Page 8 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #1)

Chapter Eight

Rowan

T he forest feels different at night. Quieter, more intimate, like the darkness itself is a secret shared between those brave enough to walk through it. Moonlight filters through the trees, casting silver patterns on the trail ahead as I lead Daisy back to her cabin.

Rascal is sound asleep in my arms, his tiny body warm and trusting. I've never understood people who talk to their pets like children, but I'm beginning to see the appeal as his little snores punctuate the night's silence.

"I think you've officially been adopted," Daisy says softly beside me. "Never seen him sleep that deeply with anyone but me."

"He must be tired from chasing moths all night." But I adjust my hold to keep him more comfortable, and she notices, a small smile playing at her lips.

We walk in comfortable silence for a while, the moonlight making her skin glow almost silver. She's still wearing my jacket, the sleeves falling past her fingertips. Something about that sight does strange things to my chest.

"Your family tells great stories," she says finally. "The one about your dad and the marshmallow juggling..."

"He was always doing stuff like that." The memory aches less than it used to. "Making us laugh, turning everyday things into adventures."

"He sounds wonderful."

"He was." I step carefully over a root. "After he died, Mom kept the traditions going. The bonfires, the stories. But it wasn't the same. I started spending more time on the trails."

"And Liam stepped up to run things?"

"He was already working with Dad on the business side. I was the kid who liked to explore."

"So you became the groundskeeper instead."

"Eventually." I hesitate, then admit, "Not right away. I actually left for a while after high school. Thought maybe there was something more out there."

She looks up, surprised. "You did? Where did you go?"

"College. Environmental science. Made it almost a year before I realized I was miserable." I shrug. "Too many people. Too much noise. Too far from..."

"From home," she finishes softly.

I glance at her. "You get that?"

"More than you know." She kicks at a pine cone on the path. "I love teaching, and I love writing, but the city never quite felt right. Too many people rushing around, never really seeing each other. Never looking up at the stars or noticing which way the wind blows."

"But your life is there. Your career."

"My apartment is there," she corrects. "My stuff. But I've never felt like I belonged, you know? Derek used to say I had my head in the clouds instead of focusing on 'real life.'"

"Sounds like an idiot," I mutter, and she laughs.

"That's twice now you've called him that."

"If the boot fits..."

Her shoulder bumps mine, warm even through my jacket. "It's just that I've always been the dreamy one. The impractical one. The one who needs to 'grow up' and stop seeing magic everywhere."

"There's nothing wrong with seeing magic." The words come out before I can stop them.

"No?" Her voice is so hopeful it hurts.

"No." I adjust Rascal, who sighs contentedly in his sleep. "My dad used to say the people who see magic in ordinary things are the ones who make life worth living."

"I think I would have liked your dad."

"He would have loved you." I can picture it so clearly. Dad drawing out her stories, encouraging her sketches, probably helping her construct fairy houses in the garden. "He used to make these elaborate trails for us with clues and riddles. Hide treasure for us to find."

"Is that why you carve animals into your trail markers for me?"

I almost stumble. "I don't—that's not?—"

"It's okay." Her hand brushes mine, just for a moment. "Your secret's safe with me. Though Gordon the Groundhog Mayor is very honored to be immortalized in wood."

Despite myself, I smile. "The rabbit was better."

"You have a favorite?" She sounds delighted.

"No."

"Liar." She's grinning now, I can hear it in her voice. "The mighty groundskeeper has a soft spot for tiny carved rabbits."

"The mighty groundskeeper has a soft spot for—" I catch myself just in time.

"For?" she prompts, stepping closer.

For you, I don't say. For the way you laugh at your own jokes. For how you make up backstories for every animal you see. For the way you've somehow made these familiar trails feel new again.

"For sleeping dogs who don't ask too many questions," I say instead, nodding at Rascal.

She smiles, moonlight catching in her eyes. "For what it's worth, I never fit in anywhere either. Not really. Not until..."

Her voice trails off, but I hear the rest anyway. Not until here. Not until this lodge, these mountains.

Not until you.

We're approaching her cabin, and I feel time slipping away too quickly. Each step brings us closer to goodnight, to tomorrow, to the reality that she leaves in just over a week.

"Rowan?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.

"Yes?"

"Do you ever wonder if the places where we don't fit... maybe they're not our places? Maybe we're not the ones who need to change?"

The question hangs in the night air between us, more honest than anything I've heard in years. I think about Heather, how she tried to change me, change the lodge, change everything to fit her idea of what life should be. How I started believing maybe I was the problem.

