Page 6 of Grizzly's Grump
I tried to explain. Tried to make her understand. But she left, and she took the part of me that still believed in quiet miracles.
So I buried it. That ache for connection. That need for warmth. I poured it into the grain of every headboard and table leg I carved. I turned my silence into a sanctuary.
It’s worked—until now.
But the bear? He’s pacing now too. He circles inside me, ears up, waiting. Not growling—yet. Just watching.
And when she waves at me? It’s like a lightning strike—sharp, bright, and aimed straight at the hollow places I’ve ignored for too long. It rips through my control, splinters the barriers I’ve spent years building, and leaves everything trembling in its wake. I want to snarl. I want to flee. But mostly, I want to feel it again.
Not because I want to wave back. But because some stubborn part of me does—and I can’t stand that. The part of me that once believed in second chances is stirring, rattling the cage I locked it in. While the rest of me—the guarded, the scarred, the animal—braces for impact, every instinct wired for retreat or ruin.
I ignore her... or try to.
But the second time she waves, it’s like watching a sunflower bend toward the sun. Too warm. Too open. Too much.
I retreat to the shop. The smell follows me—sweet, spiced, female—and beneath it all, that unbearable tug of fate.
I slam the bay doors harder than necessary, drag a half-finished table into place, and set to work sanding the edges. It's a farmhouse design—clean lines, thick legs, made of reclaimedredwood with a rich, swirling grain. The kind of piece that’ll outlive all of us, meant for family dinners and scraped knees and someone’s dog curled up underneath.
I just started hand-planing the tabletop yesterday, carving out imperfections, smoothing the knots, coaxing out the shape that was already hiding in the wood. Now I take to the edges with a block of 180-grit sandpaper, working methodically. Letting my hands do what my thoughts can’t.
For a few fleeting moments, the grind of wood and drift of fine dust calm the restless parts of me that don’t want to be still.
Then she speaks. Her voice is light, melodic, teasing, the kind that should irritate me but slips into my bloodstream, heating places I thought were long frozen.
She wants to know whether she can stay.
Hell no.
But my mouth doesn’t say it. Instead, I nod.
Because I’m weak. Or curious. Or too stunned to do anything else.
She tries again. Introduces herself. Offers cinnamon rolls. Makes a crack about my silence, like she's trying to pry conversation out of stone.
It should annoy me. Instead, I almost smile. And damn if one of my brothers—probably Eli—wouldn’t razz me for it. He’d spot the twitch of my mouth and never let it go. Sawyer would crack a joke. Beau would just give me that smug look, like he saw it coming. Jonah? He’d probably stay quiet, but the glint in his eyes would say plenty. I can practically hear them now, ganging up on me for showing even a flicker of interest.
Almost.
But smiling at a stranger—at her—feels like a step I’m not ready to take. So I leave. I try to shake her off like wood dust, like a splinter I can dig out later.
Back inside the shop, I set my drill down and stare at the curved lines of a custom bed frame. Birch and walnut. Steam-bent into an arch like a sunrise.
A shallow relief—mountain ridges, layered trees, a single soaring bird—decorates the frame’s headboard. I hadn’t planned to carve that bird. But the shape pressed itself into the grain like it was already there, waiting. Like the wood remembered something I didn’t. It wasn’t something I usually did, but this commission asked for it and will pay for the time and skill it would take to create it. Or maybe I wanted an excuse. The carving started as muscle memory, but it’s turning into something else—something that speaks of flight and freedom, of watching from a distance.
I run my thumb along the polished edge, feel the wood’s warmth, and let my shoulders drop a fraction. There’s a rhythm to this work, a quiet reverence. Every stroke of the chisel, every grain exposed, is a conversation I know how to have. Unlike most people.
This bed isn’t just a piece of furniture. It’s an offering. Proof that someone can shape even broken things into something beautiful. I lose hours this way—measuring, sanding, building. It's the only thing that calms the constant tension that pulses through my body, the only space where silence doesn’t hurt.
Until she shows up, and the bear raises his head, scents the air and roars.
Not a real roar—at least not one others can hear. Not yet. Just pressure building behind my ribs, a low rumble threatening to rise. I’ve kept him buried this long. I can keep him there.
But then I hear her voice outside—light, warm, already wrapping around the townies with cinnamon-sweet charm and sunny one-liners. She's halfway to winning them over, and I hate that it’s working.
I hate that the cinnamon roll she offers me smells like salvation, and then, somehow, I'm at her window. I don’t remember crossing the gravel. I just know I need to be closer. To see her. To smell her. To feel her heat.
She turns to face me, a half-poured glaze trailing from her spatula, and those wide, surprised eyes fix on mine like I’m a storm cloud she’s not sure whether to run from or dance in.
