Chapter 3
ELI
The honey-lavender ale is perfect.
I stare at the glass in my hand, holding it up to the light streaming through the tavern's front windows, and for the first time in six weeks of failed attempts, the color is exactly right.
Golden amber with just a hint of purple undertone, the head creamy and persistent, the aroma delicate but distinct.
I take a sip, and there it is—the honey's sweetness balanced by lavender's floral earthiness, neither overpowering the other, the finish clean and slightly dry.
It's perfect.
"About damn time," I mutter, setting the glass down on the bar.
The ley lines must have settled overnight.
They've been restless for weeks, throwing off my fermentation temperatures, making my yeast act unpredictable.
But this morning when I came down to the cellar, everything felt.
.. aligned. Stable. Like the earth itself had taken a deep breath and finally exhaled.
I should be relieved. Instead, I'm on edge in a way that has nothing to do with beer and everything to do with the woman who's supposed to arrive in town this morning.
If she hasn't already.
"You're hovering," Beau says from behind me, making me jump.
My brother leans against the doorway to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, his mechanic's coveralls exchanged for jeans and a t-shirt that says "I void warranties.
" He closed down his garage for lunch—a luxury of owning your own business in a small town—and came straight here to help with prep, a routine we've fallen into over the years.
Him cooking while I tend bar during the rushes.
"I'm not hovering."
"You've checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes, you keep staring at the door, and you just spent five minutes analyzing that beer like it personally insulted our mother.
" Beau crosses his arms, grinning. "So either you're hovering, or you've developed a sudden anxiety disorder. Want to tell me which?"
I turn back to the bar, start pulling glasses down from the rack to polish them. "The honey-lavender finally came out right."
"Uh-huh. And that explains the nervous energy how?"
Before I can answer—or tell him to mind his own business—the lunch crowd starts trickling in.
It's Tuesday, which means a steady stream of locals mixed with the last of the season's tourists.
I fall into the familiar rhythm of pulling pints, taking orders, making small talk with people who've been coming to this tavern since before I was born.
Mrs. Wilkie wants her usual gin and tonic and spends ten minutes telling me about her garden gnomes, which have apparently relocated themselves again.
I nod sympathetically and don't mention that the "relocation" is probably courtesy of the local teenagers who think moving the gnomes is peak comedy.
Gary Northwood orders a burger and the IPA, asks about Calder's new project.
I tell him my brother's building a commercial kitchen for Cilla's bakery, which leads to a discussion about whether the town needs another restaurant space, which spirals into Gary's opinions on tourist economy versus local sustainability—a conversation I've heard at least fifty times.
I'm good at this. The easy conversation, the casual friendliness, the role of tavern keeper that my grandfather and father played before me. It's comfortable. Safe.
And then the door opens, and comfortable shatters.
She's smaller than I expected from Cilla's description, maybe five-foot-six, with hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyes that scan the tavern like she's cataloging every detail for a report.
She's wearing jeans and a grey sweater that's too big on her, and there are shadows under her eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights.
And she smells like honey and something floral I can't quite identify, barely masked by exhaustion and the faint tang of coffee.
My bear recognizes and claims her in the same heartbeat.
Mine.
The word reverberates through my entire body, a certainty so profound it makes my hands shake.
The pint glass I'm holding slips, and I barely catch it before it shatters on the bar.
My vision sharpens, edges taking on that hyperclarity that means my animal is too close to the surface.
Every detail suddenly matters—the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the slight furrow between her brows as she catalogues the room, the unconscious way she shifts her weight like she's ready to bolt at any moment.
My bear wants to go to her. Wants to crowd into her space, breathe in that honey-sweet scent, make sure she knows she's safe here, that she's ours.
But the human part of me—the part that's spent thirty-two years learning restraint—recognizes the wariness in her posture, the armor in her expression. This is a woman who's been hurt. Recently. Badly.
If I move too fast, I'll lose her before I ever have her.
