Chapter 3 #2
She tries the IPA next. Her expression shifts—interested, appreciative, but not that same intensity. She takes another sip, considers it, makes a note. "Good hop balance," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Citrus notes without being too bitter."
The stout gets a more enthusiastic response. She goes back for a second sip immediately, her eyes closing briefly as she processes the flavors. "Chocolate," she says, opening her eyes. "And something else. Coffee?"
"Espresso beans in the secondary fermentation," I confirm, stupidly pleased that she picked up on it. "Local roaster supplies them."
She nods, makes more notes, then moves to the pale ale. This one she seems to find pleasant but unremarkable—she tastes it, nods politely, sets it down.
Then she circles back to the honey-lavender.
She picks it up like it's precious. Like it might disappear if she's not careful. Takes another sip, slower this time, more deliberate. I watch her throat work as she swallows, watch her eyes close again, watch that same relief wash over her features.
"This one," she says quietly, opening her eyes to look at me. "This one is different."
"Different how?" I don't know why I'm pushing, but I need to understand what's happening here, why this beer—why this woman—feels like the answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
She looks down at the glass, and for a moment I think she's going to deflect again. Then she says, very quietly, "It tastes like hope."
The words hit me square in the chest. Before I can respond—before I can ask her what she means—she seems to realize what she's revealed. She straightens, pulls her notebook closer, becomes all business again.
"Can I ask you something?" She doesn't look up from her notebook. "How long have you been brewing?"
"Professionally? About twelve years. But I've been experimenting since I was sixteen and my dad let me try making beer in the cellar."
"And this one?" She taps the honey-lavender glass. "How long did it take to get it right?"
"Six weeks of failed batches. Couldn't get the balance right. Either too much honey and it was cloying, or too much lavender and it tasted like soap. This morning it finally came together."
"This morning." She says it like the timing means something. "That's... lucky."
"Or maybe the ley lines had a hand in it."
She looks up at that, her gaze sharp. "You keep mentioning them. These ley lines."
"Old family superstition," I say again, lighter this time. "My grandfather swore by them. Said brewing was as much about reading the earth as reading the recipe."
"And you believe that?"
I could deflect. Could laugh it off, change the subject, keep the secret that's not mine to tell.
Instead, I meet her eyes and say, "I believe there are things we don't fully understand. Things that work even when we can't explain why. Like how you knew this...” I gesture to the honey-lavender, "… was going to be special before you even tasted it."
Her hand tightens on the glass. "I didn't...”
"You picked it up first. Before any of the others. Like you were drawn to it."
"That's just..." She stops. Looks away. "That's just how I work. Lightest to darkest, that's the proper tasting order."
She's lying. I can tell, though I'm not sure how.
Before I can push further—before I make this worse—Beau appears with her burger. He sets it down with the easy smile he uses on everyone, but I see the moment his eyes flick between us, see the calculation happening behind that casual grin.
"Bacon jam burger, medium rare," he says. "Let me know if you need anything else."
Quinn—Quinn Samuelson, I remind myself, since Cilla mentioned her full name yesterday—thanks him and pulls the plate closer. She picks up the burger, takes a bite, and I watch her face carefully.
There's no revelation this time. No moment of relief or recognition. She chews, swallows, makes a note, takes another bite. Professional. Analytical.
But I saw what happened with the beer. I saw what she wasn't expecting, what surprised her, what made her close her eyes like she was tasting something precious.
We make awkward small talk while she eats.
She asks about the tavern's history, and I give her the sanitized version—family business, four generations, local gathering place.
She asks about the town, and I tell her about the tourist season, the locals who've been here forever, the way Redwood Rise tends to grow on people.
"Do people usually stay?" she asks. "Or is it just a stop on the way to somewhere else?"
"Depends on the person. Some people are just passing through.
Others..." I think about Cilla, about how she arrived broken and found home.
About Anabeth, who came to study wildlife and ended up finding a family.
"Others find out they were looking for this place all along, even if they didn't know it. "
She doesn't respond immediately. Just takes another bite of her burger, chews thoughtfully. Then she says, "That's a nice story. Very... romantic."
"You don't believe it?"
"I think people tell themselves stories to make sense of random events. Sometimes you end up somewhere because you ran out of road, not because you were meant to be there."
The bitterness in her voice is subtle, but it's there. Whatever brought her here, it wasn't a plan. It was an escape.
"Maybe," I say carefully. "Or maybe running out of road is just another way of arriving."
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and I see something flicker in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition that I see more than she wants me to. She opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then seems to change her mind.
"Your burger's getting cold," I say, giving her an out.
She takes it, looking back down at her plate. But I catch the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth before she hides it.
The lunch rush picks up, pulling me away to help other customers. But I'm hyperaware of her presence—every movement she makes, every sip she takes of that honey-lavender ale she keeps returning to.
She finishes her burger. Finishes her flight. Pays with a credit card, and I note the name matches what Cilla told me: Quinn Samuelson.
"Thank you," she says, sliding off the stool. "The food was excellent. And the beer—especially that honey-lavender—was really exceptional."
"Come back anytime," I manage. "I'm working on a maple-bacon porter next. Should be ready in a few weeks, if you're still around..."
"Maybe." She tucks her notebook into her bag. "I'm at the Pinecrest for a couple weeks, so... maybe."
Two weeks. She'll be here for two weeks.
My bear practically purrs at the information.
She heads for the door, and I watch her go, my hands gripping the edge of the bar to keep from following her, from saying something stupid, from doing anything that might scare her off.
The door closes behind her.
I stand there, staring after her, my heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest.
"Well, hell."
I turn to find Beau leaning against the bar, arms crossed, wearing that knowing grin I've seen since we were kids and he figured out something I was trying to hide.
"That's your mate, isn't it?"
I don't answer. Can't. Because saying it out loud makes it real, makes it something that could break me if it doesn't work out.
But Beau doesn't need my confirmation. He just shakes his head, that grin widening.
"Oh, you are so screwed, brother. That woman looked at you like you were a puzzle she couldn't wait to solve—or a trap she was trying to avoid. Can't tell which."
"Both," I say quietly. "Definitely both."
Two weeks. I have two weeks to convince my mate that whatever she's running from, she's safe here. Two weeks before she drives back to San Francisco and out of my life.
Two weeks isn't nearly enough time.
But Beau's already grinning like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "You know Calder's going to want to talk strategy. And Sawyer's going to give you that look. The 'don't screw this up' look."
"I know."
"And you're still going to do this anyway."
I think about Quinn's eyes when she tasted that beer. The relief. The hope. The way she said it tasted like hope, like she hadn't felt that in a long time.
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
Because walking away from my mate isn't an option. Even if she doesn't know that's what she is yet.