Page 4 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CILLA

B y the third time someone pretends not to hear me, I get the message loud and clear: Redwood Rise doesn’t take kindly to newcomers.

I have a tray of pastries—cinnamon rolls, apple galettes, and hand pies—still steaming from the oven, propped open on the bakery window of Sweet On You , and the scent wafts down Main Street like a peace offering.

A golden retriever trots by, wagging its tail.

Its owner? Doesn’t even glance in my direction.

That’s one more cold shoulder to add to my collection.

I paste on my best smile anyway. If I can smile through finding my ex-fiancé's head buried between my best friend's thighs, I can smile through anything. And if I’ve learned anything in the past few months, it’s that you don’t crumble just because the world wants you to.

You rise—flour-dusted, sugar-slicked, and stubborn as hell.

Still, this town is testing me. The silence, the wary glances, the invisible line I keep tripping over without meaning to, is all starting to wear me down.

I’m used to hustling, to long days and late nights, but at least back then there were smiles, laughter and people who believed in what I was building.

Here in Redwood Rise, it's just me and a stubborn food truck that’s one hiccup away from collapsing.

I’ve been sleeping in a glorified metal box, showering with a glorified garden hose and rationing flour like it’s the 1840s and this is a gold rush town.

And the worst part? I’m not even sure anyone wants what I’m selling.

This was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it’s beginning to feel like slow erosion—hope wearing thin, bite by bite.

But I refuse to give in. Instead, I shake my head and go back to decorating a lovely bunch of eclairs. After all, who doesn't love a good eclair?

The first woman I meet—Marcy from the café—eyes me like I’ve rolled in with a wrecking ball and unwanted competition, instead of a rolling bakery.

She doesn’t say a word about the permits, but I catch her glance at the temporary plate duct-taped to my bumper.

There’s a flicker of something else there too—like she’s sizing me up, not just as competition, but as a question she’s not ready to answer.

I barely finish introducing myself before she gives me a tight-lipped smile and says, “We like things simple here.”

Translation: Don’t make waves, cupcake girl.

Noted.

Now I’m down a cinnamon roll, a little pride, and my last good nerve. I retreat into the truck, muttering, "It’s the Northern California coast. It should be warmer than this."

The morning mist clings to my hoodie, and the cold seeps through the soles of my shoes. I know better than to take it personally. Some places just need time.

But it’s hard not to feel like I’ve parked a candy-colored bullseye in the center of a place that speaks in looks and judgments instead of words.

Every cheerful stripe on the truck might as well be a flare signaling how badly I don’t belong.

But there’s something else too. A hush beneath the noise.

The air here hums—not loud, but constant, like a wire strung too tight.

I feel it in my skin sometimes, especially when I pass the redwood grove at the edge of town. Like the land is holding its breath.

Each day feels longer than the last, my bright paint job growing dim beneath the weight of indifference and second glances that never turn into hellos. Then there’s him. Calder Hayes.

I only learned his name after three days of referring to him in my head as "Lumberjack Thor.

" It took a run-in at the local hardware store when I was trying to MacGyver a fix for the espresso machine and the clerk asked where I was parked.

I said, “Next to the very large and very broody workshop guy.”

The clerk laughed and said, “Ah, Calder Hayes,” like it explained everything.

Maybe it did—the name sticks to him in my brain like warm caramel on an apple.

Considering the size, bulk and tattoos, it's a wonder I think of something gooey when I think of him, which shouldn’t be nearly as often as it is.

And I think of him at the oddest and most random times—when I’m kneading dough and the silky stretch of it makes me wonder what those big hands would feel like on my skin.

When I’m under the outdoor shower and the thought of his gaze slipping over me has me fumbling to twist the faucet to cold.

When I curl up in bed above the cab and catch myself staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s alone too.

When the wind rattles the awning and I remember the weight of his gaze, steady and solid like he could anchor me if I let him.

He’s not just under my skin—he’s in my damn head, showing up in quiet moments like a whisper I can’t quite shake.

Broody. Silent. He looked like he was carved straight from the redwoods—tall, broad, rough-edged, and so solid I swear he could stop a truck with just his stare.