So I force myself to breathe. To set down the glass with deliberate care. To grip the edge of the bar until my knuckles go white and the instinct to claim her settles into something manageable.
She hasn't noticed me yet. She's still scanning the room, that analytical gaze taking in the exposed beams, the local artwork, the other customers. When her eyes finally land on me, something happens.
The air between us goes thick, heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Her eyes widen. Her lips part slightly. And for just a second, I see surprise flicker across her face, followed by what looks almost like recognition.
No. That's wishful thinking. Humans don't feel the mate bond the way shifters do.
She's walking toward the bar.
I set down the glass carefully, wipe my hands on my towel, and try to look like I'm not having a complete internal meltdown.
"Hi," she says when she reaches the bar, and her voice is exactly what I expected—professional, controlled, with just a hint of wariness underneath. "Are you still serving lunch?"
"Until three." My voice comes out relatively normal, which feels like a minor miracle. "What can I get you?"
"Cilla mentioned you have good burgers." She settles onto a stool, pulling a notebook and pen from her bag with practiced ease. She's probably been in hundreds of restaurants, sat at hundreds of bars. This is just another Tuesday for her.
Except I can see tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip the pen a little too tightly, the careful neutrality of her expression that looks like armor.
"The burgers are good," I confirm. "The bacon jam burger is popular. So is the mushroom Swiss. Or I can do a classic if you prefer simple."
"Bacon jam." She writes something in her notebook. "And Cilla said your brews are worth trying. Could I get a flight? Whatever you'd recommend."
This is my moment. I should play it cool, professional, just another customer. Instead, I hear myself say, "I just tapped a new experimental brew this morning. Honey-lavender ale. It's not on the menu yet, but you're welcome to try it if you'd like."
Why am I offering her the beer I've been obsessing over for six weeks? The one that finally came together after the ley lines settled?
Her pen stills. "Honey-lavender?" Something in her voice catches. "That's an unusual combination."
"It works better than you'd think. The honey provides sweetness without being cloying, and the lavender adds a floral note that keeps it interesting. But it's delicate—if you're not in the mood for something subtle..."
"No." She looks up, and for the first time, I see past the armor. There's hunger in her eyes. Not for food, but for something else entirely. "No, I want to try it. Please."
I pour the flight carefully: the honey-lavender, the IPA, the pale ale, and the stout we've been serving since my grandfather's time. I set them in front of her in order, lightest to darkest, the way you're supposed to taste beer.
She picks up the honey-lavender first.
I look away, busying myself with wiping down the bar. Give her privacy to taste, to analyze, to do whatever food writers do when they're evaluating a beer. But I can't help glancing back as she raises the glass, as the aroma reaches her first, as her eyes widen slightly.
She takes a sip.
And her entire body goes still.
I don't know what happens exactly, but her eyes close, and when she swallows, I see relief cross her face so profound it makes my chest ache.
"This is...” She stops, opens her eyes, stares at the glass like it's personally betrayed her. "This is incredible."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not usually..." She trails off, seems to catch herself. "Your fermentation process must be very precise. The balance is perfect."
She's deflecting. I recognize it because I do the same thing.
"The ley lines help," I say before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps up. "The what?"
Shit. Humans aren't supposed to know about the ley lines. That's rule number one of living in Redwood Rise—keep the magic quiet, keep the humans oblivious, keep the secret that keeps everyone safe.
"Old brewer's superstition," I recover, grabbing a towel to wipe down the already-clean bar. "The earth's energy, mineral content in the water, that kind of thing. Some people call them ley lines. I just know that when certain conditions align, the beer turns out better."
She studies me for a long moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she sees right through the lie. But she just makes a note in her book and moves on to the next beer.
I start to walk away to check on other customers, help Beau in the kitchen, or anything that's not standing here watching this woman taste my beer like she's searching for answers. But I'm rooted in place, my bear refusing to let me move, to look away, to do anything but watch her.