Page 2 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CILLA

T he brakes squeal as I guide Sweet on You into a gravel pull-off at the edge of Main Street, right where the forest starts to thicken again.

A weathered wooden sign says Workshop Row in faded white letters, dangling from rusted hooks.

Behind it looms a long stretch of outbuildings—barns turned into garages, storage sheds, and one that looks like it might’ve once been a sawmill.

The entire lane smells like cedar, iron filings, and quiet resentment.

Perfect.

I ease the truck into the spot closest to the tree line and cut the engine. She shudders but settles. For now.

“Still got it, baby,” I whisper, patting the dash like we didn’t just nearly die on the last incline.

Outside the town is mist-kissed and hushed, like it’s still waking up—or watching me too closely to speak. There’s a strange energy to it—something deeper than the fog or the old buildings. Like the place is waiting for me to prove myself.

A strange pressure hums behind my ribs. Not pain, exactly—more like something tuning itself to my frequency. Quiet but undeniable. Like I’m standing in the exact spot I was meant to find without knowing why.

I grab my chalkboard menu from behind the counter and step into the chill. It's colder than it has any right to be. I know it's the Northern California Coastal Range, not Malibu, but still—it's California. I should not be able to see my breath at this hour of the day.

The fog—fog? seriously? It's not San Francisco, for God's sake—curls around my ankles as I set the sandwich board sign out beside the truck : Cinnamon Rolls, Cupcakes, Cookies.

Coffee—Strong Enough to Raise the Dead .

It's done in a scrolly script of pink, blue and white—gotta match the color scheme of Sweet On You , a vintage pink truck with a pull-out blue and white stripe awning.

If that doesn’t get someone’s attention, they're either blind or I’m not trying hard enough.

I climb back inside, tie my apron, crank open the side and flick on the string of lights inside the truck. It’s not flashy, but it’s warm. Cozy and mine.

The first twenty minutes pass in silence.

Then thirty.

Still no one.

I lean against the counter, arms crossed, tapping my fingers against my elbow. I can hear the tick of the cooling engine, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of trees shifting in the mist. Everything else? Dead quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones, makes you question your decisions, your timing—hell, your entire life trajectory. I glance out again. Not a soul.

Redwood Rise had seemed like a fairytale when I first saw it on that faded postcard—an old linen print with hand-painted trees, a winding road vanishing into golden mist, and the words Welcome to Redwood Rise curling beneath in cheerful script.

It had been tucked inside a vintage cookbook from the 1950s.

Misty trees, winding lanes, the promise of fresh starts and sweet peace.

But standing here now, with fog clinging to everything, cold nipping at my fingers, and not even a curious neighbor to peer through a curtain… it feels more like a test I didn’t study for.

I try not to dwell on the way it ended. The betrayal. The paperwork. The fallout. It’s all behind me now—literally. This food truck isn’t just my livelihood. It’s my last lifeline.

I squint at the map app on my phone, not because I’m lost—though I might as well be—but to reassure myself this place is real.

That I haven’t made a colossal mistake. I don't have much of a choice as I'm not sure the food truck could make it to the end of Main Street, much less up the next mountain.

The screen buffer spins. No signal.

Of course.

I peer through the serving window and see movement in one of the workshops.

A tall man, shirt stretched across broad shoulders, arms covered in sawdust and tattoos, strides from a stack of lumber toward a battered pickup.

He’s got that whole rugged, lumberjack-turned-murder-suspect vibe that’s either going to make me very curious or very murdered.

He doesn’t look my way. My wave feels ridiculous, hanging in the air like a question he never intended to answer. Something about that stings more than I expected, but I roll my shoulders back and try again, determined not to be invisible—not here, not now.

I wave anyway.

Nothing.

Okay, maybe he didn’t see me.

I wave again.

Still nothing.

“Well, alright then,” I mutter, dragging my chair into the doorway. If no one’s going to come to the sugar, the sugar’s going to settle in and make itself visible.

Ten minutes later, the man reappears.

He’s carrying a power drill and a scowl. The kind of scowl that isn’t accidental—it’s his face’s default setting. You've heard of resting bitch face? Well, this is resting ax murderer face.

