Page 24 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CILLA

T he scent of sugar and cinnamon wafts through the crisp mountain air as I crank open the service window on the food truck for the first time since everything changed.

Sweet On You is officially back in business, parked in its permanent spot just outside Calder’s workshop.

This is the first time someone has hooked up water and electricity for me —a small thing, maybe, but it feels like belonging carved in copper and wire.

The cedar-slab counter is now propped up, and fresh chalkboard signs dangle from hand-tied twine.

Each clink of a spoon, each creak of the truck’s frame feels louder than it should, echoing like heartbeats in the still morning.

The brisk morning air carries a sharp bite, laced with the mingled scent of cinnamon, browned sugar, and the rich, yeasty pull of freshly baked bread.

The warmth from the ovens spills out into the chill, wrapping me in comfort and memory—something familiar that steadies the static snap of unease coiling along my spine.

It reminds me of home, of belonging, and of why I’m still here.

Not courage, exactly, but something solid enough to keep me from running.

Calder’s gaze—steady, searing—cuts straight through me, raw and unyielding, stirring something deep and unspoken in my chest. It settles on me like a weight and a shelter all at once, a magnetic pull that sinks into my core, sparking something molten that curls low and deep in every look he gives me.

I can almost taste the air between us—sweet, charged, thick with want, like a spark hovering just before the strike.

The sky is that pale Northern California blue that always makes me feel like the trees are taller here, closer to something that lies beyond our mere mortal selves. The ley lines hum faintly beneath my clogs—no longer intrusive, but present, like they’re watching over us.

My hands move over the counter in practiced motions, a damp cloth sweeping flour into neat piles, but there’s a faint tremble in my fingers I can’t quite suppress.

It’s not fear—more like anticipation buzzing through me, a heightened awareness that everything feels new again.

The reopening, the way people are looking at me differently now, the quiet claim Calder makes just by being near.

It’s the sense that this morning is more than routine—it’s a turning point.

I try to keep my breath steady, not wanting to show how much I want this to last.

Calder is only a few yards away, sanding something enormous and timbered under the awning of his shop, shirt off, sawdust clinging to his chest like it’s trying to stake a claim.

He hasn’t looked away from me since I stepped out of the truck.

Not once. Which would be sweet—if he weren’t working with a belt sander powerful enough to take off a hand.

I should be used to this by now—the way he looks at me like I’m everything—but part of me still flinches, waiting for the moment the world reminds me it never lasts.

I shoot him a look, mouthing, 'Watch your fingers,' but he just grins like I’m the distraction he’s willing to risk everything for.

His presence is grounding, even when he’s scowling—and right now, he’s doing it less, which is saying something. Maybe it’s because he’s still carrying the weight of that claiming ritual. Or maybe it’s just because he knows we're both where we belong.

The line at the food truck grows slowly, people arriving in twos and threes.

Some faces are familiar from around town—like Marcy, who pretends she’s here for a latte but keeps sneaking amused glances Calder’s way—more curious than coy, like she’s enjoying some private joke at his expense.

June appears next, clipboard in hand, but it’s just an excuse to stand and talk while she sips chai tea and eyes the forest. There’s even old Mr. Greaves from the hardware store, grumbling about the price of scones before asking if I have any left.

They don’t ask questions about the tendrils of mist that came from the ley lines or anything else that happened last week.

But I can see it in the way their eyes linger, in the sidelong glances they think I don’t catch.

They’re curious, maybe even suspicious, but no one wants to be the one to ask the question out loud, and maybe I’m grateful for that.

Because I don’t know what I’d say if they did.

Not because they don’t know—but because they do.

Everyone in this town grew up with the ley lines in their bones, with shifting as a reality woven into their lives.

But I’m still a new variable—the human-turned-shifter, the outsider drawn into something ancient and wild.

Maybe they’re watching to see if I’ll stay steady.

If I’ll break. Or maybe they’re wondering if I already have.

Their silence isn’t ignorance—it’s consideration.

I’m quietly grateful for their restraint, the way they offer space without prying.

Beau is the first of Calder’s brothers to come by, with Fen—Redwood Rise’s sharp-eyed wolf-shifter seer—right on his heels.

There’s something sharper in Fen’s gaze than usual—like she’s searching for a sign, an answer, maybe even a warning only she can see.

They all pretend it’s for coffee, but I’ve got half a tray of cherry crumble bars cooling in the window, and I see the way Fen’s eyes lock on them like a predator.

Beau says almost nothing as he takes two and slips them in a napkin before walking off with a quiet nod.

“Subtle,” I call after him.

Beau just shrugs. “We’re bears. We're not wired for subtle. We’re wired for sugar.”

Then Sawyer strolls up, bold as anything, and taps on the edge of the counter with a grin. “So this is the famous food truck, huh? Thought it would be bigger.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Thought you’d be taller.”

That gets a laugh out of Calder, low and grudging, and it’s like the entire atmosphere lightens—eases. Sawyer eyes the crumble bars, then snatches a cupcake when I pretend to look away.

“Calder’s been a bear, but at least now he’s a bear who smiles.”

“Grunts,” Fen corrects from the side.

“Smiles,” Sawyer insists, through a mouthful of chocolate buttercream. “Don’t get mad. I’m pretty sure this frosting has healing properties. You want him grumpy again?”

Calder glares. “Keep stealing cupcakes and you’ll find out exactly how much smiling I do.”

Sawyer grins. “Oh look, he growled. That’s practically a love song for Calder.”

They all scatter eventually, back to their corners of town, or the forest or wherever they spend their days. And I’m left in the golden haze of afternoon with a quiet truck, a warm oven, and a man who hasn’t stopped watching me like I’m something sacred.

