Page 5 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Five

Daisy

" O kay, I'm ready to be serious." I adjust my new hiking boots, making sure the practical purple laces are double-knotted. "Teach me your woodland wisdom, O Wise One."

Rowan's expression does that thing where he's trying not to smile but can't quite help it. "Are you actually going to listen this time? Or are you going to run off chasing squirrels with your dog again?"

"That was one time!" I protest. "And it was a very distinguished-looking squirrel. Probably Gordon's chief of staff or something..."

"Daisy."

"Right. Sorry. Being serious now." I straighten my shoulders and give him my best attentive student look. "Trail blazes. Important safety things. No squirrel chasing."

He studies me for a moment, like he's trying to gauge my sincerity. Something in my expression must convince him because his stance softens slightly.

"Think of trail markers like..." He pauses, then says, "Like chapters in a story."

My head snaps up. Did Rowan Callahan just use a writing metaphor?

"Each blaze tells you what's coming next," he continues, leading me to the trailhead. "Two stacked marks mean the trail's about to change direction. A single mark means you're on the right path. Think of them as..." Another pause. "Like punctuation for the forest."

"Punctuation for the forest," I repeat softly, something warm unfurling in my chest. He's speaking my language.

"This one here." He touches a blue mark on a tree. "What's it telling you?"

I step closer, actually looking at the mark instead of just assuming it's decorative like I usually do. "It's angled? Like it's pointing right?"

"Good." There's approval in his voice that makes me stand a little straighter. "And what does that mean?"

"That the trail turns right?"

"See?" His lips quirk up. "You can do this when you're not distracted by making up political hierarchies for the local wildlife."

I stick my tongue out at him, but I'm already scanning for the next marker. "There! Another blue one. But this one's straight up and down."

"Which means?"

"Keep going straight?"

He nods, and I actually feel proud of myself. Who knew there was a whole secret language written on the trees?

"Show me more?" I ask, and something in my tone makes him really look at me.

"You're actually interested in this."

"Of course I am. It's like..." I wave my hands, trying to find the words. "It's like the forest is telling us a story. We just have to learn how to read it."

For a moment, Rowan's quiet. Then, so softly I almost miss it, "That's exactly what my dad used to say."

Oh.

Before I can respond, Rascal lets out an excited yip. A deer has appeared on the trail ahead, watching us with gentle curiosity.

"Don't move," Rowan whispers, scoping up Rascal. For once, I'm not thinking about chasing after the wildlife. I'm watching how still Rowan becomes, how his presence somehow both commands attention and fades into the forest. The deer holds his gaze for a long moment before gracefully disappearing into the undergrowth.

"That was amazing," I breathe.

"You're learning." He sounds pleased. "Yesterday you would have tried to interview it about local government."

"Well, I'm sure it had very important opinions about forest infrastructure," I say primly, but I'm grinning. "Seriously though, how do you do that? Become so still?"

"Practice." He starts walking again, but his pace is slower, more deliberate. "It's about respect. Understanding that we're guests here. That everything in these woods has its own story, even without us making up tales about them."

I scribble quickly in my notebook, not character ideas this time, but actual notes about trail reading and forest etiquette. When I look up, Rowan's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "You're full of surprises, city girl."

"Good ones, I hope?"

Something flickers in his eyes, but before he can respond, I spot another trail marker. "Oh! This one has two marks, but they're offset. Does that mean...?"

"Trail junction ahead," he confirms, and if his voice is a little rough, I pretend not to notice. "Want to try leading for a while? See if you can follow the story?"

"Really?"

He gestures ahead. "Show me what you've learned."

I take the lead, Rascal trotting happily beside me, actually staying on the trail for once. Every few minutes, I find myself looking back at Rowan, making sure I'm reading the signs correctly. Each time, he gives me a small nod that feels like victory.

"You know," I say as I correctly identify another marker, "for someone who claims to dislike whimsy, you're pretty good at making this magical."

"I don't dislike whimsy," he says quietly. "I just forgot how to see it for a while."

