Page 32 of The Bear's Matchmaking Mix-up Mate
And in the distance, the mountain rose majestically, as if reaching for the sky.
But even more majestic than the mountains was the man by her side.
He stood silhouetted against the vast sky, his broad shoulders framed by wisps of clouds. Wren found herself studying his profile, from the strong line of his jaw to the slight curve of his mouth as he gazed out over his family’s legacy. The breeze ruffled his dark hair, making it dance against his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it back.
He looked as if he belonged here in the wilderness. He was as rugged as the mountains, yet there was a softness to him, like the grass beneath her feet. Yes, he was a man she could write songs about. Beautiful songs.
“Ready to go back down?” he asked, turning to her with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Wren nodded, and he held out his hand, and she took it. Not because the terrain was uneven, and she was worried she might fall. But because she wanted to feel the connection they shared, feel the rush of recognition flowing through her veins.
He led her down the trail, his grip steady and warm. When they reached the vines, he paused, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand in a way that sent shivers up her arm.
“This is where Philip taught me to ride a bike,” Finn said, pointing to a flat stretch between vine rows. “I crashed into those vines over there and got the lecture of my life from my dad, Hugo, about respecting the grapes.”
Wren laughed, the sound coming easily now. “How old were you?”
“Six. Stanley was supposed to be watching me, but he’d wandered off to catch frogs by the irrigation pond.” Finn’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I had skinned knees for weeks.”
“I bet you boys got into plenty of scrapes,” she said, imagining six boys rampaging through the vines and the wilderness beyond.
“Oh, we did. Our parents always said wild boys need wild spaces,” he said, eyes crinkling with the memory. “Dad would tell us the vineyard was our classroom, too—that we’d never learn patience from books alone, but we might learn it watching the grapes ripen year after year.”
“He sounds like a wise man,” Wren replied.
“He is, although I don’t think your godmother would agree.” Finn looked into the distance as if recalling his childhood.
A wave of longing swept over Wren. How she longed to be part of a family like that. To raise her children to run wild and free and learn the lore of the land, and find the songs in their hearts. Just as she had found the song in her heart thanks to Finn.
“We used to have these massive summer picnics right here,” Finn continued, gesturing to a clearing beneath an ancient oak. “Mom would make these incredible sandwiches with homemadebread, and Dad would bring bottles of the previous year’s vintage. Non-alcoholic for the kids, of course. All of us boys would race through the vines playing tag until we were so tired we’d just collapse right where we stood.”
“It sounds idyllic,” Wren said wistfully.
“What about you?” Finn asked, his voice gentle. “Any childhood memories like that?”
Their hands brushed as they walked, the contact brief but electric. Wren curled her fingers slightly, letting them graze his again. Not quite holding hands, but something more than accidental.
“Not quite the same,” she admitted. “My mom and I moved around a lot when I was little. But when I was thirteen, we spent a summer in this tiny coastal town. Every evening, we’d take my guitar down to the beach and play until sunset. Sometimes people would stop to listen; sometimes it was just us and the waves.”
Finn smiled down at her. “That sounds beautiful. I love the sound of the ocean.”
“It was.” Wren smiled, surprised by how easily the memory came, without the usual sting. “That’s where I wrote my first real song. Not just poems set to chords, but something that felt...true. Like a part of me. A part of my story.”
Their hands brushed again, and this time, Finn’s pinky finger hooked around hers for just a moment before releasing. The touch sent a thrill through Wren—one that lingered, emboldening her. She let her hand drift closer, her skin tingling in anticipation of the next touch.
“Bear Creek reminds me of that summer,” she confessed. “There’s something about this place that feels... I don’t know. Like I can breathe again.”
“I know what you mean,” Finn said, then ducked his head with a self-conscious laugh. “Though I guess I’ve always been able to breathe here.”
“You’ve never wanted to leave?” she asked.
“No.” His expression faltered for a moment. “But I guess I would. For the right…reason.”
She was about to reach for his hand properly, no more accidental brushes, no more pretending, when Finn suddenly stiffened. His shoulders tensed, his jaw setting in a way she hadn’t seen before.
“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, the words out before she could second-guess them.
Finn turned to her, his expression caught between worry and hope. “My parents are coming this way. We could skirt around the vines to avoid them.”
