Page 19 of On Tap for the Bear
I get Gary outside just as Sawyer pulls up in his patrol vehicle—he must have been close by. My brother gets out, takes one look at Gary, and sighs.
"This is becoming a pattern," Sawyer says, but his voice is gentle as he helps Gary into the passenger seat.
"Call me when he's home safe?"
"Will do."
I watch them drive off, then take a minute to breathe before going back inside. The other customers have returned to their meals, the incident already forgotten. But Quinn is still watching me, her expression thoughtful.
"That was well handled," she says when I reclaim my spot behind the bar.
"Gary's going through some things. He doesn't usually drink like that."
"You could have thrown him out. Would have been within your rights."
"And accomplished what, exactly? He'd just go drink somewhere else, probably somewhere less safe." I pull a new glass for myself, pour water. "Better to get him home where he belongs."
"Not just gentle," she murmurs, so quietly I almost don't hear it. "Controlled."
Her eyes meet mine, reassessing, and warmth spreads through my chest. My bear practically preens—she sees us,understands us, recognizes our strength even if she doesn't know what it means.
"You ready for dessert?" I ask, changing the subject before I do something stupid like lean over this bar and kiss her.
The torte is rich, dark, exactly what it should be. Paired with the stout, it's transcendent—the coffee notes in the beer amplifying the chocolate, the slight bitterness cutting through the sweetness.
"That was...” She stops, swallows hard. "That's the first meal I've truly tasted in three days. The first time food has tasted like anything other than cardboard and regret." Her voice breaks slightly. "Thank you."
The pain behind her words nearly undoes me. Whatever happened in San Francisco, whatever drove her here, it hurt her badly enough that her body shut down. And somehow, inexplicably, my food brings her back.
"Anytime," I manage. "Seriously. Anytime you want to taste things, you know where to find me."
She laughs, but it's watery. "That's not how taste buds work."
"Maybe yours are special."
"Or maybe yours are." She closes her notebook, starts gathering her things. "I should go. It's getting late."
I glance at the clock. It's barely eight-thirty, but I don't argue. "Let me follow you back to the Pinecrest."
"That's not necessary."
"Humor me. It's dark out, and I'd feel better knowing you got back safely."
She looks like she's going to argue, then seems to change her mind. "Alright. But I'm capable of driving myself, for the record."
"Noted."
I tell Beau I'm stepping out and follow Quinn into the night. The temperature has dropped, and outside she shivers slightly in her sweater.
"You should grab a jacket from your car before you drive," I say, walking her across the street to where she parked.
"I'll be fine. It's a three-minute drive."
"Quinn."
She rolls her eyes but there's a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, Dad."
The word hits differently than she probably intended, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. The town is quiet, most businesses already closed for the night, streetlights casting warm pools of gold on the pavement.
