Page 46 of The Bear's Matchmaking Mix-up Mate
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Abernathy asked, scrutinizing Wren closely. Those sharp eyes missed nothing; they never had, not since Wren was a little girl with skinned knees and secrets.
“I was passing and thought I’d pop in and say hello,” she lied. But she suspected her godmother didn’t buy that. The raised eyebrow said as much.
“Tea?” Mrs. Abernathy asked, setting down her hedge clippers.
Wren nodded, “Yes, please.”
“I have some pastries from the farmers’ market.” They went inside the house, and the familiar scent of lemon furniture polish gave Wren a sense of comfort and security.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Abernathy bustled about making tea. Wren grabbed the plates for the pastries, soothed by the simple task.
“Help yourself,” her godmother said, pushing the plate of pastries toward Wren.
“They look delicious,” Wren said, taking a bite of an apricot Danish and setting it on her plate. The flaky pastry dissolved on her tongue, sweet and buttery, but she barely tasted it. Her stomach churned with anxiety, making it hard to swallow.
But if she noticed, her godmother didn’t mention it. Instead, as she sat down and drank tea, Mrs. Abernathy made small talk. As they ate the pastries, she spoke about her hopes for her garden, about the new family that had moved in down the street, and about the upcoming summer festival. Wren responded with appropriate noises, but her mind kept circling back to the post, to Finn, to the sickening sense of betrayal that wouldn’t quite fade.
But eventually, Mrs. Abernathy set down her teacup with a decisive clink. “So, are you going to tell me the real reason you are here?”
Wren blushed and looked down at her half-eaten pastry. The flaky crust had scattered across her plate, a mess she couldn’t quite contain, much like her emotions.
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, tracing a finger through the crumbs.
“My dear, I’ve known you since before you could tie your shoelaces. You’ve never ‘just happened to be passing by’ in your entire life.” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice was dry but gentle. “Now, what’s troubling you?”
Wren took a deep breath, steeling herself. “It’s Finn.”
Mrs. Abernathy’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted, becoming more alert. “What about him?”
“I saw a social media post from the garden center. About a special guest star at the fundraiser for the communal garden project.” The words tumbled out faster now, gaining momentum. “And after everything that’s happened between us, after he promised to keep my secret, I can’t believe he’s planning to expose me, to use me for publicity just like...” She trailed off, unable to finish.
“Just like Vince did,” her godmother finished for her, her voice softening.
Wren nodded, blinking rapidly as tears threatened again. “I know I might be overreacting. I know it might not even be about me. But I’m scared that Finn is no different. And that he doesn’t understand how important my privacy is to me.”
Mrs. Abernathy was quiet for a long moment, studying Wren’s face. The silence stretched until Wren had to fight the urge to fill it with more words, more explanations.
“And what exactly has happened between you and Finn Thornberg?” Mrs. Abernathy finally asked, one eyebrow arching knowingly.
Heat climbed Wren’s neck, settling in her cheeks. “We’re...close.” She swallowed hard, remembering the warmth of his body against hers, the tenderness in his eyes when he’d told her they were mates. “Very close.”
“I see.” Mrs. Abernathy’s lips twitched. “And did he tell you about his...unique heritage?”
Wren’s head snapped up. “You know? About the...” She glanced around, lowering her voice to a whisper. “About thebear?”
“Of course I know. All the Thornberg boys are bear shifters, just like generations of Thornbergs before them. You think I wouldn’t notice when half my class disappeared during full moons?” Mrs. Abernathy snorted. “The Thornbergs have been around since before Bear Creek had its name.”
Wren sat back, stunned. Of course, her godmother knew. Mrs. Abernathy seemed to know everything about everyone in Bear Creek. And everyone in it.
“So he told you that you’re his mate?” Mrs. Abernathy asked, reaching for the teapot to refill their cups.
Wren nodded, a flutter of something—joy, fear, wonder—stirring in her chest at the word. “Yes.”
“And do you believe him?”
“I...” Wren hesitated, caught off guard by the directness of the question. Did she believe him? The memory of his eyes, so earnest and vulnerable as he’d shifted before her, surfaced in her mind. The raw honesty in his voice when he’d said, “You’re the only one for me.” The way her own heart had recognized the truth of it, even before her mind could catch up.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I believe him.”