"Maybe," I say finally. "Or maybe we're just looking for the place that fits us as we are."

Her hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers slipping between mine like they belong there. And maybe they do.

"Maybe we've already found it," she whispers.

I don't answer. I can't. Because the moonlight is making her hair shimmer like silver, and she's wearing my jacket, and her dog is snoring softly against my chest, and everything about this moment feels too big, too important to trust with words.

We reach her cabin door, the porch light casting a warm circle in the darkness. I realize I'm still holding Rascal, his tiny body curled trustingly against my chest. The thought of handing him over, of ending this moment, makes something in me resist.

"I should probably..." I nod toward the sleeping dog.

"Right." Daisy steps closer, and suddenly the space between us feels charged with possibility. As she reaches for Rascal, her fingers brush against mine, lingering longer than necessary.

The dog stirs, blinking sleepily as he's transferred from my arms to hers. For a moment, we're so close I can smell the woodsmoke in her hair, see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"Would you like to come in?" she asks softly. "I could make tea. Or coffee. Or hot chocolate with those little marshmallows..."

I should say no. I should thank her politely and retreat to the safety of my solitude. Instead, I hear myself say, "I should probably get going."

But I don't move.

"Probably," she agrees. But she doesn't move either.

We stand there in the porch light, searching for reasons to extend this moment. I find myself noticing details I'll carry back to my empty cabin. How the light catches on her lashes, the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the way she's still wrapped in my jacket like it belongs on her shoulders.

"You can take it back," she says, catching my gaze. "Your jacket."

"Keep it." The words come out rougher than I intended. "It's still cold."

"Such a gentleman." She shifts Rascal to one arm and reaches up with her free hand, her fingers lightly brushing my collar as if straightening it. "Always taking care of everyone but yourself."

Her touch sends a current through me, awakening things I've kept dormant for too long. "Daisy..."

"I know." Her voice drops to a whisper. "You didn't ask for this. For me barging into your quiet world with my chaos and my talking dog and my fairy tales."

"That's not?—"

"But here's the thing, Rowan Callahan." Her eyes meet mine with surprising intensity. "I think your world had room for a little chaos all along. Just like my stories needed a little groundedness. We just didn't know it until now."

Everything shifts in that moment. The world tilts on its axis, recalibrates around this truth I've been fighting since she first got lost on my trails. My carefully constructed defenses crumble under the weight of her simple understanding.

"I'm leaving in nine days," she whispers, the reminder like a physical ache between us.

"I know."

"And I'm still the impractical dreamer who talks to animals."

"I know that too."

Her free hand comes to rest against my chest, right over my heart. "And you're still the grumpy groundskeeper who pretends not to believe in magic."

"I never said I didn't believe in magic," I murmur, my hand covering hers, holding it against my heart. "Just that some trails lead places you don't expect."

Something shifts in her expression—hope and fear and longing all mingled together. "Rowan?"

I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the last breath of space between us, my free hand cupping her cheek as I finally, finally stop fighting what's been building since that first day in the woods.

When our lips meet, it's like coming home to a place I didn't know I was searching for. Soft at first, a question more than a demand. Then deeper as she sighs against my mouth, the hand on my chest curling into my shirt as if to anchor herself.

I pour everything I can't say into the kiss—how she's awakened parts of me I thought were gone forever, how her laughter has become my favorite sound, how terrified I am of the countdown hanging over us.

When we finally break apart, her eyes flutter open, bright with something that looks dangerously like joy.

"Oh," she breathes, and somehow that single syllable contains multitudes.

Reality crashes back. Rascal squirms between us. Part of me knows that this can only lead to goodbye. And the armor I've built against precisely this kind of vulnerability goes back up.

"I should go," I say, but my hand betrays me, still cradling her cheek.

"You could stay." Her voice is tentative, hopeful. "For a little while."

For a moment, I'm tempted. But the fear is too strong, the memory of Heather's departure too fresh. "I can't."

Understanding softens her expression. "But maybe someday?"

"Maybe." It's more honesty than I've allowed myself in years. "Daisy, I?—"

She presses her fingers gently to my lips. "It's okay. I get it."

And I think she does. This woman who sees stories everywhere, who names the forest creatures and believes in magic. She sees me too, walls and all, and doesn't turn away.

"Tomorrow?" she asks, and it's more than a question about our hiking plans.

"Tomorrow," I confirm, stepping back before I can change my mind. "Sleep well."

"You too, forest guardian."