Page 27 of The Bear's Matchmaking Mix-up Mate
But was she really? After what Vince had done? After he’d taken her most vulnerable songs and twisted them into ammunition, using her own words to paint her as unstable.
A flash of Vince’s voice surfaced in her head, sharp and dismissive. “You’re too much, Wren. You feel everything too loudly.” The memory stung. She flinched, the ghost of old rejection making her shoulders hunch for a moment, as if trying to fold herself smaller, safer.
Wren slowed the car, pulling onto a small turnout that overlooked the valley. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, forcing herself to breathe deeply.
“He’s not Vince,” she whispered into the silence.
The memory of Finn’s face swam before her—his eyes wide and earnest as he’d tried to explain about Donna, the almost desperate honesty in his voice as he swore it meant nothing. He’d looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world, like he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.
No one had ever looked at her quite that way before. Not even Vince in their best moments.
She remembered the careful way Finn had touched her arm, how his gaze had lingered on her face, and how his smile lit up his eyes. That unguarded openness was unfamiliar, and all the more dangerous for how much she wanted to trust it. To trust him.
She rubbed her shoulder where his hand had rested, letting that sensation root her in the present. Vince was her past. Finn was her future.
As she sat there, the melody she’d been humming all day played in her head, tentative at first, like a fragile thing testing its wings. Wren straightened, humming softly, letting it grow.With each note, the memory of Finn’s touch, of his smile, grew stronger, drowning out the insecurities that had haunted her for so long.
By the time she pulled back onto the road, the song had returned in full force, more insistent than before. Her fingers drummed against the wheel, keeping time with the beat that pulsed through her veins.
Finally, Rowan Cottage came into view. Wren parked the car and sat for a moment, savoring the vibrant energy thrumming through her body. Her heart felt light, as if she could float away over the mountain peaks, and she knew if she risked a look in the mirror, she would be glowing. Just as her godmother had described her earlier.
Wren got out of the car and headed inside, barely pausing to drop her keys on the hall table before heading straight for the makeshift studio she’d cobbled together in the spare room. The space was nothing like her professional studio back home, just a small room with decent acoustics, its equipment minimal but sufficient.
In the corner waited her guitar, its edges worn smooth from years of use, the same faithful companion that had caught her first tentative melodies when she was barely more than a girl with dreams. Wren picked it up, her fingers already finding the strings before she sat down on her stool. It was time to get the tune out of her head and into the world.
The first few notes came out halting, uncertain, but then something broke open inside her, and the music poured forth in a rush. Then the words came at last, not polished but raw and true. She didn’t think about hooks or bridges or what would sell; she simply followed where the song led, letting it carry her through verses about shadows and light, about walls crumbling, about finding courage in someone else’s steady gaze.
As she sang, tears streamed down her cheeks—tears of release, of relief, of finding herself again after so much silence. Her hands shook on the strings, but she didn’t stop, didn’t dare. Sometimes she laughed between verses, amazed at the joy pouring out as easily as the grief.
She lost all sense of time, swept up in creation. Chords and lyrics entwined, the ache of longing and hope threaded through every note. This wasn’t just a new song; it was as if her career was being born anew.
It was the truest thing she’d written in months, maybe years. As if she had been transported back in time and was that same young girl filled with hopes and dreams.
As the last chord faded, Wren blinked back sudden tears. Her throat felt raw, her fingers tender from pressing against the strings. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. It was hers.
She set down her guitar, hands trembling with exhaustion and triumph, and reached for her notebook, scribbling down the lyrics before they could fade from memory. Her handwriting sprawled across the page, messy but urgent. When she finished, she sat back, staring at the words she’d captured.
“Well,” she whispered to the empty room, “there you are.”
She snapped a quick photo of the page with her phone…just in case. Then, in a small act of celebration, she placed the notebook on her pillow, promising herself that tonight, she’d dream only of music, not mistakes.
Although she could not promise that Finn might creep into her dreams, too.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since those pastries with Finn at the market. With a self-satisfied smile on her face, she padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The bourbon bottle caught her eye as she passed the small liquor cabinet. Bourbon was not her usual choice, but tonight felt different. Special. She poured herself a finger’s worth into a tumbler, cradling the glass as she stepped out onto the porch.
The night air was crisp, heavy with the scent of grass and far-off rain. Stars punctured the darkness overhead, impossibly bright and clear. Wren sipped her bourbon, letting the warmth bloom in her chest as the silence settled around her.
She closed her eyes, humming the melody under her breath, letting the night carry the tune where it wanted. For the first time in forever, the silence was welcome, not suffocating.
Then it came—a sound that sliced through the quiet like a silver blade. A bear roared somewhere deep in the forest, its voice lifting in a long, mournful cry that seemed to reach for the stars. The sound vibrated through the night air, primal and ancient.
Wren froze, glass halfway to her lips. The haunting call sent a cascade of goosebumps racing down her arms, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. But the sensation wasn’t fear—not even close.
Instead, a delicious thrill coursed through her veins, sharp and sweet, identical to the electricity that sparked whenever Finn stood near. Her heart thudded against her ribs, each beat echoing the rhythm of the song she’d just written.
She set her glass down on the porch railing and stepped forward, drawn toward the tree line as if pulled by an invisible thread.