Something about the way he says it makes me want to hug him, but I'm pretty sure that would send him running for the hills. Instead, I focus on the next marker, determined to prove I can learn his language while teaching him to remember mine.

After all, the best stories have both structure and magic. Maybe trails do too.

"I can't believe I read that whole section of trail correctly." I'm practically bouncing as we reach the overlook, still high on my newfound trail-reading abilities. "I'm basically a forest expert now. A trail whisperer. A?—"

"Don't push it." But Rowan's tone lacks its usual gruffness. "You did do better than I expected."

"Such high praise." I pull out my notebook, settling on a fallen log. "Really though, thank you for teaching me. Want to see how you've inspired my story?"

He hesitates, and for a moment I think he'll refuse. But then he sits beside me, carefully leaving space between us. "Show me."

"Okay, so there's this young rabbit who's learning about forest paths from a wise old bear..." I flip through my sketches, very aware of his warmth beside me.

The first drops hit my notebook before I register the darkening sky.

"Storm's coming." Rowan's already standing, scanning the area. "We need to find shelter."

I barely have time to stuff my notebook in my backpack before the sky opens up. Summer rain pours through the canopy, surprisingly cold, and Rascal lets out an indignant yelp.

"Here." Rowan catches my elbow, guiding me toward a rocky overhang. We duck under just as thunder rumbles overhead.

The space is cozy. I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're standing, how Rowan's hand is still on my arm, how he smells like pine and rain and something spicy I can't quite identify.

"Your notebook's getting wet," he says softly.

I look down to where water is indeed seeping through my bag onto my precious story notes. "Oh no?—"

"Let me." He carefully takes the notebook, his hands steady as he helps me separate the damp pages. "We can salvage it if we act fast."

We work in silence, but I'm hyper-aware of every brush of his fingers against mine, every shared breath in our small shelter. Water drips from his dark hair, trailing down his neck, and I find myself following the path with my eyes.

"Here." His voice is rougher than usual as he hands me the last page. Our fingers touch, and neither of us pulls away immediately.

Something shifts in the air between us.

Rowan's eyes meet mine, and I forget about the rain, the thunder, everything except how the green in his eyes has darkened to forest shadows. His free hand moves, almost like he's going to brush back the wet strands of hair clinging to my cheek.

Rascal chooses this exact moment to shake himself vigorously, spraying us both with dog-scented water.

"Rascal!" I sputter, but I'm laughing, the tension broken but not forgotten.

"Your dog," Rowan mutters, but there's no heat in it. He's watching me with that unreadable expression again, the one that makes my heart do complicated things.

"Sorry about your shirt." I gesture at the wet flannel now decorated with muddy paw prints where Rascal's leaning against him.

"I've had worse." His voice is still rough around the edges. Then, surprising me, he reaches out and does tuck that strand of hair behind my ear, his touch whisper-soft. "There was a leaf."

"Oh." Is it my imagination, or do his fingers linger for just a moment? "Thanks."

The rain starts to ease, but neither of us moves. There's something fragile in the air, like we're both aware that something's changed but aren't quite ready to acknowledge it.

Finally, Rowan clears his throat. "We should head back before the next wave hits."

"Right. Yes. Good idea." I gather my somewhat-salvaged notebook, very conscious of his presence as he helps me with my bag.

We walk back in comfortable silence, broken only by Rascal's happy splashing through puddles. Every so often, our hands brush, and each time feels deliberate in a way it hadn't before.

Before we reach my cabin, Rowan says quietly, "Your story."

"Hmm?"

"The one about the rabbit learning the trails." He keeps his eyes ahead. "I'd like to hear the rest sometime."

My heart does a little skip. "Really?"

He nods once, and I swear I catch the ghost of a smile.

"Well then," I say, hugging my damp notebook to my chest, "I guess we'll have to go hiking again tomorrow. For research purposes, of course. So I can finish it."

"Of course." This time I definitely see the smile, small but real. "Purely educational."

"Purely," I agree.