Page 11 of On Tap for the Bear
"That's just..." She stops. Looks away. "That's just how I work. Lightest to darkest, that's the proper tasting order."
She's lying. I can tell, though I'm not sure how.
Before I can push further—before I make this worse—Beau appears with her burger. He sets it down with the easy smile heuses on everyone, but I see the moment his eyes flick between us, see the calculation happening behind that casual grin.
"Bacon jam burger, medium rare," he says. "Let me know if you need anything else."
Quinn—Quinn Samuelson, I remind myself, since Cilla mentioned her full name yesterday—thanks him and pulls the plate closer. She picks up the burger, takes a bite, and I watch her face carefully.
There's no revelation this time. No moment of relief or recognition. She chews, swallows, makes a note, takes another bite. Professional. Analytical.
But I saw what happened with the beer. I saw what she wasn't expecting, what surprised her, what made her close her eyes like she was tasting something precious.
We make awkward small talk while she eats. She asks about the tavern's history, and I give her the sanitized version—family business, four generations, local gathering place. She asks about the town, and I tell her about the tourist season, the locals who've been here forever, the way Redwood Rise tends to grow on people.
"Do people usually stay?" she asks. "Or is it just a stop on the way to somewhere else?"
"Depends on the person. Some people are just passing through. Others..." I think about Cilla, about how she arrived broken and found home. About Anabeth, who came to study wildlife and ended up finding a family. "Others find out they were looking for this place all along, even if they didn't know it."
She doesn't respond immediately. Just takes another bite of her burger, chews thoughtfully. Then she says, "That's a nice story. Very... romantic."
"You don't believe it?"
"I think people tell themselves stories to make sense of random events. Sometimes you end up somewhere because you ran out of road, not because you were meant to be there."
The bitterness in her voice is subtle, but it's there. Whatever brought her here, it wasn't a plan. It was an escape.
"Maybe," I say carefully. "Or maybe running out of road is just another way of arriving."
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and I see something flicker in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition that I see more than she wants me to. She opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then seems to change her mind.
"Your burger's getting cold," I say, giving her an out.
She takes it, looking back down at her plate. But I catch the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth before she hides it.
The lunch rush picks up, pulling me away to help other customers. But I'm hyperaware of her presence—every movement she makes, every sip she takes of that honey-lavender ale she keeps returning to.
She finishes her burger. Finishes her flight. Pays with a credit card, and I note the name matches what Cilla told me: Quinn Samuelson.
"Thank you," she says, sliding off the stool. "The food was excellent. And the beer—especially that honey-lavender—was really exceptional."
"Come back anytime," I manage. "I'm working on a maple-bacon porter next. Should be ready in a few weeks, if you're still around..."
"Maybe." She tucks her notebook into her bag. "I'm at the Pinecrest for a couple weeks, so... maybe."
Two weeks. She'll be here for two weeks.
My bear practically purrs at the information.
She heads for the door, and I watch her go, my hands gripping the edge of the bar to keep from following her, from saying something stupid, from doing anything that might scare her off.
The door closes behind her.
I stand there, staring after her, my heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest.
"Well, hell."
I turn to find Beau leaning against the bar, arms crossed, wearing that knowing grin I've seen since we were kids and he figured out something I was trying to hide.
