On Tap for the Bear (Shifters of Redwood Rise #3)

Prologue

QUINN

I click the link with trembling hands, a smile already forming as I prepare to see my name in print for the first time in a national food magazine. The webpage loads, and my smile freezes.

"The Hoppy Revolution: How Northern California's Craft Breweries Are Rewriting the Rules of American Beer" by Vanessa Bailey.

I blink, certain I've misread. I refresh the page.

The byline remains unchanged. My stomach drops as I begin to read—my words, my interviews, my tasting notes from seven different breweries, even my specific observation about how the citrus notes in one IPA reminded me of blood orange marmalade on sourdough toast. All of it, published under Vanessa's name.

I grab my phone and pull up Vanessa's contact. The call goes straight to voicemail. I try again. Voicemail. On the third attempt, she finally answers.

"Quinn, it's almost ten o'clock." Her voice carries that particular tone of patient exasperation that I've heard her use with overeager interns and demanding PR reps.

"Did you see the article?" My voice comes out higher than I intended, breathless with disbelief rather than anger.

There has to be an explanation. Vanessa's been my mentor for two years, the woman who brought me into the industry after tasting my deconstructed bouillabaisse at a culinary showcase.

She introduced me to editors, taught me how to taste with intention, showed me how to translate flavor into language that makes readers hungry.

"The beer piece? Yes, it turned out beautifully, didn't it?" Her tone is warm, almost proud. "Some of my best work, I think. The part about the blood orange marmalade comparison—I was particularly pleased with that detail."

I feel the floor tilt beneath my feet. "Vanessa, that was my article. I wrote that. You know I wrote that."

A pause, longer than it should be. When she speaks again, her voice has changed, adopting a concerned, almost therapeutic quality.

"Quinn, I think you're getting yourself worked up over nothing.

We worked on similar projects, remember?

You must have shared your notes with me at some point, and now you're mixing things up.

It happens when you're juggling multiple assignments. "

"I'm not mixing anything up. I submitted that exact article to Mark three weeks ago. I have the original file, the email confirmation...”

"Quinn." Her voice sharpens. "I think the stress of trying to establish yourself is getting to you. Maybe you should take some time, clear your head. We've all been there—that desperation to see your name in print. But this isn't the way."

I end the call, my hands numb. I immediately open my laptop and pull up the original document, my email to Mark Ford, the editor-in-chief of Epicurean Monthly.

The timestamp is there: late September, nearly midnight when I'd finally felt ready to submit.

I sent it directly to him, copying Vanessa as a courtesy since we'd discussed the piece during one of our mentoring sessions.

I forward the entire thread to Mark, my fingers flying over the keys as I explain what happened. His response comes twenty minutes later: a meeting request for first thing Monday morning.

I don't sleep that night. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, running through every conversation I had with Vanessa about the piece. I was so grateful for the guidance, for the feedback on my drafts, for her generous offer to help me get Mark's attention. I never questioned any of it.

Monday morning arrives grey and cold. I barely notice. I reach the Epicurean Monthly offices fifteen minutes early, my portfolio containing printed copies of every draft, every email, every piece of evidence that proves the work is mine.

Mark's assistant shows me into the conference room where Mark is already seated. So is Vanessa.

"Quinn, thanks for coming in." Mark gestures to a chair. "Vanessa asked to be present for this conversation."

I sit, acutely aware of Vanessa's calm, almost sympathetic expression. She looks like someone about to witness an intervention.

"I wanted to address this situation directly," I begin, opening my portfolio. "I have all the documentation here that proves...”

"Quinn." Mark holds up a hand, and something in his expression makes me stop.

"Vanessa came to me Friday afternoon with some concerns.

She said you'd been asking unusual questions about her work, that you'd seemed fixated on the beer article specifically.

She was worried you might try to claim credit for her piece. "

My mouth falls open. "What? No, I—that's not what happened. She stole my article."

"I understand you're upset," Mark says, his voice carefully neutral. "But Vanessa has been with this magazine for eight years. She has an impeccable reputation, and frankly, this kind of accusation is serious. Very serious."

"I have proof." I spread the documents across the table with shaking hands. "My drafts, my emails, my interview recordings...”

"Which Vanessa could have shared with you during your mentoring sessions," he says softly, regretfully. "Quinn, I know how much you want this. I understand the pressure you're feeling. But fabricating evidence won't help your career. It will only hurt it."

I stare at her, this woman I admired and looked up to, and see a stranger. Worse than a stranger—a predator who was patient enough to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

"I think," Mark says slowly, "given the circumstances, it would be best if you took a leave of absence while we investigate this matter thoroughly. Paid leave," he adds, as if that makes it better. "Just until we sort everything out."

I want to argue, to fight, to make them see the truth. But I can read the room. Mark has already made his decision. Vanessa's seniority, her connections, her eight years of carefully cultivated relationships—they all outweigh my evidence, no matter how compelling.

I leave the office in a daze, walking the fourteen blocks back to my apartment because I can't face the intimacy of a rideshare, can't bear the thought of making small talk with a stranger when my entire career is crumbling around me.

That night, I try to make myself dinner—pasta with brown butter and sage, something simple and comforting. I take a bite and taste nothing. Not the butter's richness, not the sage's earthiness, not even the salt I added to the water. Just texture and temperature. Just emptiness.

I set down my fork and begin to cry.

I've lost my mentor, my reputation, and apparently, my sense of taste all in the span of seventy-two hours. The betrayal has been so complete, so devastating, that my body has simply shut down the sense that defines my entire career.

I sit at my small kitchen table, laptop open, scrolling aimlessly through social media, when a post catches my eye.

Cilla Morgan's Sweet On You food truck—I've been following them since covering a street food festival two years ago.

The photo shows a rustic mountain town, autumn leaves blazing gold and crimson, with text that reads: “Settling into life in Redwood Rise!

This town has completely stolen my heart. "

I click through to Cilla's profile, then find myself falling down a rabbit hole of posts tagged with Redwood Rise. A small town in the mountains, far from San Francisco's fog and my destroyed reputation. A place where nobody knows me, where nobody will look at me with pity or suspicion.

I find a bed and breakfast with availability—the Pinecrest Inn, run by someone named Evelyn. The photos show weathered wood, cozy quilts, and windows that look out onto forest. It's exactly the kind of place where someone can disappear for a while.

I book a room for two weeks, telling myself it's temporary, just until I figure out my next move. I pack quickly, mechanically—clothes, laptop, my camera, the chef's knife my grandmother gave me when I graduated culinary school.

I turn off my phone, grab my keys, and walk out of my apartment without looking back.

Highway 101 North stretches empty before me, city lights dissolving in my rearview mirror. Five hours to Redwood Rise, according to the GPS. Five hours to put distance between myself and the wreckage of my career.

I don't have a plan beyond two weeks at a bed and breakfast in a town I'd never heard of until tonight.

Most likely I don't have a job, certainly don't have a friend and mentor, or even, it would seem, my ability to taste the coffee I'll need to stay awake for the drive.

That last one is going to hurt the most.

But I have my grandmother's knife in my bag, my camera on the passenger seat, and a town where the mountains meet the sea where nobody knows my name.