Chapter 8
QUINN
Ispent the remainder of yesterday up in my room. I needed time alone to think, to wonder, to decide what to do next. Part of me wants to just pack up and get out, but there’s something that’s holding me here… Eli.
I barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—that vibration running through the tavern, through me. My hand pressed to my sternum like my body knew something my mind didn't. The way my gaze pulled toward that cellar door, drawn by something I couldn't name.
By the time dawn breaks, I've given up on rest. I've spent the night replaying the moment, writing notes that don't make sense, circling the same question: what did I feel?
There's only one person who might have answers.
I'm back at the Bear Claw before I can talk myself out of it.
The morning light slants through the tavern's windows, turning the wood floors honey-gold.
It's early—barely nine—and the place is empty except for Eli behind the bar, wiping down glasses that already look clean.
He glances up when I walk in, and surprise flickers across his face, followed quickly by pleasure.
"Quinn." He sets down the glass. "Didn't expect you this early."
"I have questions." I cross to the bar, my notebook clutched in one hand like a shield. "About your beer."
His eyebrows rise. "Questions."
"There's something different about it." The words come out more accusatory than I intend, but I can't help it.
Three days. Three days of tasting nothing, of food turning to ash in my mouth, of wondering if I'd ever experience flavor again.
And then his beer—his beer—woke everything up.
"I need to know what you're doing differently. "
Eli studies me for a long moment, his face giving nothing away. Then he nods toward the back of the tavern. "Come on. I'll show you the brewery."
I hesitate. This feels dangerous somehow, following him into the back rooms of his tavern when I barely know him, when my body still remembers the warmth of his skin when I kissed his cheek, the tension in his shoulder beneath my palm. But I'm a journalist. I need answers.
"Lead the way," I say.
He takes me through the kitchen—industrial and spotless, the smell of yeast and malt heavy in the air—and stops at a heavy wooden door. "The cellar's down here. Watch your step."
The stairs are stone, worn smooth in the centers from years of use. The temperature drops as we descend, and the air changes too. It crackles with energy, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. My skin prickles with awareness.
"You okay?" Eli glances back at me.
"Fine." But I'm not fine. There's a hum in my bones I can't explain. "What is that?"
"What's what?"
"That... feeling." I press a hand to my chest, trying to ground myself. "Like static electricity, but warmer."
Eli stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to face me. In the dim light of the cellar, his eyes look darker, more intense. "You can feel it?"
"Feel what?"
He's quiet for a moment, watching me with an expression I can't quite read—part surprise, part recognition. He gestures to the cellar around us. "The land. This whole area has properties that affect everything that grows here. The water, the soil."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you right now." He moves deeper into the cellar, and I follow because what else can I do? "This is where the magic happens."
The cellar is beautiful in an industrial way—copper pipes catching the light, oak barrels stacked against stone walls, the rich smell of fermenting beer filling the space. Eli moves through it with easy familiarity, explaining his process as he goes.
"Small batches," he says, running his hand along one of the barrels.
"I never brew more than I can personally oversee.
Every step matters—the temperature, the timing, the ingredients.
" He opens a barrel, and the scent of honey and lavender drifts out.
"This is the one you tried the other night.
Honey-lavender ale. I've been working on it for weeks. "
"It's perfect." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"It is now." He closes the barrel carefully. "It wasn't, before. The conditions weren't right. But they settled overnight, and suddenly everything came together."
I step closer to the barrel, drawn by an instinct I can't name. The hum in my bones intensifies, and I press my palm against the cool wood. "What conditions?"
"That's complicated."
"Try me. I'm a journalist. I deal with complicated."
Eli moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"The land here is special. The water comes from a spring that runs through unique geology.
It affects the flavor of everything—the hops I grow, the barley I source locally, even the yeast." He places his hand on the barrel next to mine, not quite touching but close.
"I don't fight it. I work with it. Pay attention to what the land is telling me. "
"That sounds very mystical for a brewer."
"Maybe." His voice drops lower. "Or maybe I just know my craft better than most."
The air between us crackles. Not just from that strange hum—from us. Professional distance would be smart. Remembering that I came here for answers about his beer, not to stand in a dim cellar feeling hypersensitive to his proximity, would be even smarter.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
"Quinn." My name on his lips raises goosebumps on my arms. "What are you really doing here?"
"I told you. I have questions about your beer."
"That's not what I'm asking."
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though looking at him feels dangerous. "What do you mean?"
"You're running from something." He says it quietly, without judgment, but the words hit like a blow anyway. "I can see it in the way you hold yourself. Like you're waiting for the next hurt."
"That's none of your business."
"You're right. It's not." But he doesn't move away. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to know."
The hum in the cellar intensifies, and I realize my hand is still on the barrel, his hand inches from mine. All I'd have to do is shift slightly and our fingers would touch. A small distance. A dangerous gap.
"Someone I trusted betrayed me," I hear myself say. "Took my work. My words. Put her name on them and left me with nothing."
"That's why you can't taste food."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"I looked it up. Stress-induced ageusia.
My body's way of shutting down after trauma.
" I don't mention that I haven't actually seen a doctor, that I'm too afraid of what they might find—or what they might not find.
Easier to give it a clinical name than admit I have no idea what's happening to me.
"But you can taste my beer."
"Yes. And your food." I pull my hand away from the barrel, wrapping my arms around myself. "And apparently Evelyn's cinnamon rolls. But nothing else. Nothing from before I came here."
Eli's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rough. "Maybe your body knows what it needs. What's safe."
"Your beer is safe?"
"I am." He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him. "You're safe here, Quinn. In this town. With me."
The words should sound presumptuous. Instead, they sound like a promise.
The rational choice is to thank him for the tour and walk out of this cellar back into the world where beer is just beer and strange hums in old cellars can be explained by faulty wiring. To protect myself before I get hurt again.
But I'm tired of running. Tired of fear. Tired of letting Vanessa's betrayal poison everything good I might find.
"Eli." His name comes out barely above a whisper.
He steps closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. Close enough that if I just leaned forward—
He cups my face with one hand, his palm warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I forget how to breathe.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. His eyes dark, searching mine for something I don't understand.
The tension between us pulls taut, a wire stretched to breaking.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his pupils dilate, watch the muscle in his jaw tighten.
I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere his skin touches mine.
Every nerve ending screams for him to close the distance, to stop holding back, to just—
But he doesn't. His hand slides away from my face, cool air rushing in where warmth had been.
He takes a step back, then another, putting space between us that feels like a chasm.
My cheek burns where he touched me, my lip still tingles from the brush of his thumb, and the sudden absence of him leaves me cold and aching.
"You need to go," he says, his voice rough. "Before I stop caring about doing the right thing."
"What if I don't want you to do the right thing?"
"Quinn." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "You're not ready. And I won't take advantage of that."
The rejection stings, even though I know he's right. Even though part of me is grateful he has more control than I do. But another part—the part that's been numb and broken since Vanessa's betrayal—wants to rage at him for stopping.
"I need to go," I say, backing toward the stairs.
"Quinn...”
"Thank you for the tour." The words come out too bright, too brittle. "It was very informative."
I don't wait for his response. I just climb the stairs as fast as I dare, through the kitchen, through the empty tavern, out into the morning sun that feels too bright after the dimness of the cellar.
My hands are shaking.