This time he looks at me. And it’s... something.

Something slow. Measured. Not interested, exactly. More like he’s cataloging me as a threat. Or an inconvenience. Or maybe something else entirely that he doesn’t want to feel.

“Hey there!” I chirp, voice going full bakery-girl-on-day-one. “Do you know if it’s okay to park here for a little while? I’m just trying to get settled.”

He stops about ten feet away. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink much either. He should be scary—everything about him screams keep out—but my traitorous body has other ideas.

He’s the exact opposite of Troy in every way.

I flash on an image of Troy—white teeth, golden-boy grin, always dressed like we were two Instagram filters away from a food truck commercial.

And Lola with her perfect blonde ponytail and ‘born for lifestyle blogging’ face.

Together, they looked like something off a wedding magazine spread.

This man, though? This man is rough and silent where Troy was polished and charming. Broad, broody, and tattooed instead of clean-cut and camera-ready. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe after everything, I’m done with perfect. Maybe what I need is this brand of chaos—grit, scowl, sawdust and all.

“Do you own this land?” I ask, trying to keep my tone bright and cheery.

He nods. Not much of a conversationalist, which is a nice change from Troy, who rarely shut up. I shake my head. No, no more thoughts of that traitorous bastard.

“I’m Cilla. Cinnamon rolls are always on the house for kindly landlords.”

He doesn’t move.

I tilt my head. “Do you speak English, or is growly lumberjack some kind of obscure Redwood Rise dialect?”

A flicker of something passes over his expression. Not quite a smile, but not one either.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks away.

“Seriously?” I call after him. “Nothing? Not even a no?”

Silence.

And then, when I’ve already turned to go back inside, his voice drifts across the gravel.

“Don’t block the lane.”

Low. Rough. And absolutely, one hundred percent, a warning.

I lean out the window. “Technically, I’m not. But I’ll scoot back a few feet. Just for you, Growly.”

He disappears into one of the buildings—a low, weathered structure with massive double doors, the kind that looks like it once held tractors or timber or secrets.

Through the open bay, I catch glimpses of smooth wood panels leaning against the walls, the graceful curve of a half-finished headboard, and the glitter of metal clamps catching the light.

Not just functional. Beautiful. Crafted. And suddenly, it clicks. He’s not just a grumpy recluse with a drill. He’s an artist. A brooding, silently judging, annoyingly hot furniture-making artist.

Well, alrighty then.

I spend the next hour prepping two dozen rolls and frosting them like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. I need customers. Smiles. Momentum. A reason not to tuck tail and head back to Sacramento with nothing but debt and day-old batter.

By noon, two women pass by and give me a polite smile. They slow as they approach, and I perk up, offering my warmest grin.

"Morning, ladies! First one's on the house—I'm the new sugar slinger in town," I say.

They exchange a look but step up anyway. One orders a cookie; the other asks about the cinnamon rolls.

"They're legendary," I assure them. "Best on this side of the Sierras. Probably the other side, too, but I try to stay humble."

That earns a half-laugh.

"You’re not from around here, are you?" the cookie one asks, curious but not unfriendly.

"Not even a little," I say. "But I’m hoping to stick around long enough to earn my stripes. And maybe convert the town one cupcake at a time."

The cinnamon roll woman gives a small smile, but her eyes flick toward the workshop. "Just be careful where you park. Not everyone likes surprises."

“Is it just him?” I ask, nodding subtly toward the building.

She hesitates. “He’s the loudest about it. But folks around here… they don’t love change. Or newcomers.”

Another exchanged glance. Then a murmur of thanks, and they disappear into the mist. It’s not a line, but it’s something. And it keeps me busy enough that I don’t hear him coming.

I’m mid-pour with a fresh batch of glaze when I hear it—low, rough, and so close it sends a jolt straight through my spine. His voice doesn’t just arrive; it snakes through the open service window, all grit and gravel, like smoke that knows how to crawl beneath a door.

"You shouldn’t be here."

