Page 5 of The Bear's Matchmaking Mix-up Mate
“Album?” Finn asked. “So, you’re a musician?”
“Finn, don’t tell me you didn’t recognize Wren when you arrived!” Mrs. Abernathy said in a shocked tone that made Wren cringe.
Finn’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “No, should I have?”
Wren felt a small, unexpected smile tug at her lips. Most men would not be so honest. But Finn’s sincerity was refreshing. He had no pretense, no angle.
Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “My goddaughter is quite the accomplished musician. Her last album went platinum.”
“Really?” Finn’s eyes widened, but there was no sudden shift in his demeanor. No calculated interest, no dollar signs flashing. Although he did look impressed. “That’s incredible.”
“It was a lifetime ago,” Wren said. At least, that was how it felt. So much had happened, so much heartbreak, so muchbetrayal. It had aged her, jaded her, robbed her of her love of music.
A love she desperately wanted to reclaim.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Abernathy countered, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were talking to one of her students. “It was barely two years ago.” She paused and then added, “And you’ll find your way back to it when you’re ready.”
Wren caught the protective concern in her godmother’s eyes. The same look she’d had when she’d opened her door at 2 AM three days ago to find Wren on her doorstep, hollow-eyed and exhausted.
“What kind of music?” Finn asked. He either wasn’t picking up on the undercurrent of tension in the room or was choosing to ignore it.
She was beginning to warm to this guy.
Wren hesitated, then found herself answering. “Folk-pop, I guess? Acoustic, mostly. Nothing fancy.”
“I’d love to hear it sometime,” he said, then immediately added, “if that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.”
He left her an out, she realized, a way to say no without embarrassment. The lack of pressure was disarming. She’d grown so used to men chasing her for what she could give them—fame, stories, a trophy to display—that she barely remembered what it felt like to be seen as just…a person.
“I…I’d like that,” she stuttered.
“These scones are heaven-sent,” Mrs. Abernathy declared, changing the subject as an awkward silence ensued. “Honey, at the bakery, outdid herself with this batch.”
Finn took one gratefully. “Honey’s scones are legendary. My brother Alfie once ate an entire dozen in one sitting.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” Mrs. Abernathy laughed. “That boy always had hollow legs.”
Wren reached for a scone, her fingers accidentally brushing Finn’s as they both went for the strawberry jam. A spark jolted up her arm, surprising her with its intensity. She told herself it was nothing, a fluke of nerves and adrenaline, but the warmth lingered, humming beneath her skin long after she’d pulled her hand away.
“Sorry,” they both said in unison, then smiled.
“Ladies first,” Finn gestured to the jam.
Wren took it, suddenly feeling silly for her overreaction. “Thanks.”
As she smeared jam onto her scone, Wren caught herself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in ages. Maybe nothing would come of this. Maybe she’d go back to the silence in her head and her stubborn, empty notebook. But for one bright, unexpected moment, it felt like the music might not be lost forever.
“Have you explored much of Bear Creek since you arrived?” Finn asked, brushing crumbs from his fingers.
Wren shook her head. “Not really. I’ve mostly stayed here at the cottage.”
“You should show her around, Finn,” Mrs. Abernathy suggested with a twinkle in her eye that made Wren suspect her godmother was up to something. “No one knows these mountains better than a Thornberg.”
Finn leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. “The falls are incredible this time of year. The snowmelt makes them twice as powerful, and on sunny days, there’s always a rainbow in the mist.”
“Oh, the falls,” Mrs. Abernathy sighed. “I used to hike up there and write poetry. Something about that place just opens up the creative spirit.”
“There’s this one spot,” Finn continued, “where the creek narrows between two boulders before spilling over the edge. The locals call it Whisper Point. If you stand next to it, it’s like the mountain is whispering its secrets to you.”
