Chapter 5
ELI
Iknew she'd come back.
Which is how I ended up in the kitchen with Beau, scrambling to put together a tasting menu on a Tuesday night.
"You're insane," Beau says, not looking up from the grill where he's searing trout for the crostini. "You know that, right?"
"I need to put together a tasting menu. Four courses, each paired with one of my brews."
"For the food writer who you definitely don't have a thing for?"
"Shut up and help me."
He grins but doesn't argue. We've worked together long enough that he knows when I'm serious. "What are we thinking?"
"Start light. The honey-lavender with something delicate—maybe the smoked trout crostini with herb goat cheese. Then the pale ale with the arugula salad, lemon vinaigrette. The mushroom risotto she ordered—that works with the IPA. And finish with the stout paired with the dark chocolate torte."
"That's ambitious for a Tuesday night."
"Can you do it?"
Beau studies me for a long moment, and I see him making calculations—not about the food, but about me, about what this means. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Give me thirty minutes."
"Twenty-five."
"You're lucky I like you."
I head back out to the bar, where Quinn has settled onto her stool and is making notes in that ubiquitous notebook of hers. She looks up as I approach, wariness flickering in her eyes.
"So," I say, pulling a clean glass from the rack. "Change of plans. If you're really here to write about this place, you should experience it properly."
"I ordered properly."
"You ordered one dish. I'm proposing a tasting menu—four courses, each paired with one of my brews. No charge. Call it research."
She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?"
Because you're my mate and I need to know if my food can break through whatever's blocking your palate the same way my beer did. Because watching you taste things—really taste them—is quickly becoming my new favorite activity. Because I'm half in love with you already and we've barely spoken.
"Because you're writing about Redwood Rise," I say instead. "And the Bear Claw is part of that story. I want you to get it right."
She doesn't look convinced, but the food writer in her is clearly intrigued. I can see it in the way her pen hovers over her notebook, in the slight forward lean of her body.
"Four courses," she says slowly. "Four pairings."
"Twenty-five minutes, give or take."
"This feels like a lot of attention for someone who's just passing through."
I meet her eyes, hold her gaze. "Maybe I don't think you're just passing through."
The moment stretches between us, weighted. She opens her mouth like she's going to argue, then seems to think better of it. Instead, she flips to a new page in her notebook.
"Alright. I'll bite. But I'm taking notes, and if your food is terrible, I'm writing about that too."
"Fair enough."
The first course comes out in exactly twenty-three minutes: delicate crostini topped with smoked trout, herb goat cheese, paper-thin slices of radish, and a drizzle of lemon oil. I set it in front of her alongside a fresh pour of the honey-lavender.
"Start with the beer," I instruct. "Let it open your palate. Then try the crostini."
She does exactly as I say, and her face transforms—the beer first brings that now-familiar flutter of her eyelids, the small intake of breath. Then the crostini, and this time when she closes her eyes, euphoria washes over her features.
When she opens them, they're bright with unshed tears.
"This is...” Her voice catches. She clears her throat, tries again. "This is really good."
"Good?" I lean against the bar, studying her. "That's all I get?"
"Don't fish for compliments. It's beneath you." But she's smiling now, taking another bite, and I count it as a victory. "The smoke on the trout is subtle. Most places overdo it. And the lemon oil cuts through the richness of the goat cheese without overpowering the fish. It's... balanced."
"Now try the beer again."
She does, and I watch understanding dawn on her face. "It amplifies the honey notes in the oil. Makes them more prominent."
"And the lavender?"
"Echoes the herbaceous taste of the goat cheese." She makes a note, shaking her head. "This is really well thought out."
"I've had practice."
We talk while she eats, navigating around what we're really saying—both of us careful, both of us curious.
She asks good questions about brewing techniques and ingredient sourcing, listens with genuine interest when I explain the fermentation process.
And every instinct I have screams at me to tell her everything—about the ley lines, about shifters, about the fact that she's my mate and I knew it the second she walked through my door.
But I can't. Not yet.
"How’d you get started?" she asks as I set down the second course—arugula salad with candied walnuts, shaved parmesan, and lemon vinaigrette, paired with the pale ale.
