Page 29 of On Tap for the Bear
Somewhere in town, Eli is in his cellar with his mysterious beer and his careful restraint. Is he thinking about what almost happened between us? Does his thumb still remember the shape of my lip? Or has he already moved on, filed it away as a moment of weakness he won't repeat?
My cheek still burns where he touched me. My lip still tingles from the brush of his thumb. And I hate that even now, even with Vanessa's triumph sitting like lead in my stomach, part of me wants to go back to that cellar. Wants to feel his hands on my face again. Wants him to stop being so goddamn controlled and just?—
I sit up. The sudden movement makes my head swim, but at least it breaks the paralysis. My phone sits on the nightstand next to my closed laptop, screen dark and innocent.
I pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up again.
The text from Cilla is still there, bright and cheerful:
Dinner tonight? I want to hear all about how the research on the article is going!
The article I'm not writing. The research I'm not doing. The lie I've been telling because the truth—I ran away from my life and I'm hiding in your town and I don't know what I'm doing here—is too pathetic to say out loud.
I should text back. Should make some excuse about being tired or busy or coming down with something. Should pack my bag and check out of the Pinecrest and drive back to San Francisco where I can... what? Watch Vanessa accept my award? Beg Mark Ford to reconsider an investigation he clearly never intended to take seriously? Rebuild a career from ruins when I can't even taste the food I'm supposed to write about?
My thumbs hover over the screen.
Somewhere in San Francisco, Vanessa is probably already planning her acceptance speech. Practicing her surprised face in the mirror. Deciding what to wear. Maybe she feels a twinge of guilt when she thinks about me. Maybe she's convinced herself the work really was hers, that her "mentorship" and "guidance" were substantial enough to claim ownership. Maybe she doesn't think about me at all.
The thought should hurt more than it does.
I start typing before I can stop myself:
Sounds perfect. What time?
Send.
The message disappears into the ether, and there's no taking it back now.
I set the phone down and stare at it like it might explain what I'm doing. Why I just agreed to dinner when I should be halfway to San Francisco by now. Why I'm lying to my friend. Why I'm staying in a town where nothing makes sense, where I can taste food that should be as bland as everything else, where a man I barely know makes my entire body come alive and then refuses to act on it.
Here I am, lying to my friend about an article I'm not writing, tasting food I shouldn't be able to taste, wanting a man who won't kiss me even when every cell in my body is begging him to.
I should leave.
Instead, I'm staying for dinner.
CHAPTER 9
ELI
The drive to the compound feels longer than usual, probably because I'm dreading what's waiting for me there.
Not the food—Calder's handling cooking duty tonight since Cilla's having dinner with Quinn in town. Not my brothers, who've already said their piece this morning and know better than to push. No, what I'm dreading is the interrogation I know is coming from Anabeth.
She has a sixth sense for this kind of thing. She'll take one look at me and know something's changed, and then she'll want details I'm not ready to give.
I park next to Beau's truck and sit for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, gathering myself. Through the windows of Calder's stone cottage, I can see movement—people setting the table, pouring drinks, the comfortable chaos of family dinner. Golden light spills out onto the darkening compound, warm and inviting. It should feel welcoming. Instead, it feels like walking into an ambush.
My bear is restless, has been since Quinn left the tavern this morning. The phantom sensation of her cheek under my palm refuses to fade. I can still see the exact moment her pupilsdilated when my thumb brushed her lip, still feel the way she leaned into my touch before catching herself. The restraint it took not to kiss her nearly broke me. Every instinct I have screamed to pull her closer, to claim her mouth, to show her exactly what she does to me. My bear wanted to claim her right there in the cellar, consequences be damned.
But she's not ready. Not for what I am, not for what we could be. Not when she's barely healed from the last person she trusted.
I force myself out of the truck, my boots crunching on gravel. The October air is cool, carrying the scent of pine and the distant ocean. Above me, stars are beginning to appear, and the ley lines hum softly beneath my feet—not the aggressive surges from earlier, but a steady pulse like a heartbeat. Waiting.
I trudge up the stone path to the front door. It opens before I can knock—Calder, wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Carpenter" that Cilla gave him as a joke. He's smiling, but his eyes are sharp.
"About time. Anabeth's been watching the driveway for twenty minutes."
