Page 31 of The Bear's Matchmaking Mix-up Mate
“Or something,” he said, wishing he could say more.
“In that case, I will put my trust in you.” She slipped out of the truck and stood next to him, taking in the scene before her. “Where to first?”
“This way.” He offered her his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, she took it. The sense of connection flooded through his veins, and as she squeezed his hand gently, he knew she felt it, too.
Something had changed in her. It was as if she’d stopped running. As if she had put her past behind her.
As if she knows we are her future,his bear said.
As they walked between the rows, Finn pointed out different varietals, explaining the growing process while trying not to sound like he was lecturing.
“The first vines were planted generations ago,” Finn explained as they walked between the neat rows. “One of my ancestors had this vision of making wine that captured the essence of these mountains.”
Wren crouched down to examine the gnarled base of an older vine, her fingers gently tracing the twisted bark. “They have such character.”
“Some of these vines are nearly eighty years old,” Finn said, feeling a swell of pride. “The older vines produce fewer grapes but with more concentrated flavor. It’s quality over quantity.”
She stood, brushing soil from her hands. “And the harvest? When does that happen?”
“Late September usually, depending on the weather.” Finn gestured toward the rolling hills. “The whole family comes together for it. Even distant cousins show up. We make it a celebration—everyone picking by hand, sharing meals under the stars. And it’s a tradition that we stomp some of the grapes the old-fashioned way.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “You actually stomp them with your feet?”
“For one small batch, yes. It’s tradition,” Finn laughed. “I remember when we were kids. We’d come out looking like tiny grape monsters, purple from head to toe.”
The image made Wren smile, and Finn felt that familiar tightening in his chest. How he wished she could experience a Thornberg harvest firsthand.
One day soon, our kids will stomp the grapes and end up like tiny grape monsters,his bear murmured.
I cannot wait for that day,Finn said, imagining his children carrying on the tradition started so long ago.
“And after the picking?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
Finn led her toward the small production building. “That’s when the real magic happens. The grapes are sorted, destemmed, and crushed. For white wines, we press them immediately. For reds, we let the juice ferment with the skins to extract color and tannins.”
He described the aging process, how some wines rested in French oak barrels while others matured in stainless steel tanks, each method imparting different characteristics to the finished product.
Wren listened intently, asking questions that showed her genuine interest and a need to understand. “So each bottle tells a story of that particular season,” she mused. “The rainfall, the sunshine, the soil…it’s all captured there.”
“Exactly,” Finn said, impressed by her insight. “It’s like each vintage sings a different song.”
Her eyes met his, a flash of understanding passing between them. “That’s how I feel about my albums. Each one reflects where I was in my life at that moment.”
The connection shimmered between them, stronger than ever. Finn wanted to bottle this feeling, preserve it like the finest vintage.
“Would you like to see the east ridge?” he asked. “You can see the entire valley from up there.”
Wren nodded, falling into step beside him. The path grew steeper as they climbed, winding between wild sage and juniper. As they climbed, Finn stole glances at her profile, memorizing the way sunlight caught in her eyelashes, how her lips parted slightly with each breath.
When they finally reached the ridge, they stood side by side, gazing out over the valley spread before them like a living painting. The vineyard stretched below in neat, orderly rows, the vines reaching toward the sun. Beyond that, the mountains rose in layers of blue-green, each ridge fading into the distance until they blended with the sky.
Finn didn’t speak. Wren didn’t speak. For once, there was no need for words, no song that needed singing. The moment held its own perfection.
The song in our hearts is all we need,his bear murmured contentedly.
Chapter Twelve – Wren
Time slipped away as Wren stood on the east ridge looking down on the vineyard, the rows of vines stretching before them like green ribbons. At the bottom of the valley sat a hacienda-style house, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the red tile roof and white stucco walls. The sight took her breath away—not just the beauty of it, but the sense of permanence, of roots that ran deep into this mountain soil.
