Page 6 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Six

Rowan

T he loose shutter isn't my problem. It’s for Max to fix.

I can hear it banging in the morning breeze as I check the trails near Daisy's cabin. It's not part of my morning maintenance route. I don't need to investigate the sound of wood hitting wood, or the frustrated muttering that follows.

I make it exactly ten steps past her cabin before I turn back.

"Come on, you stubborn thing." Daisy's balanced precariously on a wooden chair she's dragged outside, trying to reach the shutter with what appears to be a soup ladle. "Just... stay... put..."

"What are you doing?"

She startles at my voice, wobbling dangerously. Before I can think, I'm there, hands steadying her waist as she regains her balance.

"Oh! Hi." She beams down at me like I'm a pleasant surprise rather than a grouchy interruption. "I was trying to fix this. It kept banging all night, and I didn't want to bother anyone, and I found this ladle in the kitchen drawer..."

"Get down."

"But I almost had it!"

"Daisy." My hands are still on her waist. I realize this at the same moment she does, judging by the slight catch in her breath. "Please get down before you fall and crack your head open."

"My hero," she says with a grin, but she lets me help her down. "Always saving me from myself."

"Someone has to." I'm still standing too close. I should step back. I don't. "Why didn't you just report the loose shutter? We have someone to deal with this stuff."

"I didn't want to be a bother." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I definitely haven't noticed before. "Besides, I almost had it."

"With a soup ladle."

"I was being creative!"

I catch myself almost smiling and quickly turn to examine the shutter. "Let me fix it properly."

"You don't have to?—"

"I know." The words come out softer than I intend. I clear my throat. "Go do whatever it is you do in the mornings. Chase butterflies. Interview squirrels. I've got this."

She disappears inside, but moments later, the cabin door opens again. "I brought you coffee. And company."

Rascal bounds out to supervise my work, his purple sweater slightly askew. The coffee, when I take it, is exactly how I like it. Black, no sugar. I have no idea how she knows that.

"The shutter's not the only thing that needs attention," she says, settling on the porch steps with her ever-present notebook. "The screen door sticks sometimes, and there's this weird creaking sound when?—"

"Why didn't you tell the front desk any of this?"

She shrugs, suddenly very interested in her coffee cup. "I told you. I didn't want to be a bother."

Something in her tone makes me really look at her. "Who made you feel like you were a bother?"

"What? No one. I just..." She traces the rim of her cup. "My ex used to say I was too much. Too chatty, too dreamy, too..."

"Too what?"

"Impractical." She attempts a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "He said my writing was just a hobby I needed to grow out of."

My hands tighten on my tools. "Sounds like a fool."

That startles a real laugh out of her. "Rowan Callahan, did you just defend my impracticality?"

"No." I focus on the shutter, ignoring how her laugh warms something in my chest. "I just hate people who dim other people's light."

The words slip out before I can stop them. When I glance back, she's watching me with an expression that makes it hard to breathe.

"I'm going to check that screen door," I say quickly. "And then you're going to tell me about every single thing that needs fixing. No more soup ladle repairs."

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” she asks.

"The only adventure you need right now is learning to file a maintenance request," I grumble, testing the door's hinges, too aware of her presence behind me. "Like a normal person."

"Where's the fun in that?" Her voice is closer now, and I can smell her jasmine shampoo. "Normal is boring."

"Normal keeps you from falling off chairs while attacking shutters with kitchen utensils."

"You're kind of sweet, you know that?"

I fumble my screwdriver. "I'm practical."

"Mhmm." I can hear the smile in her voice. "That's why you carved little animals into my trail markers?"

"I didn't—that's not—" I turn to find her grinning at me. "Those are standard trail blazes."

"With tiny rabbits and deer worked into the designs? Very standard."

"Do you want your door fixed or not?"

She mimes locking her lips, but her eyes are dancing with mirth. I turn back to my work, trying to ignore how the morning sun catches the gold in her hair, how her presence makes the air feel charged with possibility.

