d built my careful, quiet life.

No surprises. No handsome strangers with kind eyes and careful hands.

No possibility of embarrassing myself or, worse, of wanting something I couldn’t have.

The kettle took forever to boil, or maybe time had gone strange since the collision.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Fraser had bent to retrieve my book, the controlled way he moved despite obvious pain.

Another damaged soul navigating Forestville’s too-perfect streets.

The cane wasn’t for show. I’d seen enough grief to recognize someone carrying loss in their body.

“ Her line about what we plan to do with our wild and precious life has been rattling around my head. ”

When was the last time poetry had rattled around in my head? When was the last time I’d thought about my life as potentially precious instead of something to endure?

I carried my tea to the living room and sank into my reading chair, but the words on the page might as well have been hieroglyphics. All I could see were moss-green eyes and the way Fraser’s face lit up when we talked about Mary Oliver. Like I’d handed him an unexpected gift.

The smart thing would be to skip book club on Friday.

Eleanor would understand. She always did, even when I disappointed her.

I could hide here in my sanctuary, safe from the possibility of stuttering through a poetry discussion while Fraser watched.

Safe from the way my body had felt when his hands steadied me, like every nerve ending had suddenly remembered it was capable of feeling, of wanting.

But even as I planned my retreat, I could hear Marcus’s voice in my head: You’re doing that thing again, Cal. Building walls before anyone even tries to climb them.

“Shut up,” I muttered to the empty room. “You don’t get a vote anymore.”

Except he did, didn’t he? Seven years gone, and Marcus still haunted every decision, every moment of potential happiness that I immediately shut down because how could I possibly deserve joy when he was gone?

He’d died alone on our bathroom floor while I’d been comparing tomatoes at the farmers’ market, debating between Cherokee Purple and Brandywine, like it mattered.

My phone buzzed. A text from Eleanor.

Missed you at the library today. Everything okay?

Seventy-two years old, and the woman was better at technology and texting than most people half her age.

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Everything was not okay. Everything hadn’t been okay for seven years.

But today, for a moment in a parking lot, I’d forgotten that.

I’d looked into a stranger’s eyes and felt possibility crack open like a seed that had been waiting underground.

Fine. Just busy.

Busy hiding, you mean. Don’t forget about book club on Friday.

Oh, I had every intention of forgetting about book club, but I could hardly tell her that. That would only be an invitation for her to try and persuade me to come after all.

Of course.

I set the phone aside without responding further. Eleanor would see through any excuses I made anyway. The woman had been a high school English teacher for forty years. She could spot bullshit at fifty paces.

The afternoon stretched ahead like an accusation.

I tried to return to my book, but the words swam.

Tried to work on my memoir, but the cursor blinked at me mockingly.

Even my garden, usually a reliable source of calm, felt like too much effort.

Instead, I stood at the window, watching the street like some Victorian spinster waiting for scandal.

Get a grip, Calloway.

But my traitorous mind kept circling back to those careful hands, the way Fraser had moved to catch me without hesitation despite his own obvious pain.

When was the last time someone had touched me with intent?

Not the accidental brush of fingers at a checkout counter or the clinical efficiency of my doctor, but real, deliberate contact?

Seven years, three months, and eleven days.

I turned from the window, disgusted with myself for keeping count.

This was precisely why I’d structured my life the way I had—no room for these kinds of dangerous thoughts.

Tomorrow, I’d go back to my routine. Collins for groceries, carefully timed to avoid the morning rush.

My usual table at the library, tucked in the back corner where no one bothered me.

Online book club in the evening, where I could be eloquent and witty behind the safety of a screen name.

I wouldn’t think about moss-green eyes or scarred hands or handsome bears. Or the way Fraser had said my name, careful and correct, like it mattered that he get it right.

By Thursday, I’d almost convinced myself the encounter had been a fluke.

A moment of temporary insanity brought on by too much caffeine or not enough sleep.

I’d successfully avoided Main Street for two days, taking the long way around to get to Collins, eating crackers and peanut butter rather than risk another run-in at Brianna’s.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

I was bent over the basil plants, harvesting the last good leaves before the frost got them, when I heard it: the distinctive tap-step rhythm of someone walking with a cane. My body knew before my brain caught up, every muscle tensing like a prey animal sensing a predator.

Except that wasn’t right, was it? Fraser wasn’t hunting me.

He was walking down my street, probably heading to the park or the river trail or any of a dozen places that had nothing to do with me.

The fact that he was passing my house meant nothing.

Forestville was small. Everyone passed everyone’s house eventually.

I stayed frozen, secateurs in hand, hoping the overgrown rosemary would hide me from view. But then the footsteps stopped. “That’s quite a garden.”

His voice carried easily over the low fence, warm and appreciative.

