Page 7 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“Challenging how?”
She waves a hand, the motion graceful and dismissive.
“Oh, Gerralt’s harmless. Just a bit grumpy. He lives out near Blackwood Forest and keeps to himself most of the time. I think he enjoys being difficult, if you want my opinion.”
I bite back a smile. “Sounds like a delight.”
Not.
“But you should know he’s a perfectionist,” she says, her tone softening. “A true artist. He’ll put his heart into whatever he does for you. Your only challenge will be to drag him out of his workshop.”
I straighten my shoulders, a flicker of determination sparking in my chest.
“I’m not afraid of a challenge,” I say firmly. It's a big fat lie, but I'm not about to admit to it, not even to myself.
I'm the new and improved Cassie. And the new and improved Cassie doesn't back down from a challenge, grumpy carpenter or not.
“Good.” Evelyn Primrose’s smile shifts. There’s something knowing and almost mischievous curling at the edges of her expression. I get the flickering thought that she planned this entire conversation, but of course, it's just me being silly.
Evelyn Primrose writes down the directions to this Gerralt Banesman's cottage on a piece of scented paper and hands it to me. Then I thank her and promise to come back soon. As I step out of the shop and back into the crisp morning air, the sun casts a warm, golden glow over the cobblestone streets.
From here, I can see the distant edge of Blackwood Forest, its trees tall and dark against the horizon. Somewhere out there is Gerralt Banesman, the man who might just help me breathe life back into the Saltwater Lodge.
I clutch my empty latte cup, the remnants of cardamom and honey lingering on my tongue. My heart beats a little faster as I start walking again, my scarf fluttering in the breeze.
I’ve already come this far. What’s one more leap of faith?
Chapter Four
Cassidy
Thetreespresscloseras I drive away from Saltford Bay and deeper into Blackwood Forest, their branches creating a natural tunnel overhead. My GPS lost signal a few minutes ago, leaving me to rely on Mrs. Primrose's handwritten directions. About ten minutes later, the road narrows to barely more than a dirt path, and I start questioning whether I should have called ahead first.
Not that I have a phone number for this GerraltBanesman, anyway.
"I'm not lost," I mutter to myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Evelyn said to follow this road until I see the workshop, and that's what I'm going to do."
A few minutes of nail-biting forest road later, a break in the dense canopy reveals a clearing bathed in golden afternoon light. Ancient oaks and towering pines stand sentinel around a sturdy two-story log cabin that seems to have grown organically from the forest floor. My breath catches at the sight. The structure radiates the kind of masterful craftsmanship that I've ever only seen in old buildings. Everything seems to have been crafted with care, from the perfectly fitted logs with their rich amber finish to the intricate carved trim work along the deep eaves.
The surrounding grounds speak of the same meticulous attention to detail, tempered with a deep respect for nature. Native wildflowers dot the edges of the clearing in carefully planned natural-looking clusters, while a kitchen garden off to the side shows ruler-straight rows of herbs and vegetables. The gravel driveway is edged with river rocks, each one placed with obvious care to create a harmonious flow.
The entire scene strikes a perfect balance between wild and controlled, raw and refined, as if someone with an artist's eye and a craftsman's hands has spent years coaxing the perfect harmony between nature and structure.
I park beside a gleaming black pickup truck in the gravel driveway and step out of my battered Honda, suddenly self-conscious about the old clunker.
My eye catalogs all the custom touches along the front of the house, the hand-carved door knocker shaped like a bear, the precise joinery at the corners, the way the roof lines sweep out to shelter the wraparoundporch. This is the work of a man who pays attention to details and is not satisfied with half measures.
This is exactly the kind of quality work I need for the lodge,I think, running my fingers over the smooth logs of the exterior wall. The wood feels warm and alive under my touch. I don't know much about woodworking, but I know it must have taken hours of careful sanding and finishing to achieve a texture like that. If this Gerralt Banesman puts this much care and detail into the exterior of his own home, I know he could miracles with the lodge renovation. My mind just about bursts with all the things I want to show him, all the ideas I have to make the Saltwater Lodge the cutest bed and breakfast in town.
Well, it'll be the only bed and breakfast in town, but still.
To the left of the log home is a workshop, a barnlike structure with weathered cedar siding and a steep-pitched roof crowned by a copper weathervane. I look at the carved wooden sign that reads Banesman & Son hanging from wrought iron brackets. The sign looks weathered but well maintained, like everything else on the property.
Wide double doors stand open to catch the autumn breeze, and through them I glimpse the warm glow of neon lights illuminating the workspace within. The rhythmic sound of sawing drifts out, accompanied by the rich, earthy scent of freshly cut wood. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and clear my throat.
New Cassidy,I remind myself.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice barely carrying over the mechanical whirring. I call again, this time as loud as I can.
