Page 7 of Grizzly’s Grump (Shifters of Redwood Rise #1)

CILLA

T here’s a special kind of ache that comes from watching a man walk away like you’re both the problem and the solution—and knowing he’s probably right.

I stood at the edge of the gravel watching Calder’s broad back disappear around the side of his workshop, heading back toward the tree line, his long stride eating up the distance between us without a single glance back.

The last thing he’d said—rough and low like it scraped against something inside him—still hummed in my chest.

Sure, it was about his brother looking at my food truck, but still it was for the following day, and I was determined to take that as a good sign that he expected me to be here come tomorrow. Progress.

By the time the sun caught the edge of his shoulders and the crunch of his boots faded around the corner, I was alone again.

Just me, the lingering heat of his gaze, and the quiet crackle of tension I didn’t know what to do with.

I didn’t move. I just stood there, letting the moment settle in the quiet space between breaths.

That afternoon, I handed out twelve samples of my grandmother’s sour cream blueberry scones, smiled until my cheeks hurt, and was told—point blank—that Redwood Rise didn’t need another bakery.

Which was rich, considering Redwood Rise didn’t actually have a bakery.

Just a café that served frozen baked goods—nothing fresh, nothing homemade.

Marcy delivered that last one personally, with her arms crossed and her eyes sharp behind her too-perfect glasses.

“You’re not from here,” she’d said, like that explained everything.

Well, no, I’m not. Thanks for pointing that out.

But give me a break; I’m trying. I’ve shown up with warm scones and my best smile, trying to connect with people whose roots run deeper than the redwoods that surround them.

Even so, today, the town made sure I felt every inch of that difference—like I’m some puzzle piece that almost fits, but not quite.

But I’m not giving up. I will stop by the café again.

.. this time with a pitch. What if I baked a line of things exclusively for her?

What if I made a house scone or a variation of cinnamon rolls that no one could buy anywhere else, including my food truck?

If I can’t win them over at the food truck counter, maybe I can win them from behind the one at the café-—one warm cup of coffee and pastry at a time.

I trudge the short walk back to the truck, exhausted and heavyhearted with rejection, and climb inside.

The soft thunk of the door is the only sound besides my breath.

The galley kitchen smells faintly of all things baking—vanilla, butter, cinnamon, and the rest. It should be comforting.

Instead, it just makes the silence louder and reminds me of all the things missing in my life.

I kick off my clogs at the door and drop Nonna's recipe book on the tiny drop-down kitchen table like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.

It just sits there, worn and steady and smelling faintly of cinnamon and vanilla extract, while I make myself a strong cup of coffee and pour it into my favorite hand-thrown mug—the one with the glaze like river stone and a thumb-worn handle that always fits just right.

By the time night settles in with a thick mist, I can’t stop replaying his voice—gravel-warm, rough around the edges, threaded through with something darker. You’re already staying longer than you think.

And damn it, maybe he was right.

Now it’s evening, and I’m tucked into the little pull-off like I belong there.

A hand-blown wine glass rests in one hand—the one I made when I still thought I’d marry Troy, back when love felt permanent and the future was something we sculpted together.

The other cradles Nonna's recipe book, edges curled, butter stains worn into the spine.

Its scent and feel are comforting even after all these years.

“You’d tell me to try again tomorrow,” I mutter, swirling the wine and staring at the trees. “But you never had to do this alone. Or get side-eyed by small-town denizens with loyalty issues, who think they're judges in a pastry contest.”

The book, being an inanimate object, doesn’t answer. But the memory of my grandmother’s voice—raspy, warm, half-Italian sass—rattles around in my head just the same.

'People always want fresh bread,' she’d say. 'But they don’t always trust new ovens.'

I snort. “Thanks, Nonna. Very helpful."

A slight breeze comes through the window, reminding me I need to close it before I go to bed.

I glance out toward the woods beyond the clearing.

They seem darker than usual. Not just evening-dim.

Thicker. Almost as if they're living beings about to pull their roots from the ground and take a step towards me. There’s something humming underneath it all—not a sound, but a feeling.

A pressure behind my ribs, like the world has stilled and I’ve stumbled into the silence.

It buzzes low, just beneath awareness, like the ground is alive and waiting for something.

There’s fog curling through the lower branches, and the air outside smells like moss, pine, and something warm and strange I can’t name.

Maybe it’s the wine. Or the rejection. Or the ghost of my grandmother whispering in my ear.

Or maybe I'm just horny and have had a crappy day. But before I know it, I’m slipping back into my clogs, already moving toward the trees before I realize I’ve made the choice.

The path is narrow, and the air and everything else all around me is slightly damp. Blackberry brambles snag the hem of my hoodie. Somewhere overhead, a bird calls once, sharp and strange, before going quiet. I stop beside a fallen log and set my wineglass on the moss.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Maybe this was a dumb idea.”

Maybe it is, but I don’t turn back.

I stare up through the canopy, where fog filters the moonlight in silver threads. It’s eerily beautiful. Quiet in a heavy, echoing way that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. I should feel nervous. Or unsettled. Instead, I feel... seen.

Not watched.

Known.

The air stills for a beat. Then I hear it—heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, treading over damp earth.

I spin around just as Calder emerges from the shadows as if someone carved him out of them. Flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, his dark hair damp and tousled, strands clinging to his temple like he’s been out here for hours, swallowed by the trees.

As I stumble, my heel clips the edge of the log—and I knock over the wineglass.

It tips and lands on the rocks with a sharp crack.

I flinch. A jagged line runs through the base, just below the curve I’d tried to smooth with love and intention, back when I thought forever was something you could pour into glass.

