Chapter 5 #2
I move around the bar, putting myself between Gary and the other customers. Quinn's watching with sharp eyes, her notebook forgotten.
"Gary." I put a hand on his shoulder, firm but not aggressive. "You're going to go home now. I'll get Sawyer to drive you."
"Don't tell me what to do." Gary tries to shrug off my hand, but I don't let go. "I'm a paying customer!"
"You are. And tomorrow, when you're sober, you'll be welcome back. But tonight, you're done."
My voice must get through, because Gary deflates. He's not a mean drunk, just a sloppy one, and underneath the alcohol he's a decent guy who's still grieving his wife two years after her death.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Sorry, Eli. I just...”
"I know." I guide him toward the door, catching Beau's eye. My brother nods, already pulling out his phone to text Sawyer. "It's okay. But you gotta go home now."
I get Gary outside just as Sawyer pulls up in his patrol vehicle—he must have been close by. My brother gets out, takes one look at Gary, and sighs.
"This is becoming a pattern," Sawyer says, but his voice is gentle as he helps Gary into the passenger seat.
"Call me when he's home safe?"
"Will do."
I watch them drive off, then take a minute to breathe before going back inside. The other customers have returned to their meals, the incident already forgotten. But Quinn is still watching me, her expression thoughtful.
"That was well handled," she says when I reclaim my spot behind the bar.
"Gary's going through some things. He doesn't usually drink like that."
"You could have thrown him out. Would have been within your rights."
"And accomplished what, exactly? He'd just go drink somewhere else, probably somewhere less safe." I pull a new glass for myself, pour water. "Better to get him home where he belongs."
"Not just gentle," she murmurs, so quietly I almost don't hear it. "Controlled."
Her eyes meet mine, reassessing, and warmth spreads through my chest. My bear practically preens—she sees us, understands us, recognizes our strength even if she doesn't know what it means.
"You ready for dessert?" I ask, changing the subject before I do something stupid like lean over this bar and kiss her.
The torte is rich, dark, exactly what it should be. Paired with the stout, it's transcendent—the coffee notes in the beer amplifying the chocolate, the slight bitterness cutting through the sweetness.
"That was...” She stops, swallows hard. "That's the first meal I've truly tasted in three days. The first time food has tasted like anything other than cardboard and regret." Her voice breaks slightly. "Thank you."
The pain behind her words nearly undoes me. Whatever happened in San Francisco, whatever drove her here, it hurt her badly enough that her body shut down. And somehow, inexplicably, my food brings her back.
"Anytime," I manage. "Seriously. Anytime you want to taste things, you know where to find me."
She laughs, but it's watery. "That's not how taste buds work."
"Maybe yours are special."
"Or maybe yours are." She closes her notebook, starts gathering her things. "I should go. It's getting late."
I glance at the clock. It's barely eight-thirty, but I don't argue. "Let me follow you back to the Pinecrest."
"That's not necessary."
"Humor me. It's dark out, and I'd feel better knowing you got back safely."
She looks like she's going to argue, then seems to change her mind. "Alright. But I'm capable of driving myself, for the record."
"Noted."
I tell Beau I'm stepping out and follow Quinn into the night. The temperature has dropped, and outside she shivers slightly in her sweater.
"You should grab a jacket from your car before you drive," I say, walking her across the street to where she parked.
"I'll be fine. It's a three-minute drive."
"Quinn."
She rolls her eyes but there's a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, Dad."
The word hits differently than she probably intended, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. The town is quiet, most businesses already closed for the night, streetlights casting warm pools of gold on the pavement.
"I'm fine to drive," she says, reading my hesitation. "One beer over two hours."
"I know." I do know—I've been tracking her intake like it's my job. "But humor me anyway. I'll follow you up to make sure you get there safely."
She looks like she might argue, then just nods and unlocks her car.
I jog back to grab my truck from behind the tavern, then follow her taillights up Main Street toward the Pinecrest.
The drive takes less than three minutes. She parks in the Pinecrest's lot, and I pull in beside her. We both get out, and I walk her to the porch, the night air cool and quiet around us.
"This town is strange," Quinn says, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. "Everyone I talk to says the same thing—that Redwood Rise chooses its residents, not the other way around. That people who belong here somehow don't really leave."
"Is that what you're writing about?"
"I don't know what I'm writing about anymore." She glances at me. "I came here to hide. To figure out what I'm supposed to do now that my career is...” She stops herself. "Now that things have changed."
"And have you? Figured it out?"
"No. But I've discovered that your beer and your food are the only things I can taste, which is both miraculous and completely inexplicable.
" She climbs up one step, turns to face me so we're almost at eye level.
"Thank you for tonight. For the tasting menu, for the company, for not asking too many questions about why a food writer who can't taste food is hiding in your town and for listening. "
"You're welcome. And Quinn?" I wait until she looks at me. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're hiding. I think you're healing."
Her breath catches. For a second, she just stares at me, and a dozen emotions flicker across her face—surprise, hope, fear, longing.
Then she steps forward, rises on her toes.
Her hand lands on my shoulder for balance, light but burning through my shirt.
She presses her lips to my cheek—soft, warm, over far too quickly—and my entire body goes rigid with the effort of not moving, not turning my head those few inches that would put my mouth on hers.
"Goodnight, Eli."
She's inside before I can form words, the porch light illuminating empty space. I stand frozen at the base of the steps, my shoulder still tingling where she touched me, my cheek still warm from her lips.
My bear roars. Not a sound, but a feeling—a surge of possession so fierce it takes everything I have not to follow her inside, not to knock on that door and tell her exactly what she is to me.
Mine. Mate. Ours.
I press my fingers to my cheek where her mouth was. Twelve years of learning control, twelve years of restraint, and it all nearly crumbles from one innocent kiss. My hands shake. My vision sharpens. Every instinct screams to go after her, to make her understand, to claim what belongs to us.
But I don't. Can't. Not until she knows what I am, what we could be.
I force myself to turn. To walk back to my truck. To drive away even though every cell in my body is screaming to stay.
Her scent still clings to me from that brief moment when she touched my shoulder—honey and something floral and uniquely Quinn.
I clutch the steering wheel, breathing through the need, the want, the absolute certainty that she belongs to me.
Patience, I tell myself. Give her time. Let her figure out what's happening between us before you drop the shifter bomb and send her running.
My bear snarls its disagreement, but I ignore it.
Two weeks. She said two weeks at the Pinecrest. Fourteen days to make her want to stay without scaring her off.
I'm not sure either of us will survive it.