Page 6 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

Bent over that tiny counter, humming to herself, hips swaying just a little as she pipes frosting onto something I can’t even name. There’s flour on her cheek and sunlight catching in her hair, and suddenly I’m not fine at all. I’m rooted. Ravenous. And absolutely screwed.

She’s bent over her tiny truck counter, frosting something with delicate, practiced swirls, her brow furrowed in concentration.

A smudge of something white streaks her cheek.

She’s humming under her breath. The back of her hoodie rides up just enough to show the curve of her hip, and my mouth goes dry.

I should turn around. Leave her to her sugar and sass and the sunlight warming her cheeks.

But I don’t. My boots stay rooted to the gravel as if the earth itself is holding me there.

Every cell in my body is strung tight, focusing on her.

The rise of her shoulder. The smudge of flour on her jaw.

The gentle sway of her hips that sends heat pooling low in my gut.

I don’t turn around. I watch her.

Because some part of me—some dangerous, hungry part—has already decided she’s mine, and is only waiting for the tiniest part of me to weaken.

She glances up and catches me watching. Her eyes widen for a breath—just a flash—but she doesn’t flinch. She smiles. A real one this time. Slow, sweet, and a little dangerous.

“Back for seconds?” she asks.

My voice is gravel. “You always this nosy?”

She shrugs and chuckles. “Only when I’m right.”

I should shut it down. Snarl something sharp, cold enough to remind her who I am and why she shouldn’t flirt with grizzly bears she doesn’t even know exist, much less understand.

I need to push her back behind the line I’ve drawn—hell, behind every wall I’ve built just to stay sane.

But my mouth won’t move. My bear is too close to the surface, too curious, too damned pleased she’s smiling at us.

And some reckless part of me wants to see what she’ll do if I take one step closer instead of backing away.

Instead, I walk up to the counter—drawn in, pulled like a magnet I never agreed to carry. And that’s when I see it. One of my wooden-handled spatulas, the kind I carve myself from maple scraps, is resting beside her mixing bowl. She’s using my tools. The ones I left out yesterday.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

Something about her hands wrapped around something I made—something that still carries the shape of my palm—sends a bolt of heat straight to my groin. Like she’s already made herself at home in my world without asking. And I don’t hate it.

I hate that I don’t hate it.

“You left your tools out,” she says, sliding another tray of pastries to the side.

“I know.”

“You know I always say that the writer Tolkien believed, why use one word when a thousand would do just as well. You're his polar opposite. A man for whom one word is often one word too many.”

“No.”

She laughs, and it does something dangerous to my chest. "Point proved."

I glance at the galette she’s boxing up, watching the way her fingers fold the parchment just so, like it matters how the pastry travels.

There’s something reverent in the way she handles it—like she’s sending off a gift instead of a baked good.

My gaze tracks the movement almost against my will, caught on the curve of her wrist, the dusting of flour at her knuckles, the quiet care in every motion.

It’s not just baking to her. It’s an offering.

And I’m the fool standing here, already half-tempted to take more.

“The apples,” I say. “Good balance.”

Her hands pause. Her cheeks flush. “You ate it? And enjoyed it?”

I nod.

She clears her throat. “Well, I’ll be damned. I consider that high praise, Mr. Hayes.”

“I didn’t say it was for you.”

“You didn’t have to.” She says it softer this time, like she’s surprised I didn’t bolt—and even more surprised that part of her wanted me to stay.

I narrow my eyes. "You know my name."

She arches an eyebrow, still leaning on her elbow like she’s got all day. “Sure do.”

“I didn’t give it to you.”

“Nope. You didn’t.”

I cross my arms, letting the silence hang. “So who did?”

She grins, clearly enjoying herself. “If you get to keep secrets, then so do I. Seems only fair.”

I should press. Demand. But there’s something too damned pleased in the way she says it—like she already knows she’s winning—and hell if that doesn’t make me want her more.

She leans forward, chin in her hand, eyes sparkling. “You going to tell me why you’re really out here lurking like a bear at the edge of the campground?”

“Work,” I growl.

The grin becomes a smile and points at the closed door to my workshop. “In there?”

“Eventually.”

“Uh huh,” she muses

The silence stretches between us.

Then she says in a much quieter voice, “Something’s happening here, isn’t it?”

My spine stiffens. “What do you mean?”

She taps the counter with her fingertip, thoughtful but trying to keep it casual.

“I don’t know. The air seems strange to me.

Like the whole place is waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, quiet but charged or something.

And my truck lights? They flickered on and off this morning like I had summoned a ghost or a spirit.

I'm also pretty damn sure the mist is trying to eat my tires.”

I say nothing.

Her voice softens. “Seriously, Calder, I don’t scare easily. But I know when something’s off. When the ground seems to... almost hum and the trees feel like they’re leaning in too close. Something’s happening; don’t pretend you haven’t felt it too.”

I meet her gaze, and the truth is right there in her eyes—bright, defiant, unflinching.

“It’s like... I don’t know. The earth’s too loud. Like I can feel something moving under my feet even when I’m standing still. I sound crazy, right?”

I want to kiss her. Hard. Press her back against that counter and taste the sugar on her lips, the heat that’s been simmering between us since the moment she parked the damn truck.

I want to bury my hands in her hair, drag her closer, feel her body melt against mine until neither of us remembers why we were pretending to keep our distance.

Just to make the buzz racing through my veins stop. Just to feel something real. Raw. Hers.

But I can’t. I won't. Instead, I back away.

“I can have my brother Beau..."

"Brother Beau? Is he the local preacher?" she teases.

She's making jokes as the world is trying to come apart. I can't decide if that's going to be a helpful trait or a foolish one.

"Beau is a mechanic. I’ll have him look at the wiring tomorrow,” I say. “Your truck shouldn’t be doing that. It might be a sign of something else... something bigger."

I turn on my heel and walk off. I know that if I stay, I’ll do something neither of us will be able to walk away from.

I can still feel her eyes resting on me. It's like she already knows I’m not going to be able to stay away.