Page 8 of On Tap for the Bear
His eyes are dark—brown or maybe hazel, I can't tell from here—and they widen slightly as he sees me. He sets down the pint glass with deliberate care, his gaze never leaving mine.
My tongue tingles.
I freeze mid-step, one hand still on the door.
What?
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, testing, not daring to believe. But it's there. Not taste, not yet, but sensation. The faintest hint of... something. Like static electricity, but warmer. Like my mouth is waking up after being asleep.
The man behind the bar is still watching me, his expression unreadable.
And I realize I'm staring back.
CHAPTER 3
ELI
The honey-lavender ale is perfect.
I stare at the glass in my hand, holding it up to the light streaming through the tavern's front windows, and for the first time in six weeks of failed attempts, the color is exactly right. Golden amber with just a hint of purple undertone, the head creamy and persistent, the aroma delicate but distinct. I take a sip, and there it is—the honey's sweetness balanced by lavender's floral earthiness, neither overpowering the other, the finish clean and slightly dry.
It's perfect.
"About damn time," I mutter, setting the glass down on the bar. The ley lines must have settled overnight. They've been restless for weeks, throwing off my fermentation temperatures, making my yeast act unpredictable. But this morning when I came down to the cellar, everything felt... aligned. Stable. Like the earth itself had taken a deep breath and finally exhaled.
I should be relieved. Instead, I'm on edge in a way that has nothing to do with beer and everything to do with the woman who's supposed to arrive in town this morning.
If she hasn't already.
"You're hovering," Beau says from behind me, making me jump. My brother leans against the doorway to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, his mechanic's coveralls exchanged for jeans and a t-shirt that says "I void warranties." He closed down his garage for lunch—a luxury of owning your own business in a small town—and came straight here to help with prep, a routine we've fallen into over the years. Him cooking while I tend bar during the rushes.
"I'm not hovering."
"You've checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes, you keep staring at the door, and you just spent five minutes analyzing that beer like it personally insulted our mother." Beau crosses his arms, grinning. "So either you're hovering, or you've developed a sudden anxiety disorder. Want to tell me which?"
I turn back to the bar, start pulling glasses down from the rack to polish them. "The honey-lavender finally came out right."
"Uh-huh. And that explains the nervous energy how?"
Before I can answer—or tell him to mind his own business—the lunch crowd starts trickling in. It's Tuesday, which means a steady stream of locals mixed with the last of the season's tourists. I fall into the familiar rhythm of pulling pints, taking orders, making small talk with people who've been coming to this tavern since before I was born.
Mrs. Wilkie wants her usual gin and tonic and spends ten minutes telling me about her garden gnomes, which have apparently relocated themselves again. I nod sympathetically and don't mention that the "relocation" is probably courtesy of the local teenagers who think moving the gnomes is peak comedy.
Gary Northwood orders a burger and the IPA, asks about Calder's new project. I tell him my brother's buildinga commercial kitchen for Cilla's bakery, which leads to a discussion about whether the town needs another restaurant space, which spirals into Gary's opinions on tourist economy versus local sustainability—a conversation I've heard at least fifty times.
I'm good at this. The easy conversation, the casual friendliness, the role of tavern keeper that my grandfather and father played before me. It's comfortable. Safe.
And then the door opens, and comfortable shatters.
She's smaller than I expected from Cilla's description, maybe five-foot-six, with hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyes that scan the tavern like she's cataloging every detail for a report. She's wearing jeans and a grey sweater that's too big on her, and there are shadows under her eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights.
And she smells like honey and something floral I can't quite identify, barely masked by exhaustion and the faint tang of coffee.
My bear recognizes and claims her in the same heartbeat.
Mine.
The word reverberates through my entire body, a certainty so profound it makes my hands shake. The pint glass I'm holding slips, and I barely catch it before it shatters on the bar. My vision sharpens, edges taking on that hyperclarity that means my animal is too close to the surface. Every detail suddenly matters—the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the slight furrow between her brows as she catalogues the room, the unconscious way she shifts her weight like she's ready to bolt at any moment.
