“Oh no,” he muttered.
“Oh yes,” I said. “We’re going.”
He gave me a long-suffering look. “Waffles?”
“It’s community outreach, Griff. You threatened a man before noon. Now you’re going to eat carbs and pretend you don’t hate people.”
He sighed. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Probably,” I said sweetly, and reached over to take his hand.
The scent of maple syrup and sizzling bacon met us before we even reached the pavilion. Kids chased each other between picnic tables while volunteers flipped waffles behind folding tables draped in gingham cloths. Griff looked like he wanted to disappear into the trees behind us.
“You’re doing great,” I whispered, squeezing his hand.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You showed up. That’s a start.”
A few heads turned as we walked by. Griff wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who blended in, but to my surprise, nobody gawked or stared. Clara waved us over and handed Griff a plate stacked high with waffles, strawberries, and whipped cream.
“I wasn’t sure we’d ever see you at one of these,” she said, her smile warm and welcoming. “But it’s good you’re here. And with such nice company.”
“I’m regretting this already,” he muttered under his breath, but his fingers curled around mine and he didn’t let go.
We made the rounds slowly, chatting with a few familiar faces, including Miss Lila, who grinned wide enough to make my cheeks hurt.
“Two appearances in one week,” she said, nudging Griff. “You really are turning over a new leaf.”
He didn’t answer, just shoved another bite of waffle into his mouth, but I could’ve sworn I saw the tiniest lift at the corner of his lips.
We sat down at the edge of the pavilion, far enough from the crowd that Griff could breathe but still close enough to hear themusic. A local trio played folk tunes on a small stage, and for a moment, everything felt perfect.
“You’re good at this,” I said, bumping my shoulder against his.
“At what? Smiling awkwardly in public?”
“At letting people in.”
He glanced down at me. “You’re the only one I’ve let in.”
My heart fluttered at that. “I’ll take it.”
We headed back up the mountain just as the sun began to disappear. Griff was quiet most of the drive, one hand resting on my thigh, like he just needed the reassurance that I was still there. That I wasn’t leaving.
When we got back to the cabin, he unloaded a couple boxes we’d picked up at the general store from the back seat and carried them inside. While I sorted things in the kitchen, he disappeared into the workshop. A fire burned low and bright in the woodstove while Scout and Appie shared the dog bed, curled around each other like they’d become the best of friends.
Griff returned a few minutes later with a long, thin box in his hand.
“I meant to give this to you before,” he said.
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just set it on the counter and waited while I opened it.
Inside was a knife. But not just any knife. The blade was etched with a delicate mountain ridge. The handle—smooth antler polished to a warm sheen—was carved with wildflowers and my initials.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, my throat tightening.
