Page 3 of Grizzly's Grump
I peer through the serving window and see movement in one of the workshops. A tall man, shirt stretched across broad shoulders, arms covered in sawdust and tattoos, strides from a stack of lumber toward a battered pickup. He’s got that whole rugged, lumberjack-turned-murder-suspect vibe that’s either going to make me very curious or very murdered.
He doesn’t look my way. My wave feels ridiculous, hanging in the air like a question he never intended to answer. Something about that stings more than I expected, but I roll my shoulders back and try again, determined not to be invisible—not here, not now.
I wave anyway.
Nothing.
Okay, maybe he didn’t see me.
I wave again.
Still nothing.
“Well, alright then,” I mutter, dragging my chair into the doorway. If no one’s going to come to the sugar, the sugar’s going to settle in and make itself visible.
Ten minutes later, the man reappears.
He’s carrying a power drill and a scowl. The kind of scowl that isn’t accidental—it’s his face’s default setting. You've heard of resting bitch face? Well, this is resting ax murderer face.
This time he looks at me. And it’s... something.
Something slow. Measured. Not interested, exactly. More like he’s cataloging me as a threat. Or an inconvenience. Or maybe something else entirely that he doesn’t want to feel.
“Hey there!” I chirp, voice going full bakery-girl-on-day-one. “Do you know if it’s okay to park here for a little while? I’m just trying to get settled.”
He stops about ten feet away. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink much either. He should be scary—everything about him screams keep out—but my traitorous body has other ideas.
He’s the exact opposite of Troy in every way. I flash on an image of Troy—white teeth, golden-boy grin, always dressed like we were two Instagram filters away from a food truck commercial. And Lola with her perfect blonde ponytail and ‘born for lifestyle blogging’ face. Together, they looked like something off a wedding magazine spread.
This man, though? This man is rough and silent where Troy was polished and charming. Broad, broody, and tattooed instead of clean-cut and camera-ready. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe after everything, I’m done with perfect. Maybe what I need is this brand of chaos—grit, scowl, sawdust and all.
“Do you own this land?” I ask, trying to keep my tone bright and cheery.
He nods. Not much of a conversationalist, which is a nice change from Troy, who rarely shut up. I shake my head. No, no more thoughts of that traitorous bastard.
“I’m Cilla. Cinnamon rolls are always on the house for kindly landlords.”
He doesn’t move.
I tilt my head. “Do you speak English, or is growly lumberjack some kind of obscure Redwood Rise dialect?”
A flicker of something passes over his expression. Not quite a smile, but not one either.
Then, without a word, he turns and walks away.
“Seriously?” I call after him. “Nothing? Not even a no?”
Silence.
And then, when I’ve already turned to go back inside, his voice drifts across the gravel.
“Don’t block the lane.”
Low. Rough. And absolutely, one hundred percent, a warning.
I lean out the window. “Technically, I’m not. But I’ll scoot back a few feet. Just for you, Growly.”
He disappears into one of the buildings—a low, weathered structure with massive double doors, the kind that looks like it once held tractors or timber or secrets. Through the open bay, I catch glimpses of smooth wood panels leaning against the walls, the graceful curve of a half-finished headboard, and the glitter of metal clamps catching the light.