I realize I'm more upset about the loss of the wine than the glass.

Maybe I'm finally getting over Troy. Maybe the man approaching me, who caused me to shatter that glass, is the reason.

Calder's gaze locks on mine—intense, unreadable.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps beside me and picks up a thick limb of firewood like it weighs nothing.

My eyes rake over him before I can stop myself—broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms, damp curls brushing the nape of his neck.

He smells like cedar, wood smoke, and something warmer I don’t dare name—something that pulls at me, quiet and magnetic.

“You following me?” I ask, aiming for teasing, but my voice comes out breathy.

“No,” he says. “You’re on my land.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

He nods and tosses the log onto a growing pile I hadn’t even noticed he’d started. “Yep.”

Of course, it is.

“Great,” I mutter. “So now I’m trespassing and talking to ghosts.”

Calder gives me a long look. "Whose ghost are you talking to?"

"No one in particular. I figured it was better than talking to people who either ignore me or grunt like conversation’s optional."

He grunts again. "I don’t talk unless there’s something worth saying."

"Wow. So this must be a rare event." I lift the recipe book. “My Nonna's. She’s dead, still bossy as hell, and still somehow manages to make more sense than half the living.”

He makes a sound—half grunt, half chuckle—and keeps collecting wood.

"You collecting that for anyone in particular?" I ask.

He nods and tosses the log onto the growing pile. “I saw the firepit and the plastic outdoor chair. Figured you might be planning to roast marshmallows or something.”

I should go. I really should, but I don’t. Instead I say, "You're not wrong. I was thinking about making my own marshmallows and graham crackers, roasting the marshmallows and making homemade s'mores."

He goes back to collecting wood. “Rough day?” he asks after a stretch of silence.

I sigh and drop onto the fallen tree. He settles beside me—not too close, but close enough that our knees brush when I lean slightly toward him. A jolt races up my spine. He doesn’t move away, and neither do I.

“Let’s see. I got scolded by the town café queen; the foot traffic fell into two groups—half wanted the free samples and the others just ignored me.”

Calder’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “They’ll come around.”

I glance at him sideways. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “No. But sometimes I wish I could forget who I am.”

I nod, lips pressed tight. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“They’re slow here. Doesn’t mean they’re mean.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Have you met Marcy?”

He huffs. “Okay, maybe one or two are mean.”

I laugh—soft, surprised—and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile. But it’s something.

We sit like that for a few minutes. Me on the log, him getting back to his feet and stacking firewood with the kind of quiet precision that makes everything else slow down.

“Why are you out here?” I ask finally.

"I was born here."

"No. I mean here tonight in the forest?"

He doesn’t look at me, but his eyes scan the trees. “The forest was restless.”

“You make it sound like it’s alive.”

His eyes meet mine then. “Sometimes it is.”

I shiver, and it’s not from the cold. The air between us tightens. It’s not just attraction—though that’s still humming in my chest. It’s something older. Wilder. Like the woods are listening.

“You ever feel like...” I trail off, not sure how to say it without sounding ridiculous. “Like something’s stirring deep beneath your feet? Like the world is about to... tilt?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“It’s not just nerves,” I whisper. “It’s like the air is listening. Like something underneath us just shifted slightly, and now everything’s off-balance—like gravity got recalibrated and no one told the trees.”

I wait, hoping he’ll unravel whatever’s coiled behind that single word. But he just stands there, silent and unmoving, as if the answer is buried too deep—or not meant to be spoken aloud.

So I stand. Brush off my hands. “Well. Good talk.”

Calder steps forward before I can move past him. Not close exactly, but close enough that the heat from his body reaches mine. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

I angle my head. “Are you offering to walk me home, Mr. Hayes?”

He looks down at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’m offering to make sure nothing gets close enough that you wish it hadn’t.”

There’s something wild in the way he looks at me—something not entirely human. And the worst part? I’m not scared. I’m drawn toward it… toward him. Like whatever's churning in the woods has burrowed into my bones, and Calder is the only one who knows how to read the map.

The tension between us draws tight, alive with heat and something unspoken.

My heart trips. His hand lifts toward my cheek, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

For a second, the space between us narrows to a single breath.

I lean in without thinking. His fingers twitch as if he wants to close the gap.

Then he pulls back, jaw tight, like the touch would cost him more than he’s willing to give.

I step around him because I need to breathe. I'm tired of feeling rejected, and thinking is getting harder by the second. “Good night, Calder.”

“Cilla.” I pause. His voice is rough. “You’re not just passing through, are you?”

I swallow hard. “Haven't decided yet.”

He says nothing else. Just watches me with that dark, unreadable stare, like he’s holding something back—something sharp-edged and unfinished. The silence stretches between us, dense and uneasy, until it wraps around the space we share, not a thread but a wall neither of us is ready to climb.

But he doesn’t need to. The memory of what he said—about having Beau look at my truck—lingers between us.

Like he never questioned whether I’d stick around.

He acts like I’m already a part of this place.

Not just welcome—but inevitable. Like the trees bent around me while I wasn’t looking.

Like I’m not here by accident, even if I haven’t figured out why.

And somehow, that’s the part that gets to me. Not the firewood. Not the near-touch. The assumption. Quiet. Certain. Like I somehow belong.

I walk back toward the truck with the heat of his gaze still pressed between my shoulder blades.

As I shut the door to the truck, I realize he followed me back and is quietly stacking the firewood next to the truck so it'll be easy to get to if and when I decide I want or need it. Even after I lock the door, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still out there—lingering, quiet-eyed, and already far too close for comfort.