Page 27 of On Tap for the Bear
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
"Quinn." My name on his lips raises goosebumps on my arms. "What are you really doing here?"
"I told you. I have questions about your beer."
"That's not what I'm asking."
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though looking at him feels dangerous. "What do you mean?"
"You're running from something." He says it quietly, without judgment, but the words hit like a blow anyway. "I can see it in the way you hold yourself. Like you're waiting for the next hurt."
"That's none of your business."
"You're right. It's not." But he doesn't move away. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to know."
The hum in the cellar intensifies, and I realize my hand is still on the barrel, his hand inches from mine. All I'd have to do is shift slightly and our fingers would touch. A small distance. A dangerous gap.
"Someone I trusted betrayed me," I hear myself say. "Took my work. My words. Put her name on them and left me with nothing."
"That's why you can't taste food."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I looked it up. Stress-induced ageusia. My body's way of shutting down after trauma." I don't mention that I haven't actually seen a doctor, that I'm too afraid of what they might find—or what they might not find. Easier to give it a clinical name than admit I have no idea what's happening to me.
"But you can taste my beer."
"Yes. And your food." I pull my hand away from the barrel, wrapping my arms around myself. "And apparently Evelyn's cinnamon rolls. But nothing else. Nothing from before I came here."
Eli's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rough. "Maybe your body knows what it needs. What's safe."
"Your beer is safe?"
"I am." He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him. "You're safe here, Quinn. In this town. With me."
The words should sound presumptuous. Instead, they sound like a promise.
The rational choice is to thank him for the tour and walk out of this cellar back into the world where beer is just beer and strange hums in old cellars can be explained by faulty wiring. To protect myself before I get hurt again.
But I'm tired of running. Tired of fear. Tired of letting Vanessa's betrayal poison everything good I might find.
"Eli." His name comes out barely above a whisper.
He steps closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. Close enough that if I just leaned forward?—
He cups my face with one hand, his palm warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I forget how to breathe.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. His eyes dark, searching mine for something I don't understand. The tension between us pulls taut, a wire stretched to breaking. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his pupils dilate, watch the muscle in his jaw tighten. I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere his skin touches mine. Every nerve ending screams for him to close the distance, to stop holding back, to just?—
But he doesn't. His hand slides away from my face, cool air rushing in where warmth had been. He takes a step back, then another, putting space between us that feels like a chasm. My cheek burns where he touched me, my lip still tingles from the brush of his thumb, and the sudden absence of him leaves me cold and aching.
"You need to go," he says, his voice rough. "Before I stop caring about doing the right thing."
"What if I don't want you to do the right thing?"
"Quinn." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "You're not ready. And I won't take advantage of that."
The rejection stings, even though I know he's right. Even though part of me is grateful he has more control than I do. But another part—the part that's been numb and broken since Vanessa's betrayal—wants to rage at him for stopping.
