Chapter 6
QUINN
Ican't sleep.
It's past midnight, and I'm lying in bed at the Pinecrest staring at the ceiling, my lips still tingling from where I kissed Eli’s cheek. The memory plays on a loop—the way his skin tasted like hops and spices I can’t name, the low rumble in his chest that I felt more than heard.
I press my fingers to my mouth, as if I can hold onto the sensation, but it's fading. Everything fades eventually. That's what Vanessa taught me, even if she didn't mean to. Trust fades. Careers fade. Taste fades.
But this, whatever this is with Eli, feels different. Dangerous. Like standing too close to an open flame.
The room feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I need air. Space. Something to clear my head that isn't thoughts of a gruff bartender with golden-brown eyes who I impulsively kissed when it felt as if he was the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.
I throw off the covers and pad to the window. The forest beyond the inn's garden is dark, the trees black silhouettes against a star-scattered sky. Somewhere out there, Eli is probably asleep, not lying awake replaying a kiss like some lovesick teenager.
The thought makes me restless and pathetic. I'm a thirty-two-year-old food critic who just lost everything, and I'm mooning over a man I barely know in a town I'll probably leave in a week or two once I figure out my next move.
Except the thought of leaving makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my ruined career.
I pull on jeans, a hoodie, and my sneakers. Fresh air. That's all I need. A walk to clear my head, and then maybe I can sleep.
The Pinecrest is silent as I slip out the front door.
Evelyn left the porch light on—a soft golden glow that barely reaches the edge of the garden.
Beyond it, the forest beckons. The night air hits my face, cool and clean, scented with pine and something earthier, richer.
The kind of scent that makes you want to breathe deeper, walk farther.
I tell myself I'll just walk to the edge of the garden. Just far enough to feel the night air, to let the quiet settle my racing thoughts.
But my feet carry me past the garden gate. Past the last glow of the porch light. Onto the narrow trail that disappears into the trees.
The forest at night is a different world.
The darkness is alive, full of rustling leaves and distant calls, the whisper of wind through branches, the soft creak of old wood settling.
My phone's flashlight cuts a thin beam through the shadows, illuminating patches of fern and moss-covered stones, the rough bark of ancient redwoods.
It should feel threatening. Ominous. I'm alone in an unfamiliar forest in the middle of the night with nothing but a phone light and questionable life choices.
Instead, it feels right. Like I'm supposed to be here.
The trail winds deeper into the woods, and I follow it without thinking.
My feet seem to know where to step, avoiding roots and rocks I can barely see.
The air grows cooler, damper. The canopy overhead is so thick that even the moonlight struggles to penetrate, leaving me in a cathedral of darkness broken only by my small circle of light.
I walk for what feels like ten minutes but might be longer.
Time does strange things in the dark. When I finally stop to check my phone, I'm startled to see I've been walking for nearly thirty minutes.
The Pinecrest is far behind me now, and I'm standing in a small clearing where moonlight filters through a gap in the canopy, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
My breath mists in the cool air. The silence is profound—no cars, no voices, no hum of civilization. Just the forest breathing around me, ancient and patient.
This is stupid. I should turn back, but I don't. Because that's when I hear it—a low rumble that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet.
I freeze, every muscle locking. That wasn't wind. That wasn't a tree branch. That was something alive. Something big.
The beam of my phone flashlight shakes as my hand trembles. I sweep it across the clearing, trying to find the source of the sound. Nothing. Maybe I should—
The rumble comes again, closer this time. Deeper. And then I see it.
The bear steps out from between two massive redwoods on the far side of the clearing.
My breath stops. My heart stops. Everything stops.
It's massive. A wall of muscle and fur that moves with impossible silence for something so large.
Rich brown coat, almost black in the shadows, rippling over shoulders that stand as high as my chest. Each paw is the size of a dinner plate, tipped with claws that catch the moonlight like polished obsidian.
Then it rises. Up and up, unfolding to its full height on hind legs, and I have to tilt my head back to see its face.
Seven feet of raw power, backlit by moonlight through the canopy, breath misting in the cool air.
Its eyes, amber shot through with brown, lock onto mine with an intelligence that sends electricity down my spine.
I'm going to die. There is no doubt in my mind about that.
Every nature documentary I've ever watched, every ranger warning I've ever heard, floods my mind in a useless jumble. Don't run. Don't make eye contact. Make yourself big. Play dead. No, that's for grizzlies. Or is it black bears? God, I can't remember, I can't—
The bear drops back to all fours and takes a step toward me.
My legs have turned to stone. I try to scream, to run, to do anything, but my body refuses every command.
The bear takes one step forward, then another, massive paws pressing into the earth without a sound.
I can feel the vibration of its weight through the ground beneath my feet.
