Page 21 of On Tap for the Bear
I throw off the covers and pad to the window. The forest beyond the inn's garden is dark, the trees black silhouettes against a star-scattered sky. Somewhere out there, Eli isprobably asleep, not lying awake replaying a kiss like some lovesick teenager.
The thought makes me restless and pathetic. I'm a thirty-two-year-old food critic who just lost everything, and I'm mooning over a man I barely know in a town I'll probably leave in a week or two once I figure out my next move.
Except the thought of leaving makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my ruined career.
I pull on jeans, a hoodie, and my sneakers. Fresh air. That's all I need. A walk to clear my head, and then maybe I can sleep.
The Pinecrest is silent as I slip out the front door. Evelyn left the porch light on—a soft golden glow that barely reaches the edge of the garden. Beyond it, the forest beckons. The night air hits my face, cool and clean, scented with pine and something earthier, richer. The kind of scent that makes you want to breathe deeper, walk farther.
I tell myself I'll just walk to the edge of the garden. Just far enough to feel the night air, to let the quiet settle my racing thoughts.
But my feet carry me past the garden gate. Past the last glow of the porch light. Onto the narrow trail that disappears into the trees.
The forest at night is a different world. The darkness is alive, full of rustling leaves and distant calls, the whisper of wind through branches, the soft creak of old wood settling. My phone's flashlight cuts a thin beam through the shadows, illuminating patches of fern and moss-covered stones, the rough bark of ancient redwoods.
It should feel threatening. Ominous. I'm alone in an unfamiliar forest in the middle of the night with nothing but a phone light and questionable life choices.
Instead, it feels right. Like I'm supposed to be here.
The trail winds deeper into the woods, and I follow it without thinking. My feet seem to know where to step, avoiding roots and rocks I can barely see. The air grows cooler, damper. The canopy overhead is so thick that even the moonlight struggles to penetrate, leaving me in a cathedral of darkness broken only by my small circle of light.
I walk for what feels like ten minutes but might be longer. Time does strange things in the dark. When I finally stop to check my phone, I'm startled to see I've been walking for nearly thirty minutes. The Pinecrest is far behind me now, and I'm standing in a small clearing where moonlight filters through a gap in the canopy, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
My breath mists in the cool air. The silence is profound—no cars, no voices, no hum of civilization. Just the forest breathing around me, ancient and patient.
This is stupid. I should turn back, but I don't. Because that's when I hear it—a low rumble that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet.
I freeze, every muscle locking. That wasn't wind. That wasn't a tree branch. That was something alive. Something big.
The beam of my phone flashlight shakes as my hand trembles. I sweep it across the clearing, trying to find the source of the sound. Nothing. Maybe I should?—
The rumble comes again, closer this time. Deeper. And then I see it.
The bear steps out from between two massive redwoods on the far side of the clearing.
My breath stops. My heart stops. Everything stops.
It's massive. A wall of muscle and fur that moves with impossible silence for something so large. Rich brown coat, almost black in the shadows, rippling over shoulders that standas high as my chest. Each paw is the size of a dinner plate, tipped with claws that catch the moonlight like polished obsidian.
Then it rises. Up and up, unfolding to its full height on hind legs, and I have to tilt my head back to see its face. Seven feet of raw power, backlit by moonlight through the canopy, breath misting in the cool air. Its eyes, amber shot through with brown, lock onto mine with an intelligence that sends electricity down my spine.
I'm going to die. There is no doubt in my mind about that.
Every nature documentary I've ever watched, every ranger warning I've ever heard, floods my mind in a useless jumble. Don't run. Don't make eye contact. Make yourself big. Play dead. No, that's for grizzlies. Or is it black bears? God, I can't remember, I can't?—
The bear drops back to all fours and takes a step toward me.
My legs have turned to stone. I try to scream, to run, to do anything, but my body refuses every command. The bear takes one step forward, then another, massive paws pressing into the earth without a sound. I can feel the vibration of its weight through the ground beneath my feet. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe, and the only thought cutting through the white noise of terror is absurdly small: I never got to tell anyone I could taste Eli's food. I never got to find out why.
The bear stops five feet away. Close enough that I can smell it, wild and earthy, with that same cedar scent from Eli. I can see the rise and fall of its massive chest, hear the soft huff of its breathing. And those eyes, intelligent and disturbingly familiar, hold mine without threat or malice.
The bear doesn't growl. Doesn't charge. It watches me with an intensity that roots me to the spot, and then, slowly and deliberately, it turns and walks to the edge of the clearing. It looks back at me, waiting.
This is insane. This is a horror movie. This is how people die in the woods. But somehow, I don't feel afraid anymore. Confused, yes. Shaking, absolutely. But not afraid.
The bear huffs—a surprisingly gentle sound—and takes another few steps along the trail. It wants me to follow. The realization hits like a slap. It's guiding me back toward town.
I take a tentative step in the direction it wants me to go. The bear's posture relaxes slightly, and it continues walking, always staying just ahead of me, always glancing back to make sure I'm following.