When I finally flip the sign to CLOSED and sweep out the last of the flour, I hear the workshop door creak open behind me. Heavy boots on wood. The unmistakable energy of Calder when he’s done being patient.

“You wore yourself out feeding my brothers,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

“They fed themselves... kind of like wild animals.” I lean into him, the scent of cedar and steel on his skin curling into me.

He palms my hips, thumbs circling. “You gonna feed me now?”

“I don’t think you came out here for cupcakes.”

“I didn’t.”

He turns me gently, presses me back against the warm metal of the truck, and for a second, everything inside me stills. The cold of the metal seeps through my clothes, contrasting the heat of his body pressing close, and it sends a ripple up my spine.

My thoughts scatter under the weight of his closeness—memories of the first time his hands were on me, the way his kiss rewired everything I thought I knew about want.

This isn't just chemistry anymore. It's gravity pulling me into him, into something that feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.

I’m not scared. I don’t hesitate. I just let go, because when he touches me like this, I believe in everything—the claiming, the bond, the forever we don't speak about. He kisses me slow and deep like we’ve got nothing but time.

His hands are rough with the day’s work, and mine still smell like vanilla extract and lemon zest. It’s messy and sweet and anchors me in the most unexpected way.

His hands slide down to my thighs, lifting me onto the counter like it’s instinct. My knees fall open around him, the apron I forgot to take off bunching at my waist. The heat of him seeps into me, his breath ragged against my throat.

“You taste like sugar,” he says into my skin.

“And you taste like sawdust.”

His teeth scrape my collarbone. “Say that again when your legs are shaking.”

My laugh catches on a gasp as he kisses his way up my neck, his breath brushing my skin like a secret.

Each press of his lips sends a tremor down my spine, winding me tighter, unraveling the last threads of composure I didn’t realize I was holding.

My fingers find the edge of his jaw, rough with stubble, and I trace it slowly, feeling the tension that hums beneath his skin.

I think about how easily this could turn into more—how much I want it to.

But the sunlight still slants golden across the grass, catching on soap bubbles clinging to the last of the dishware by the sink, a quiet reminder of the world still spinning outside this moment.

So we stay right here—balanced on the edge of need and restraint—his voice a low growl against my throat, whispering possession and promise in the same breath.

For a few long minutes, it's just the press of him between my thighs, the rasp of his breath in my ear, and the warm certainty blooming in my chest that this man is mine as much as I am his.

He kisses me until I forget flour exists, until the scent of vanilla and heat of the ovens dissolve into nothing but the press of his chest against mine.

His mouth claims me slowly, thoroughly, coaxing every last ounce of resistance from my bones until all that’s left is the slick, hungry slide of his lips and the rasp of his stubble scraping against my skin.

My hands find their way into his hair, tugging gently as if to anchor myself to the moment, to him.

Then he growls it against my mouth, low and rough and entirely certain, “Mine.”

And I believe it. Not because he says it—but because the truth of it moves through me like a current, vibrating through every cell.

It settles in my chest, winds through my belly, and pools low, where the heat of his body meets mine.

It's not logic—it’s something older. Instinctual.

A knowing that sinks in deep and refuses to let go.

Later, after we’ve closed up shop and the sun has dipped low behind the trees, I wipe down the last of the serving trays with slow, lingering strokes, savoring the quiet. Calder moves around outside the workshop, locking up, his silhouette broad and steady in the fading light.

I watch him for a beat longer than I probably should, the way he moves like he’s part of the mountain itself.

My chest swells with something that feels a lot like contentment—something earned.

Once the last dish is put away and the food truck’s door latched tight, Calder crooks a finger in my direction.

We climb into his truck and drive the winding road out of town toward the family compound, the air thick with the smell of the ocean and the distant echo of crickets.

As we pull up beside the stone cottage nestled beneath towering redwoods, dusk already washes the sky.

I follow him up the familiar porch steps, coffee mug in hand, and settle beside him on the wooden swing that creaks gently beneath our weight.

His hand finds mine, rough fingers curling over my knuckles, warm and certain.

The fog rolls in early tonight, thick and low, curling along the tree line like it’s alive. Not threatening—but not gently either. I’ve seen it enough to know the difference. It isn’t just fog. It’s a presence. It has a shape and an awareness, like it’s pacing just out of reach.

I watch it for a long time, Calder silent beside me. A wind curls through the trees—cooler than it should be—and carries with it a scent that doesn’t quite belong. Something green. Sharp. Almost metallic. My stomach tightens without reason.

“Something’s different,” I murmur.

Calder doesn’t answer at first. His fingers tighten just slightly around mine.

“The lines are restless tonight,” he says finally. “It’s in the air.”

I nod, barely breathing. “It feels like the forest is watching us.”

The fire crackles quietly beside us, but beneath my feet, the ley lines hum again, soft and steady—a pulse beneath the earth. Familiar, but more urgent than before.

A promise. Or maybe a warning. The kind that lingers in the bones long after the mist fades. I remember the swirl of color from the first time I saw Calder change, the way it wrapped around him like a veil of thunder and light—and how the forest had held its breath in that moment.

Now, that same mist edges closer again, as if drawn to the bond we’ve forged, to the blood we’ve shared. It curls at the edges of the clearing like it remembers the shape of us—like it’s not just watching, but weighing. Choosing. It isn’t just watching—it’s remembering.

Either way, Redwood Rise is not finished with us—not with me, not with Calder, not with any of us who choose to live here. The story doesn’t end with us—it’s only just beginning.

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