Page 16 of Moody Mountain Man
Because this man, this grumpy, stubborn, moody, broken, beautiful man, just gave me the most beautiful gift. His heart.
Chapter eight
Annie
The morning of the grand re-opening of my bakery starts before the sun. I’m downstairs before the sun is up, but I’ve already received a text from Dottie.
Dottie: a dozen cinnamon rolls, extra glaze.
By five, the ovens hum like happy beasts, and my kitchen smells like a heavenly combination of cinnamon, browned butter, and sugar. Cal moves quietly through my space like he’s always belonged here. He lifts trays, swaps racks, and nudges my hip with his when I hover too close. We don’t talk much. We don’t have to. The easy, steady kind of quiet that lives between people who chose each other settles over everything.
“Timer?” he asks.
“Two minutes.” I lean up, kiss his jaw. “Thank you. For all of this.”
He rubs his thumb over my wrist, grounding. “Proud of you.”
That does something fizzy to my chest. I slide the first trays to the front: a tight spiral of glossy rolls, apple hand pies, cheddar-chive biscuits. Cal flips the sign to OPEN while I loop the chalkboard outside.
PINE HOLLOW, I MISSED YOUR FACES.
— free mini cinnamon knots with every coffee —
By six-thirty, a line snakes down the sidewalk. Dottie’s at the door before the bell can finish its first ring, bright orange vest over overalls, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Make way for an old woman who knows where the good stuff is,” she crows, then folds me into a hug that smells like cedar and oatmeal cookies. “Look at you, Annie girl. Back from the dead and better than ever.” She tips her head, eyes sparkling. “And—hello, Cal Redmond. You brought that smile with you, I see.”
“Morning, Dottie,” Cal rumbles, which counts as a speech for him.
She pats his arm like she helped raise him, which, honestly, she basically did with half this town. “One Dozen with extra glaze. And I’ll take that big Thermos you promised.” She winks at me. “String lights and sugar keep a town running.”
“On it.” I bag rolls, tuck in two extra because she loves freebies, and slide the Thermos over. She leans in, conspiratorial.
“People thought I was joking when I said Pine Hollow gives folks exactly what they need,” she says softly, eyes flicking between me and Cal. “Happy to be right.”
The bell sings again, and then the little bakery becomes a reunion.
Tessa breezes in first, her city-sharp coat over a flannel she’s trying very hard to pretend is hers, hair in a high ponytail, that reporter sparkle in her eyes. She sets her phone on the counter like it’s a tape recorder and grins. “Annie, I came for the cinnamon rolls that smell like sin. Also, Sawyer says if I don’t bring him two maple pecans, he’ll chop something out of spite.” She wiggles her brows.
As if summoned, Sawyer steps in behind her—big, quiet, a nod for Cal that says thanks without words. “Coffee. Black.” I slide the rolls across; his gaze softens a millimeter when Tessa bumps her shoulder against his.
“Next!” I call, and the next turns out to be Juniper, in a soft sweater, cheeks rose-bright, the kind of calm that comes from loving and being loved right. She balances a tray of herb seedlings with practiced grace. “Housewarming gifts,” she says, setting a little basil and a pot of thyme by my register. “For the new-old kitchen.” Her husband, Elias Boone, fills the doorway behind her—tall, quiet, a steady hand at the small of her back. He offers Cal a brief clasp; they trade a whole conversation in one look. “Two apple hand pies and a cinnamon roll for Wren when she gets out of school?” Juniper adds, smile turning private when she glances up at Elias.
“On the house,” I say, tucking in an extra maple sugar cookie because she once told me sugar makes hard days gentler. Dottie, hovering, chimes in to the room at large, “Would you look at it—Elias Boone in public twice in one month. Miracles never cease.” Juniper laughs; Elias absorbs the teasing with a grunt and a look that says everything is fine as long as Juniper’s hand is in his.
The door swings again, and Sadie barrels in on a gust of cold air and joy, braided hair under a knit hat, one gloved hand already reaching for the case. “If I don’t get a pecan sticky bun in me in the next thirty seconds…”
Reid comes in behind his wife, big and scowling and so obviously gone for her. He takes up space beside Cal like a mountain and tips his chin in greeting. “Two coffees. Hers with cream and too much sugar.” Sadie rolls to her toes to kiss his jaw. He pretends it doesn’t melt him. It does. We all pretend we don’t see it. Dottie doesn’t bother pretending. “Man’s as cuddly as a cactus,” she stage whispers to me, “and Pine Hollow loves him anyway.”
Somewhere between refilling the drip and boxing donuts, my little shop turns into the beating heart of the square. Linda from the post office takes a dozen cheddar biscuits “for the crew.” Miles promises firewood for my back stoop. Hazel sends over a bouquet of flowers.
Cal moves through it all, catching a tray before it slides, resetting the bell on the back door, taking an overflowing trash bag out with one hand while pulling a kid’s knit hat back over his ears with the other. People clock it. The way he’s here not as a contractor or a hermit or a ghost, but as my man.
I feel it in every look.
I feel it most when the morning rush crests and the noise thins to a warm hum, and Dottie climbs up on the little stool by the community board like a general about to launch a parade.
“Pine Hollow,” she calls, and we all answer, because we always do. Conversations soften. Chairs scrape closer. Even Reid’s mouth twitches as if he’s considering smiling.
