Page 38 of On Tap for the Bear
Even if it destroys me.
The tavern smellslike cleaning solution and coffee when I let myself in through the back. I must have locked up properly last night despite the distraction because everything's secure. Small mercies.
I start prep work on autopilot—chopping vegetables, checking inventory, firing up the grill. My mind won't settle, thoughts racing between what I need to say and all the ways it could go wrong.
The knock on the front door comes at nine-thirty.
My heart kicks against my ribs. Through the window, Quinn stands on the sidewalk, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks nervous. Beautiful. Mine.
I cross the dining room and unlock the door.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey." Brilliant conversation, Hayes. "Come in."
She steps past me and I catch vanilla and something floral—her shampoo, maybe. The bruise on her neck where I sucked too hard last night makes the bear rumble with satisfaction. Marked. Ours.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," Quinn says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Or if you'd want to see me. After last night."
"Why wouldn't I want to see you?"
"Because I showed up and threw myself at you?" She finally looks at me, uncertainty clear in her expression. "Because I pushed for answers you might not have wanted to give? Because...”
I cross the space between us and kiss her. Not demanding like last night, but firm enough to cut off whatever spiral she's heading down. When I pull back, her eyes are wide.
"You weren't drunk," I tell her. "You were brave. And I wanted you here. Wanted you."
"Oh." Color rises in her cheeks. "Okay."
"Have you eaten?"
She shakes her head.
"Come on." I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. The touch sends warmth up my arm, quiets the restless animal pacing inside me. "Let me make you breakfast."
Quinn follows me into the kitchen, settling onto the stool near the prep station. She watches as I pull out eggs, cheese, peppers, onions. Her gaze tracks my movements with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of every action.
"What are you making?" she asks.
"Omelets. You allergic to anything?"
"No."
I dice peppers and onions while butter melts in the pan, the familiar routine helping settle my nerves. Quinn's presence in my kitchen feels right in a way I can't articulate. Like she belongs here. Like she's always belonged here.
"Can I help?" she offers.
"Sure. Want to grate this cheese?"
She moves to stand beside me at the counter, our shoulders brushing as she works. The casual intimacy of it—cooking breakfast together like we've done this a hundred times—makes my chest tight.
"I can taste it," Quinn says suddenly. "The butter. The peppers. Everything."
"The ley lines are strongest here in the tavern. Food prepared here carries that energy." I crack eggs into a bowl and whisk them smooth. "But you'll probably find you can taste more than you could before, even outside of Redwood Rise."
"Why?"
"The land opened something in you when you crossed into town. Made you sensitive to the magic here in a way most people aren't." I pour the eggs into the pan, watching them sizzle and set. "Some people are just more receptive. Like Cilla. Like Dorothy at the bookstore."
