Page 7 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Seven

Daisy

" T he writing's going really well." I curl up in my favorite spot near the butterfly garden, phone pressed to my ear. "Rowan showed me this amazing clearing where deer come to graze, and the way they move through the morning mist is just perfect for the scene where?—"

"Rowan again?" Janet's knowing tone makes me pause mid-sentence. "That's the fourth time you've mentioned him in this call alone."

"Is it?" I watch a monarch butterfly dance through the flowers he planted. The ones that just happened to appear outside my cabin. "He's been helping with research."

"Mhmm." I can practically hear Janet's smile. "And how's that going? Besides the apparently fascinating groundskeeper?"

"He's not—" I catch myself. "The research is great. I've learned so much about the woods and the animals and..." I trail off, realizing I'm about to mention Rowan again.

"Your voice changes when you talk about him," Janet observes gently. "Gets all soft and nervous. Like you're trying not to smile."

"That's not—" But my reflection in my phone screen betrays me. I am smiling. "He's just been really helpful."

"Daisy." Janet's voice softens. "I've known you since you were teaching third grade and sneaking writing time during recess. I know that tone."

"What tone? There's no tone."

"The same tone you used to get talking about your dreams of writing. Like you're afraid to want something too much."

I pull my knees to my chest, watching Rascal chase leaves in his purple sweater. "It doesn't matter. I'm only here for research. Ten more days and then..."

"And then what?"

"And then I go back home. Finish the book. Do the publicity circuit you've lined up." My throat feels tight. "Everything we planned."

"Plans can change."

"Janet—"

"I'm just saying, I haven't heard you this excited about anything since before Derek told you writing children's books wasn't a 'real career.'"

The memory of Derek's dismissive tone still stings, but not as much as it used to. Not since Rowan looked at my sketches of Gordon the Mayor and actually smiled. Not since he started carving tiny animals into trail markers just to make me laugh.

"The lodge is having a bonfire tonight," I say instead of addressing her point. "I thought I might read some of the new pages, get feedback from the guests."

"Now that's the Daisy I remember." Janet's smile is back. "The one who used to read to her class with all the funny voices. Before you started doubting yourself."

"I don't doubt?—"

"You do. Ever since Derek. But something's different now." She pauses. "Or someone."

"He carved animals into trail markers for me," I whisper, like a confession. "He pretends to be all grumpy and practical, but he makes the magic feel real."

"Oh, honey."

"I know." I press my forehead to my knees. "I know, okay? I know I'm only here temporarily. I know he's got walls up higher than these mountains. I know this isn't..."

"What if it could be?"

"What?"

"What if it could be more?" Janet's voice is gentle.

My heart stutters. "Janet..."

"Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones we plan." A pause. "Your deadline's not set in stone, you know. If you needed more time for research."

I watch another butterfly land on the flowers Rowan planted.

"I should go," I say. "Need to get ready for the bonfire."

"Daisy?" Janet's voice stops me before I hang up. "Don't let Derek's voice in your head convince you that you don't deserve a little magic. In your writing or your life."

I end the call and flop back onto the grass, staring up at the mountain sky. Rascal abandons his leaves to curl up beside me, his purple sweater a testament to all the ways Rowan pretends not to care.

"I'm in trouble, buddy," I tell my dog, who responds by licking my chin. "Big, grumpy, flannel-wearing trouble."

In the distance, I hear the solid thunk of an axe. Rowan's probably chopping wood for tonight's bonfire, being all competent and capable and pretending he doesn't notice how I watch him when he works.

Ten more days.

I press my hands to my eyes, trying to silence the voice that sounds suspiciously like Janet asking "what if?"

Because "what if" is dangerous. "What if" makes me notice how the sun catches green and gold in Rowan's eyes. How his rare smiles feel like secrets meant just for me. How these mountains are starting to feel more like home than my city apartment ever did.

"Come on." I scratch Rascal's ears, trying to shake off the weight of realization. "Let's go get ready for the bonfire. Maybe we can convince your favorite grumpy human to actually sit with us tonight instead of lurking in the shadows."

The fire crackles, sending sparks dancing into the twilight sky. Lodge guests gather around with mugs of hot chocolate while I watch Rowan methodically stack firewood in the shadows, precise and careful even in this simple task. He moves like someone used to staying just outside the circle of light, of warmth, of connection.

"Who wants to hear about the time Dad accidentally set his boots on fire trying to impress Mom?" Connor settles onto a log with his guitar, grinning as the guests lean forward eagerly.

"That's not how it happened," Evie calls from where she's helping little Emma make the perfect s'more. "He was trying to prove he could juggle fiery marshmallow sticks."

