Page 12 of On Tap for the Bear
"That's your mate, isn't it?"
I don't answer. Can't. Because saying it out loud makes it real, makes it something that could break me if it doesn't work out.
But Beau doesn't need my confirmation. He just shakes his head, that grin widening.
"Oh, you are so screwed, brother. That woman looked at you like you were a puzzle she couldn't wait to solve—or a trap she was trying to avoid. Can't tell which."
"Both," I say quietly. "Definitely both."
Two weeks. I have two weeks to convince my mate that whatever she's running from, she's safe here. Two weeks before she drives back to San Francisco and out of my life.
Two weeks isn't nearly enough time.
But Beau's already grinning like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "You know Calder's going to want to talk strategy. And Sawyer's going to give you that look. The 'don't screw this up' look."
"I know."
"And you're still going to do this anyway."
I think about Quinn's eyes when she tasted that beer. The relief. The hope. The way she said it tasted like hope, like she hadn't felt that in a long time.
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
Because walking away from my mate isn't an option. Even if she doesn't know that's what she is yet.
CHAPTER 4
QUINN
Imake it back to the Pinecrest before the shaking starts.
My hands tremble as I pull into the parking area, and I grip the steering wheel for a full minute before I trust myself to get out of the car. The drive from the tavern took maybe three minutes, but I don't remember any of it. My brain is too busy replaying the moment the honey-lavender ale touched my tongue and Itastedit.
Really tasted it.
Not just texture and temperature, not just the ghost of what flavor should be, but actual, genuine taste. The sweetness of honey, the floral earthiness of lavender, the crisp finish that made me want another sip immediately. And underneath it all, a warmth I can't quite name but that made my entire body relax for the first time in days.
I tasted it.
After three days of nothing, of emptiness, of feeling like a fundamental part of me had been carved out and thrown away—I tasted something.
And it was his beer. Eli's beer. The one he'd spent six weeks perfecting, the one he said came together just this morning.
That can't be a coincidence.
Except it has to be, because the alternative—that there's a connection between Eli Hayes and my broken palate—is insane. That's not how taste buds work. That's not how anything works.
Maybe my palate is healing. Maybe the psychosomatic block is starting to lift. Maybe the beer really was just that good, perfectly balanced, hitting all the right notes at exactly the right time.
Or maybe I'm desperate enough to see patterns where none exist.
I finally get out of the car and head inside. The Pinecrest is quiet in the afternoon lull between checkout and dinner. I slip upstairs to my room, intending to hide until I can make sense of what just happened.
Evelyn, apparently, has other plans.
"Quinn!" Her voice catches me halfway up the stairs. "Perfect timing. I just took a lemon cake out of the oven. Come have a slice with me."
It's not really a question, and we both know it.