I straightened slowly, my back protesting the movement, and found Fraser standing on the sidewalk.

He looked…good. Very good. Worn jeans that fit just right, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that had no business being that distracting.

The late afternoon sun caught the silver in his beard, making it shimmer.

“Th-thank you.” The words came out steadier than expected, maybe because I was in my own territory. “End of s-s-season cleanup.”

“I can smell the basil from here.” He shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the cane. “I used to grow herbs at my place in Montana. Never could keep basil alive though. Too much water, I think.”

It was such a normal conversation. The kind neighbors had over fences all the time. Except my heart was racing and my hands were sweating inside my gardening gloves, and I couldn’t stop noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“It likes to be a l-little dry,” I managed. “Between waterings.”

“Good to know.” He glanced at the house, then back at me. “This is a beautiful place.”

“T-thank you.”

“Did you grow up here?”

I blinked. Why did he keep asking questions as if he didn’t realize how bad my stutter was? Didn’t he care that it would take me ages to answer? “I d-did. M-m-moved to New York C-City for college and l-l-lived there for a long t-time. Came b-b-back after…”

After Marcus. After I’d lost the one person who mattered most to me in the whole world. “After,” I repeated, and left it at that.

Fraser didn’t push, didn’t ask for details. He nodded like “after” was a complete sentence, which I supposed it was. The most complete sentence I could manage when it came to that particular subject.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “Sometimes ‘after’ is all we’ve got.”

The understanding in his voice made me breathe a little easier. What was his “after?” After the accident that gave him the cane? After leaving Montana? After something else entirely?

“Well,” he said, shifting his weight again.

I was learning to read the signs of his pain, the subtle adjustments that meant standing was becoming difficult.

“I should let you get back to your basil. Just wanted to say it’s nice to see a garden this well-loved.

Makes the neighborhood feel more like home. ”

He started to turn away, and something in me—the same reckless part that had issued the book club invitation—surged forward.

“W-w-wait.” The word exploded out of me, too loud for the quiet street. Fraser paused, looking back with those patient moss-green eyes. “Would you…? Would you l-like some? B-basil? I have t-t-too much.”

His face transformed with that smile, the one that made him look years younger despite the silver in his beard. “I’d love some. If you’re sure you can spare it.”

I was already moving, grateful for the excuse to do something with my hands.

I grabbed a clean basket from the garden shed and started cutting generous bunches of basil, adding some oregano and thyme for good measure.

The familiar actions helped calm my racing pulse, though I was acutely aware of Fraser watching from the sidewalk.

“You really know your way around a garden,” he observed. “Everything looks so healthy. Happy.”

Happy. What a strange word to use for plants. But looking at them through his eyes, I could see it—the way the tomatoes reached eagerly for their stakes, how the herbs spilled over their boundaries with enthusiastic growth. My garden was happy in a way I’d forgotten I could be.

I carried the basket to the gate, hesitating only a moment before opening it. This was new territory. I never invited people into my space. But Fraser stayed on the sidewalk side, respecting the boundary even as I crossed it.

“Here.” I held out the basket, proud that my hands barely shook. “The b-basil makes good pesto. F-freeze it in ice cube t-trays.”

“That’s brilliant.” He accepted the basket carefully, our fingers brushing for a second. “Thank you, Calloway. This is really generous.”

I should have retreated then, gone back to my safe garden and closed the gate between us. Instead, I said, “The oregano d-dries well. Hang it upside d-down in bunches.”

“I’ll do that.” He cradled the basket like it was precious, and a tender warmth flooded me. “Maybe you could show me sometime? I’ve got a little space behind my house that could use some attention. Might be nice to grow something besides regrets.”

The invitation hung between us, delicate as spider silk. I could brush it away, pretend I hadn’t heard. Return to my careful isolation, where the only things that depended on me had roots and leaves instead of warm eyes and careful hands.

“M-maybe.” Fraser’s smile was worth every stuttered syllable.

“No pressure. But the offer’s there.”

A car passed, Mrs. Morrison from two doors down. She waved enthusiastically, her eyes bright with curiosity at seeing me actually talking to someone. By tomorrow, half the street would know Calloway Gilstrap had been seen conversing with the new man in town. The thought should’ve sent me running.

Instead, I stayed where I was, memorizing the golden flecks in Fraser’s eyes.

“I should go,” he said finally, though he made no immediate move to leave. “Don’t want the herbs to wilt. But, Calloway? I’m really glad we ran into each other the other day. Literally.”

Heat crept up my neck. “M-me too.”

And the terrifying thing was, I meant it.

I watched him walk away, that careful tap-step rhythm fading into the distance. The basket looked right in his hands, like he was someone who understood the value of things grown with patience and care. When he turned the corner, I finally breathed out.

Oh god, what had I done?