"Because you said wilderness guides should be coordinated," Liam adds with a laugh.

"And romantic," Evie's eyes twinkle. "Though I'm not sure third-degree marshmallow burns were quite what I had in mind."

The guests laugh, and Connor launches into the full story, complete with dramatic guitar accompaniment. I notice Rowan pause in his work, just for a moment, at the mention of his father. There's something soft in his expression, visible even in the flickering light.

More stories follow. Jameson tells about the time they found a bear cub in the activity center. A honeymooning couple shares their engagement story. Even shy Mr. Peterson from the corner cabin offers a tale about his first camping trip.

"What about you?" Connor nods to me during a break between songs. "Got any stories to share?"

I clutch my notebook tighter. "Oh, I don't know..."

"Please?" Emma pipes up from her spot by the fire. "Mom says you write children's books. I love stories!"

In the shadows, Rowan has gone very still.

"Well..." I flip through my pages. "I have been working on something new. About the forest."

"The one about the rabbit?" Connor's eyes flick to his brother. "And the grumpy bear who helps her?"

Heat creeps into my cheeks. "It's still pretty rough."

"Those are the best kind of stories," Evie says gently. "The ones that are still finding their way."

Something about her tone gives me courage. I begin reading, telling them about the little rabbit who keeps getting lost until a quiet bear teaches her to read the forest's secret language. As I read, I feel Rowan drift closer, like he's being pulled against his will.

"Some animals said she didn't belong in the woods," my voice catches slightly. "That she should stick to safer paths, more sensible dreams..."

"Like writing children's books?" Emma asks innocently.

I swallow hard. "Yeah. Like that. My ex... he used to say I was silly for thinking I could make a career of it. That I should focus on more practical things."

"He sounds boring," Emma declares, making the adults chuckle.

"He was practical," I admit. "But sometimes practical isn't enough. Sometimes you need a little magic too."

"Like the bear shows the rabbit?" Emma's totally invested now.

"Exactly like that." I chance a look at Rowan, finding him watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Sometimes the best teachers are the ones who seem gruff on the outside but know exactly when to be gentle."

I finish the story, and there's a moment of perfect silence before the applause starts. As the night deepens, guests begin drifting away. Emma's mother has to practically drag her from the fire, promising they can buy my book when it comes out.

Eventually, it's just me, Rowan, and Rascal curled up in his purple sweater. Connor shoots us a knowing look as he packs up his guitar, but mercifully says nothing.

"You didn't make the bear too grumpy, did you?" Rowan settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush.

"Just grumpy enough." I lean slightly into his warmth. "Though he has his soft moments."

The fire pops and crackles in the silence that follows. When I shiver, Rowan wordlessly drapes his jacket over my shoulders.

"I used to love these stories," he says finally, staring into the flames. "When Dad would gather everyone around the fire, tell tales about the lodge, about the mountains..." He trails off. "After he died, it was easier to stay away. To stick to the trails where things made sense."

"And then Heather came along?" I ask softly, remembering snippets of conversation I've caught around the lodge.

He tenses slightly, then relaxes. "Connor tell you about her?"

"No one had to. I've heard how people talk about you, how worried they've been since she left." I pull his jacket tighter. "The way they light up when they see you teaching me the trails."

"I'm not... it's not..." He runs a hand through his hair. "The trails are simpler. Trees don't expect anything from you. They don't pretend to love the quiet only to complain about the isolation later. They don't..."

"Leave?"

His breath catches. "Yeah."

Rascal chooses this moment to wiggle between us, settling half in my lap, half in Rowan's. The simple comfort of it seems to unlock something in him.

"She said she loved it here," he says quietly. "The lodge, the mountains, the life we could build. But she loved the idea more than the reality. When she realized I wouldn't leave for a 'real' career in the city..." He shrugs, but I can feel the tension in his shoulder against mine.

"Some people don't understand that different dreams can be just as real," I say, thinking of Derek's dismissal of my writing. "That sometimes the quiet paths lead exactly where you're meant to go."

"Even if those paths are marked by trail blazes with tiny carved animals?"

I bump his shoulder. "Especially then."

He's quiet for a long moment, absently stroking Rascal's ears. "Your story about the rabbit finding her place in the woods..."

"Yes?"

"It's good. Really good." His voice is rough. "And your ex was an idiot."

Warmth blooms in my chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His hand finds mine in the darkness. "Some people don't know magic when they see it."

We sit in comfortable silence as the fire dies down, neither mentioning the countdown hanging over us. Nine more days suddenly feels like both forever and not nearly enough time.