"My dad let me experiment in the cellar. Most of my early attempts were disasters, but he never told me to stop. Just kept encouraging me to figure out what went wrong."
"That's a good dad."
"He was." The grief is old now, but it still catches me sometimes. "He died twelve years ago. Car accident, him and my mom both."
Her hand stills on her fork. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Well, it's not, but it's been long enough that it doesn't hurt the same way." I pour myself a water, needing something to do with my hands. "What about you? What got you into food writing?"
She takes a bite of salad before answering, making calculations about how much to share.
"My grandmother was a chef. Taught me to cook when I was little, taught me to pay attention to flavors, to think about how ingredients work together.
When she died, she left me her knife." She pauses.
"Writing about food felt like a way to honor her, I guess. To keep that connection alive."
"Felt?"
"What?"
"You said it felt like a way to honor her. Past tense."
She looks down at her plate. "Did I?"
"Quinn." I wait until she looks up. "What happened?"
For a second, I think she's going to deflect, hide behind that professional armor she wears so well. But her expression cracks, just slightly.
"I lost my sense of taste," she says quietly.
"Three days ago. Everything just... stopped.
No flavor, no nuance, nothing. Just texture and temperature.
" She picks up the pale ale, stares into it like it holds answers.
"Except for your beer. And now, apparently, your food.
Which makes absolutely no sense, but there it is. "
I want to reach across the bar, want to take her hand, want to tell her that it makes perfect sense because she's mine and I'm hers and of course my food breaks through whatever's blocking her.
Instead, I say, "Jesus, Quinn. That sounds terrifying."
"Terrifying." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's one word for it. Try career-ending. I'm a food writer who can't taste food. That's like being a deaf musician or a blind painter. It's...” She stops, shakes her head. "Sorry. You don't need to hear this."
"I want to hear it."
"Why?"
Because you're my mate. Because your pain is my pain. Because I'd do anything to fix this for you.
"Because you're sitting at my bar, and you look like you could use someone to talk to. Listening is the first rule of bartending." I grab a towel, start wiping down the already-clean bar because I need to do something with my hands. It's not the whole truth, but it's enough of it.
She studies me for a long moment, then takes another bite of salad. "This is really good too. The bitterness of the arugula plays off the sweetness of the walnuts. And the ale...” She pauses, tastes it. "Citrus notes. They brighten the vinaigrette."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm analyzing. It's what I do."
"Fair enough." I collect her empty plate. "But for the record? If you ever want to not analyze, I'm a really good listener."
She doesn't respond, but her expression softens before she hides it behind another sip of beer.
The third course is the mushroom risotto—wild mushrooms foraged from the hills, cooked with the IPA in the stock, finished with parmesan and a drizzle of truffle oil. This time, when she tastes it, joy flickers across her face—pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
"Okay," she says after swallowing. "This is unfair. You can't just make food this good and expect me to maintain professional objectivity."
"Who said anything about objectivity?"
"That's literally the point of food writing."
"Is it?" I lean forward, elbows on the bar. "Or is the point to share your experience? To make readers feel what you felt?"
"That's...” She pauses. "That's actually a good point."
"I have those occasionally."
She laughs, and the sound makes my chest expand in ways I don't want to examine. "Tell me about this one. The pairing."
We talk about the dish, about how the earthiness of the IPA enhances the mushrooms, how the hops cut through the richness of the parmesan and cream. She takes notes, asks questions about cooking temperatures and ingredient ratios. It's professional, almost clinical.
But her eyes keep finding mine, and there's something in them that has nothing to do with food criticism.
We're halfway through discussing the final course—the chocolate torte with the stout—when the door bangs open and Gary staggers in, clearly several drinks past sober.
"Eli!" He's loud, drawing stares from the other diners. "My man! Need another round!"
I glance at the clock. Gary's been making the rounds since mid-afternoon—started at home, probably, then wandered through town looking for company. I'd been hoping he'd go home instead of coming here.
"Hey, Gary." I keep my voice calm, friendly. "I think you've had enough for tonight. Why don't I call you a ride?"
"Don't need a ride. Need a beer." He weaves toward the bar, nearly knocking over a table. The couple sitting there scoots back, alarmed.