There’s a quiet power in the way he carries himself, like he’s part of the surrounding landscape, something elemental and untamed.

And when he looks at me—really looks when he doesn't think I'll notice—it’s not just heat that flushes through me. It’s awareness.

A hum that starts deep and won’t let go.

I was smoothing glaze over a tray of apple galettes when I looked up and caught him watching me again—just for a second, from across the gravel.

Our eyes locked, and for the briefest moment, everything else faded.

Something in that gaze pinned me in place.

It wasn’t just the size or the way he filled the space like an immovable object.

It was the heat beneath the ice, the weight of a question neither of us asked, and the unspoken tension that buzzed like a live current between us.

I shouldn’t find it sexy.vI shouldn’t find him sexy.

But here I am, arguing with myself while I whip frosting, and wondering what it would be like to smear it all over his naked body and then lick it off.

Maybe it’s because he’s the opposite of Troy in every way—gruff instead of slick, silent instead of sweet-talking. Real instead of curated-for-Instagram.

Troy and Lola looked like they’d stepped out of a catalog ad for my food truck—sun-kissed skin, perfect white smiles, and coordinated aprons that made them seem like a dream team.

I used to joke that Lola should’ve been the face of the brand instead of me.

Half a joke, half the truth. And now, when I think about it, I can almost hear my grandmother’s voice: no one trusts a skinny chef—least of all a skinny pastry chef.

Calder, though? He wouldn’t pose for a picture—hell, he wouldn’t even stand still long enough for the camera to find him.

There’s something wild threaded through him, something raw and restless.

Like if you blinked, you’d miss him slipping back into the trees, vanishing into the mist before you could call his name.

And yet—he came back.

He took the cinnamon roll I offered yesterday, and he didn’t tell me to leave. I'm going to take that as a win. A small win, but a win nonetheless. That counts for something in my book.

Today, I’ll try again. Because that’s what I do—keep showing up, keep baking, keep holding the line.

I’ll keep pretending I’m not developing a full-blown crush on a man who’s said less than twenty words to me.

But there’s something about Calder Hayes I can’t shake.

Something in the way his eyes linger, in the quiet gravel of his voice, in the tension that rolls off him like thunder tucked beneath skin.

It’s reckless and irrational and has absolutely nothing to do with logic—and yet, here I am, heart fluttering like a teenager’s every time he’s near.

Maybe it’s because Calder is the opposite of Troy in every way—gruff instead of slick, silent instead of sweet-talking, raw instead of curated. Troy was safe, predictable—a perfectly plated dessert with no heat beneath.

Calder? He stirs things in me I didn’t even know anyone could stir. Emotions, cravings, girly parts—every last one of them sits up and pays attention when he’s near, like they’ve been waiting for someone just like him to walk by and wreck my peace.

I finish packing up a few warm pastries onto a paper tray and scribble

Thanks—for not calling the sheriff—Cilla.

I hesitate before signing it. Would it seem too eager? Like I want him to know my name—really know it, not just hear it in passing? Too forward? Too hopeful?

I mean, the man’s barely said twenty words to me in total, and yet here I am, obsessing over a handwritten thank-you like it's a love note.

But something about him makes me want to be seen. Not just as the girl with the pink food truck, but as me—messy, earnest, and maybe a little too invested in a man who broods better than he speaks.

Then I grab the small step stool—the one I always keep tucked beside the door since the truck’s step is just high enough to make climbing in and out awkward.

Normally, I’d set it down and step off properly, especially with my hands full.

But today, distracted and overconfident, I figure I’ll just skip using the step stool.

I tell myself I’ve done this hop a thousand times before.

What could go wrong? So, instead of using the stool like a sane person, I leap off like I’ve got catlike reflexes and Olympic form to back me up.

Bad move. The second my feet hit the uneven gravel, my ankle twists with dramatic flair, as if auditioning for a pratfall reel.

A sharp jolt shoots up my leg, and I flail—the tray wobbling dangerously in my arms, grace utterly forgotten—before stumbling into a barely saved landing that would make a baby deer look like a ballerina.

