Page 9 of On Tap for the Bear
My bear wants to go to her. Wants to crowd into her space, breathe in that honey-sweet scent, make sure she knows she's safe here, that she'sours.
But the human part of me—the part that's spent thirty-two years learning restraint—recognizes the wariness in her posture, the armor in her expression. This is a woman who's been hurt. Recently. Badly.
If I move too fast, I'll lose her before I ever have her.
So I force myself to breathe. To set down the glass with deliberate care. To grip the edge of the bar until my knuckles go white and the instinct to claim her settles into something manageable.
She hasn't noticed me yet. She's still scanning the room, that analytical gaze taking in the exposed beams, the local artwork, the other customers. When her eyes finally land on me, something happens.
The air between us goes thick, heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Her eyes widen. Her lips part slightly. And for just a second, I see surprise flicker across her face, followed by what looks almost like recognition.
No. That's wishful thinking. Humans don't feel the mate bond the way shifters do.
She's walking toward the bar.
I set down the glass carefully, wipe my hands on my towel, and try to look like I'm not having a complete internal meltdown.
"Hi," she says when she reaches the bar, and her voice is exactly what I expected—professional, controlled, with just a hint of wariness underneath. "Are you still serving lunch?"
"Until three." My voice comes out relatively normal, which feels like a minor miracle. "What can I get you?"
"Cilla mentioned you have good burgers." She settles onto a stool, pulling a notebook and pen from her bag with practiced ease. She's probably been in hundreds of restaurants, sat at hundreds of bars. This is just another Tuesday for her.
Except I can see tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip the pen a little too tightly, the careful neutrality of her expression that looks like armor.
"The burgers are good," I confirm. "The bacon jam burger is popular. So is the mushroom Swiss. Or I can do a classic if you prefer simple."
"Bacon jam." She writes something in her notebook. "And Cilla said your brews are worth trying. Could I get a flight? Whatever you'd recommend."
This is my moment. I should play it cool, professional, just another customer. Instead, I hear myself say, "I just tapped a new experimental brew this morning. Honey-lavender ale. It's not on the menu yet, but you're welcome to try it if you'd like."
Why am I offering her the beer I've been obsessing over for six weeks? The one that finally came together after the ley lines settled?
Her pen stills. "Honey-lavender?" Something in her voice catches. "That's an unusual combination."
"It works better than you'd think. The honey provides sweetness without being cloying, and the lavender adds a floral note that keeps it interesting. But it's delicate—if you're not in the mood for something subtle..."
"No." She looks up, and for the first time, I see past the armor. There's hunger in her eyes. Not for food, but for something else entirely. "No, I want to try it. Please."
I pour the flight carefully: the honey-lavender, the IPA, the pale ale, and the stout we've been serving since my grandfather's time. I set them in front of her in order, lightest to darkest, the way you're supposed to taste beer.
She picks up the honey-lavender first.
I look away, busying myself with wiping down the bar. Give her privacy to taste, to analyze, to do whatever food writers do when they're evaluating a beer. But I can't help glancing back asshe raises the glass, as the aroma reaches her first, as her eyes widen slightly.
She takes a sip.
And her entire body goes still.
I don't know what happens exactly, but her eyes close, and when she swallows, I see relief cross her face so profound it makes my chest ache.
"This is...” She stops, opens her eyes, stares at the glass like it's personally betrayed her. "This is incredible."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not usually..." She trails off, seems to catch herself. "Your fermentation process must be very precise. The balance is perfect."