I whirl around. He’s at the window, jaw tight, arms folded. Close enough that I can see the faint scar beneath his left eye and the flecks of sawdust clinging to the hair at his temple. His eyes— gray and stormy—pin me in place like a challenge I didn’t know I was issuing.

“Excuse me?” I say, keeping my tone light.

“You’re not from here. You’re not one of us.”

My chin lifts before I even realize it. There’s a jolt in my chest—like instinct rearing its head, daring me to hold the line. Not fear. Something sharper. Interest, maybe. Defiance, definitely.

“Didn’t realize I needed to be part of a special club to sell baked goods. If I have to be, who do I speak to about joining? Somehow I don't think you're the chairman of either the Welcome or Membership Committees.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares. Measuring again. I’m not sure why I find so much pleasure in teasing him, but I do.

That bear-in-the-woods energy clings to him—feral and unmoving, like he’s carved from the same redwood trunks for which this town was named.

But there’s something new behind it now.

Heat, slow and simmering, curled tight in his gaze.

Something that hums just beneath the surface, unspoken and unyielding.

The kind of heat that makes your breath catch. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission—it just claims space and dares you to move closer.

I was never one not to take a dare or pick up a gauntlet.

“Cinnamon roll?” I offer.

His nostrils flare. He takes a slow breath through his nose, like he’s scenting the air. Like I’m something he’s deciding whether to ignore or devour.

His gaze flicks to my mouth. Then lower as a slow smile begins to tug at his lips before he squashes it and gives me another sexy glower.

Well, that’s new.

“Look,” I say, softening both my tone and my demeanor. “I’m not trying to stir anything up. I think my truck is about to give up the ghost, and I'm going to need to make some money to get it fixed and get out of your hair. I just needed to be somewhere quiet."

Somewhere no one knows me. He doesn't need to know that I can't make the payments on the loan Troy took out, and the people who made it aren't exactly subtle about collecting it, but neither he nor anyone else needs to know that.

"I’ll be gone by the end of the week," I offer, "if that’s what it takes.”

He eyes me for a beat longer than necessary. The space between us pulls taut, like the stretch of dough right before it tears. The air feels weighted, expectant—thick with the kind of tension that lingers on the skin like steam after a hot shower.

There’s heat now, blooming low in my belly and spiraling up my spine, tightening something behind my ribs.

My fingers twitch against the counter, unsure if they want to push him away or pull him closer.

The tension between us isn’t hostile—not quite.

But it isn’t friendly either. It’s something heavier.

Something unspoken. Hungry. Strung tight like a taut wire or a garrote, humming with intent, like it’s waiting to strike.

Then, quietly, like it’s a truth he doesn’t want to admit, he says, “This town doesn’t stay quiet… not for long, anyway.”

There’s weight behind those words. Not just warning. Something closer to prophecy. I catch a flicker of something darker in his expression—regret, maybe. Or memory.

A gust of wind skates down the lane, rattling the awning. For a second, the air feels charged, like a storm building where no clouds exist. His gaze doesn’t flinch. He knows something I don’t.

And then he’s gone, but not before taking a cinnamon roll off the tray on the counter's ledge. Fingers brushing the edge of the napkin, a slow curl of heat lingering in the space he leaves behind.

No thanks. No smile. Just a giant, tattooed enigma wrapped in warning signs…

a thundercloud in boots, holding back the storm.

His boots crunch over the gravel with a steady rhythm, fading into the fog.

But the sound of him, the sense of him, lingers.

A presence that doesn’t just walk away—it imprints.

Controlled power under rough denim and thick muscle, a slow-moving fault line in boots.

Every instinct I have says stay away. So naturally, my heart leans closer.

I exhale. He looked at me. He definitely looked at me. And not like I was just another new face in town. More like I was a puzzle he didn’t ask for—but might want to solve, anyway.

I don’t know his name. But something about the way he looked at me made it very clear: he already knows mine.

There’s a distinct, unmistakable feeling that this man doesn’t share.

I’m not sure whether that excites me… or terrifies me.

He’s not the only one, either. I swear I’ve felt eyes on me more than once since I pulled in.

Not hostile. But not quite welcoming, either.