I mutter something unladylike, straighten up, and that’s when I see it—the tire on the rear driver’s side. Flatter than bread dough after a yeast massacre. Because of course it is.

"Damn it," I mutter, staring at it.

I crouch to get a better look, awkwardly setting the pastry tray on the nearest flat surface—only it's not actually flat. The tray tilts, and I fumble to catch a rogue pastry before it tumbles to its doom. With the pastries finally secured and my dignity barely intact, I brush my hand over the tire and sigh. There’s a nail embedded right near the edge. It must’ve happened when I pulled in.

Perfect. Now I’m stuck.

I've got no spare. Well, I do; it's the one that's now flat.

Troy needed a haircut and to get his teeth whitened when we jerked off the old tire and put this one on just north of Mendocino.

I've got no local connections, aside from a growly woodworker and a café owner who looks like she wants to approach me with an outstretched cross and mutter, 'Be gone, Satan' in her best Church Lady voice. And judging by the way the town’s been looking at me, there’s no miracle, pastry-craving cavalry coming.

I close my eyes and remind myself that I am the eternal optimist.

Okay, universe. I get it. One thing at a time.

The gravel crunches behind me. I start to spin around, half-expecting another disapproving local or maybe Marcy with a clipboard, and tip back, landing on my ass with a splat and sending small pieces of gravel everywhere, including one into the truck, which chips the paint. Just swell.

I turn to focus my glare on the cause of this chaos, ready to unleash every ounce of my frustration—but the fire fizzles the second I lay eyes on him.

Calder. Of course it's him. The man is a walking contradiction—my favorite fantasy and biggest irritation rolled into one flannel-wrapped package. And right now, standing there with the mist curling around his boots and a shadowed intensity in his gaze, he’s far too gorgeous to stay mad at. Damn it.

His rolled flannel sleeves expose muscular forearms that look sculpted, the kind of arms you’d find on a romance novel cover—except real and right in front of me.

His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, like he’s just stepped out of a shower or maybe returned from a run through the misty woods.

Then his eyes meet mine—steady, unreadable, with that barely tamed wildness flickering in their depths—and hold.

My breath catches, caught somewhere between instinct and infatuation.

“Hey,” I say, voice brighter than I feel. “If you’re here to tell me there’s a ‘No Pink Trucks’ ordinance, I kind of figured that out.”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he crouches next to the tire, inspects it, then rises and disappears around the side of his shop.

I blink. “Right. Okay. Good talk.”

A few minutes later, he’s back—with a jack, a wrench, and a patch kit. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Just gets to work.

I get up off my ass and then stand there awkwardly, tray in hand, heart thudding. “You don’t have to...”

He glances up, and something about the look in his eyes silences me.

Not cruel. Not annoyed. Just... resolute. Like he’s already decided this is happening and doesn't need my input. All righty then.

I sit on the edge of the step and watch as he inspects the tire in silence. There’s a rhythm to the way he moves—efficient, focused, grounded. Like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he’d rather be doing this, or anything else, other than talking.

When he’s done, he wipes his hands on a rag and stands. “Yep, you’ve got yourself a nice little flat tire. Spare?”

“You’re looking at it,” I answer as I offer him the tray of goodies. “Bribe? Reward?”

He hesitates, then takes it.

“Thanks,” I say. “Truly.”

He nods, a flicker of something—approval, maybe?

Amusement?—tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not quite, but something warmer than I expected.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks away, boots crunching softly over gravel like punctuation at the end of a sentence I don’t quite understand.

No goodbye. No smirk—because really, do romantic heroes even smirk?

I don’t think so. Just that slow, deliberate stride, the kind that says he’s not just walking away—he’s melting back into the land itself.

Like the mountain made him, and now it’s pulling him home, step by step. Solid. Unshakeable. Untouchable.

I watch him go, warmth blooming in my chest despite everything. Something stirs in the stillness between us—like the air changes after he’s gone. I tell myself it’s just hormones. Wishful thinking. But deep down, I wonder if it’s something else entirely.

Maybe the town’s not ready for me. Maybe Calder Hayes isn’t either. Am I even ready for them? I don't know, but something tells me we’re about to find out.

Maybe next time, he won’t walk away so fast.