The door doesn't really need much work. I find myself checking everything anyway—the hinges, the latch, the weather stripping. Anything to stay in her orbit a little longer.

"There," I say finally, running out of things to fix. "Try it now."

She does, the door opening smoothly. "My hero," she says again, but this time it's soft, sincere.

"Just doing my job." But I'm still standing too close, still caught in the gravity of her smile.

"Rowan?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For fixing things. For not making me feel like..." She gestures vaguely. "Too much."

Words stick in my throat. Before I can untangle them, Rascal squeezes between us, demanding attention.

"I should go." I gather my tools, needing to escape before I do something stupid like tell her she could never be too much. That she's exactly right. That she makes these woods feel more magical than they have in years.

"See you for our research hike later?"

I make the mistake of looking at her. She's backlit by morning sun, Rascal cradled in her arms, hope bright in her eyes.

"Yeah," I manage. "Later."

"Earth to Rowan." Liam's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You planning to eat that pot roast, or keep rearranging it?"

I blink down at my plate, realizing I've been pushing the same piece of meat around for the past five minutes. The family dining room buzzes with its usual chaos. Connor describes his latest hiking tour, Declan argues with Jameson about proper marshmallow roasting technique for tomorrow's bonfire, and Mom watches us all with quiet amusement.

"He's been like this all day," Connor says, reaching for another roll. "Barely heard a word I said about the new trail markers."

"I heard you." I didn't.

"Really?" Connor grins. "So you're okay with me taking over Daisy's trail orientation?"

My head snaps up. "What?"

"There it is." Liam laughs. "Mention Daisy and he suddenly remembers how to pay attention."

"That's not—" I stab at my pot roast with more force than necessary. "I was thinking about maintenance schedules."

"Sure you were." Connor's eyes dance with mischief. "That's why you spent an hour this morning fixing a five-minute shutter problem."

Heat creeps up my neck. "How did you?—"

"I have eyes, little brother." He grins. "And you're not exactly subtle when you're building things for pretty writers."

"I wasn't building anything. It was routine maintenance."

"And not Max’s job?" Liam asks innocently. “Last I heard, he was still in charge of maintenance.”

"Don't you have actual work to do?" I cut in. "Like running this place?"

"This is more fun."

I turn to Mom for help, but she's hiding a smile behind her water glass. Traitor.

"You know," Declan pipes up, "she really liked those berry scones this morning. The ones you specifically asked me to make?—"

"That was for all the guests."

"Right." Declan nods solemnly. "All the guests. Which is why you wanted to know if they were her favorite kind, and if I could make extra?—"

"I'm done." I push back from the table, but Mom's hand on my arm stops me.

"Sit," she says softly. "Let your brothers have their fun. They only tease because they're happy for you."

"There's nothing to be happy about."

But I sink back into my chair, trying very hard not to look out the window where I can see Daisy on the terrace, sketching in the evening light. She's wearing that ridiculous sweater with the tiny mushrooms, and Rascal's curled up in her lap. She's probably writing more stories about woodland mayors and fairy rings and...

"Oh, he's got it bad," Connor stage-whispers.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"Boys." Mom's voice holds a warning, but her eyes are soft when she looks at me. "Leave your brother alone. He'll figure it out in his own time."

"Figure what out?" But the words taste like ash because I already know.

I know it in the way my chest tightens when she laughs. In how I keep finding excuses to check the trails near her cabin. In the way I've memorized how she takes her coffee. One sugar, too much cream, usually half-forgotten somewhere while she chases her latest story idea.

"She's only here for another week and a half," I say, more to myself than them.

The table goes quiet. Mom's hand finds mine under the table.

"Row..." Liam starts.

"Don't." I push back from the table again, and this time no one stops me. "I've got work to do."

Through the window, I can see Daisy showing something in her notebook to Rascal, her whole face lit up as she presumably reads him her latest story. She's sunshine and chaos and everything I can't afford to want.

"She's not Heather," Mom says quietly.

"No." I grab my work gloves. "She's worse. At least Heather was honest about not wanting this life." I swallow hard. "Daisy makes me wish for impossible things."