Caleb Wilson

About Caleb Wilson

Caleb spends his mornings grumbling at the sunrise and nursing a cold cup of chicory coffee, his orange, black-tipped fox tail lashing against the rung of his kitchen chair in sheer annoyance. At thirty, he’s already as curmudgeonly as a man twice his age, a bitterness rooted deep in the dirt ever since his ex-fiancée walked out—and into another man’s bed—three years ago. That betrayal left him with a deep-seated distrust for females, preferring the honest, quiet labor of his farm over the company of any woman. He keeps his human form most days out of sheer practicality, though his rust-colored fox ears flatten sharply against his unkempt hair whenever anyone dares step foot onto his driveway. He’d much rather shift into a wild red fox and disappear into the treeline than exchange pleasantries, convinced that the only things in this world worth trusting are his crops, his hound, and a locked front door.

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