Page 17 of On Tap for the Bear
She does exactly as I say, and her face transforms—the beer first brings that now-familiar flutter of her eyelids, the small intake of breath. Then the crostini, and this time when she closes her eyes, euphoria washes over her features.
When she opens them, they're bright with unshed tears.
"This is...” Her voice catches. She clears her throat, tries again. "This is really good."
"Good?" I lean against the bar, studying her. "That's all I get?"
"Don't fish for compliments. It's beneath you." But she's smiling now, taking another bite, and I count it as a victory. "The smoke on the trout is subtle. Most places overdo it. And thelemon oil cuts through the richness of the goat cheese without overpowering the fish. It's... balanced."
"Now try the beer again."
She does, and I watch understanding dawn on her face. "It amplifies the honey notes in the oil. Makes them more prominent."
"And the lavender?"
"Echoes the herbaceous taste of the goat cheese." She makes a note, shaking her head. "This is really well thought out."
"I've had practice."
We talk while she eats, navigating around what we're really saying—both of us careful, both of us curious. She asks good questions about brewing techniques and ingredient sourcing, listens with genuine interest when I explain the fermentation process. And every instinct I have screams at me to tell her everything—about the ley lines, about shifters, about the fact that she's my mate and I knew it the second she walked through my door.
But I can't. Not yet.
"How’d you get started?" she asks as I set down the second course—arugula salad with candied walnuts, shaved parmesan, and lemon vinaigrette, paired with the pale ale.
"My dad let me experiment in the cellar. Most of my early attempts were disasters, but he never told me to stop. Just kept encouraging me to figure out what went wrong."
"That's a good dad."
"He was." The grief is old now, but it still catches me sometimes. "He died twelve years ago. Car accident, him and my mom both."
Her hand stills on her fork. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Well, it's not, but it's been long enough that it doesn't hurt the same way." I pour myself a water, needingsomething to do with my hands. "What about you? What got you into food writing?"
She takes a bite of salad before answering, making calculations about how much to share. "My grandmother was a chef. Taught me to cook when I was little, taught me to pay attention to flavors, to think about how ingredients work together. When she died, she left me her knife." She pauses. "Writing about food felt like a way to honor her, I guess. To keep that connection alive."
"Felt?"
"What?"
"You said it felt like a way to honor her. Past tense."
She looks down at her plate. "Did I?"
"Quinn." I wait until she looks up. "What happened?"
For a second, I think she's going to deflect, hide behind that professional armor she wears so well. But her expression cracks, just slightly.
"I lost my sense of taste," she says quietly. "Three days ago. Everything just... stopped. No flavor, no nuance, nothing. Just texture and temperature." She picks up the pale ale, stares into it like it holds answers. "Except for your beer. And now, apparently, your food. Which makes absolutely no sense, but there it is."
I want to reach across the bar, want to take her hand, want to tell her that it makes perfect sense because she's mine and I'm hers and of course my food breaks through whatever's blocking her.
Instead, I say, "Jesus, Quinn. That sounds terrifying."
"Terrifying." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's one word for it. Try career-ending. I'm a food writer who can't taste food. That's like being a deaf musician or a blind painter. It's...” She stops, shakes her head. "Sorry. You don't need to hear this."
"I want to hear it."