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe, and the only thought cutting through the white noise of terror is absurdly small: I never got to tell anyone I could taste Eli's food. I never got to find out why.
The bear stops five feet away. Close enough that I can smell it, wild and earthy, with that same cedar scent from Eli. I can see the rise and fall of its massive chest, hear the soft huff of its breathing. And those eyes, intelligent and disturbingly familiar, hold mine without threat or malice.
The bear doesn't growl. Doesn't charge. It watches me with an intensity that roots me to the spot, and then, slowly and deliberately, it turns and walks to the edge of the clearing. It looks back at me, waiting.
This is insane. This is a horror movie. This is how people die in the woods. But somehow, I don't feel afraid anymore. Confused, yes. Shaking, absolutely. But not afraid.
The bear huffs—a surprisingly gentle sound—and takes another few steps along the trail. It wants me to follow. The realization hits like a slap. It's guiding me back toward town.
I take a tentative step in the direction it wants me to go. The bear's posture relaxes slightly, and it continues walking, always staying just ahead of me, always glancing back to make sure I'm following.
We walk like this for what must be twenty minutes. The bear leads, I follow, and the whole time my mind is spinning with questions I can't answer. This isn't normal bear behavior. This isn't normal anything behavior.
My phone battery is dying (down to fifteen percent) and my legs are shaking from adrenaline crash by the time the lights of Redwood Rise finally come into view through the trees.
The bear stops at the edge of the forest, where the trail meets the road that leads back to town.
It turns to face me one last time, and in the dim moonlight, those golden-flecked eyes seem to glow.
I want to say something. Thank you feels ridiculous. Stay safe feels more so. But the bear doesn't wait for words. It vanishes into the shadows as silently as it appeared, leaving me standing alone at the forest's edge with my dying phone and a head full of impossible thoughts.
I run the rest of the way back to the Pinecrest, my breath coming in ragged gasps that have nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with delayed shock. When I finally stumble through the front door and lock it behind me, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn the deadbolt.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs.
For a moment, I lie there trying to convince myself last night was a hallucination.
Stress-induced. Too much craft beer, not enough sleep, and way too many thoughts about a man and a bear with brown eyes shot through with gold.
But my jeans are muddy. My sneakers are by the door, caked with forest debris.
And when I check my phone, there's a thirty-seven-minute gap in my location history where I was deep in the woods.
It happened. I met a bear in the forest, and it walked me home like a concerned neighbor.
"Morning, dear!" Evelyn chirps when I finally make it downstairs, showered and dressed but still feeling unmoored. "You're up early. Coffee?"
"Please," I manage.
She pours me a cup from the carafe on the sideboard and slides a plate across the counter. A cinnamon roll, still warm, glistening with icing.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Evelyn says, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. "Or something equally surprising."
"I..." I hesitate. Saying it out loud will make it real. "I went for a walk last night. In the forest."
"Did you now?" Evelyn's expression doesn't change, but there's something in her tone. Knowledge. Or maybe amusement.
"There was a bear," I say. "A big one. It... it walked me back to town."
"Ah." Evelyn nods as if I'd told her the weather forecast. "That happens sometimes. The wildlife here is very protective of visitors."
"Protective?" I stare at her. "Evelyn, it's a bear. Bears aren't protective of humans."
"Most bears aren't, no." She wipes down the counter with a dishcloth, not meeting my eyes.
"But Redwood Rise has always had a special relationship with the local wildlife.
The animals here... well, they're not quite like animals elsewhere.
More intelligent, more aware. People say it's the land itself—the soil, the water.
Makes everything that lives here a little bit different. "
The way she says it—so casual, so matter-of-fact—makes my skin prickle. This isn't the first time someone's hinted that there's something unusual about this town. Cilla mentioned the fog. Anabeth talked about the forest.
Is that what Evelyn's talking about? Some kind of environmental factor that affects animal behavior?
"That's an interesting theory," I say diplomatically.
"Oh, it's more than a theory, dear." Evelyn pats my hand as she passes. "The question is whether you're ready to believe it."
She leaves me sitting there with my coffee and too many questions, staring at a cinnamon roll I probably won't be able to taste. But when I take a bite—when the flavor floods my mouth, cinnamon and butter and sweetness—I nearly drop my fork.
I can taste it. Not Eli's food. Not Eli's beer. Evelyn's cinnamon roll, made in this kitchen, and I can taste every single note. My hands start to shake again, but for an entirely different reason.
Maybe my palate isn't broken after all. Maybe it's healing. Or maybe, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, it was never about the food at all. Maybe it's about Redwood Rise itself.
I take another bite, letting the flavor anchor me, and deliberately avoid wondering why those amber-flecked eyes in the forest felt so familiar.