Page 20 of On Tap for the Bear
"I'm fine to drive," she says, reading my hesitation. "One beer over two hours."
"I know." I do know—I've been tracking her intake like it's my job. "But humor me anyway. I'll follow you up to make sure you get there safely."
She looks like she might argue, then just nods and unlocks her car.
I jog back to grab my truck from behind the tavern, then follow her taillights up Main Street toward the Pinecrest.
The drive takes less than three minutes. She parks in the Pinecrest's lot, and I pull in beside her. We both get out, and I walk her to the porch, the night air cool and quiet around us.
"This town is strange," Quinn says, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. "Everyone I talk to says the same thing—that Redwood Rise chooses its residents, not the other way around. That people who belong here somehow don't really leave."
"Is that what you're writing about?"
"I don't know what I'm writing about anymore." She glances at me. "I came here to hide. To figure out what I'm supposed todo now that my career is...” She stops herself. "Now that things have changed."
"And have you? Figured it out?"
"No. But I've discovered that your beer and your food are the only things I can taste, which is both miraculous and completely inexplicable." She climbs up one step, turns to face me so we're almost at eye level. "Thank you for tonight. For the tasting menu, for the company, for not asking too many questions about why a food writer who can't taste food is hiding in your town and for listening."
"You're welcome. And Quinn?" I wait until she looks at me. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're hiding. I think you're healing."
Her breath catches. For a second, she just stares at me, and a dozen emotions flicker across her face—surprise, hope, fear, longing.
Then she steps forward, rises on her toes. Her hand lands on my shoulder for balance, light but burning through my shirt. She presses her lips to my cheek—soft, warm, over far too quickly—and my entire body goes rigid with the effort of not moving, not turning my head those few inches that would put my mouth on hers.
"Goodnight, Eli."
She's inside before I can form words, the porch light illuminating empty space. I stand frozen at the base of the steps, my shoulder still tingling where she touched me, my cheek still warm from her lips.
My bear roars. Not a sound, but a feeling—a surge of possession so fierce it takes everything I have not to follow her inside, not to knock on that door and tell her exactly what she is to me.
Mine. Mate. Ours.
I press my fingers to my cheek where her mouth was. Twelve years of learning control, twelve years of restraint, and it all nearly crumbles from one innocent kiss. My hands shake. My vision sharpens. Every instinct screams to go after her, to make her understand, to claim what belongs to us.
But I don't. Can't. Not until she knows what I am, what we could be.
I force myself to turn. To walk back to my truck. To drive away even though every cell in my body is screaming to stay.
Her scent still clings to me from that brief moment when she touched my shoulder—honey and something floral and uniquely Quinn. I clutch the steering wheel, breathing through the need, the want, the absolute certainty that she belongs to me. Patience, I tell myself. Give her time. Let her figure out what's happening between us before you drop the shifter bomb and send her running. My bear snarls its disagreement, but I ignore it.
Two weeks. She said two weeks at the Pinecrest. Fourteen days to make her want to stay without scaring her off.
I'm not sure either of us will survive it.
CHAPTER 6
QUINN
Ican't sleep.
It's past midnight, and I'm lying in bed at the Pinecrest staring at the ceiling, my lips still tingling from where I kissed Eli’s cheek. The memory plays on a loop—the way his skin tasted like hops and spices I can’t name, the low rumble in his chest that I felt more than heard.
I press my fingers to my mouth, as if I can hold onto the sensation, but it's fading. Everything fades eventually. That's what Vanessa taught me, even if she didn't mean to. Trust fades. Careers fade. Taste fades.
But this, whatever this is with Eli, feels different. Dangerous. Like standing too close to an open flame.
The room feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I need air. Space. Something to clear my head that isn't thoughts of a gruff bartender with golden-brown eyes who I impulsively kissed when it felt as if he was the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.
