Chapter Seventeen – Isla
What a night.
As Isla drove back to Bear’s Rest, it was hard to believe any of it had really happened. But it had. She had seen Kirk shift with her own eyes, felt the thick warmth of the bear’s fur beneath her fingers.
And then there was the other part of it. The mate bond. The idea that fate had chosen him for her, and her for him.
That might have been the hardest thing of all to take in.
And yet she didn’t doubt Kirk. Not his honesty, not his sincerity. She had seen the truth in his eyes.
She parked outside Aspen Cabin and got out. Percy would be back in about half an hour. While she waited, she planned to get some work done, partly because she needed to and partly because it would give her something else to focus on.
That was what she needed. A distraction. Something to give her mind space to process everything. Otherwise, it would all just keep circling until she drove herself mad.
She hurried up the cabin steps and went inside.
But as the cabin door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside, the silence felt too loud.
No cartoons blaring from the television.
No excited chatter about dinosaurs or paddling in streams. Just the soft ticking of the wall clock and the sound of her own breathing.
The emptiness of the cabin pressed in around her, giving her too much space to think.
Coffee. She moved to the kitchen on autopilot, measuring grounds into the filter and filling the reservoir with water. The familiar routine should have been comforting, but her hands trembled slightly as she pressed the brew button.
Last night. God, last night.
Steam rose from the coffee maker, carrying its rich aroma through the small space as Isla leaned against the counter.
Her mind drifted back to the moonlit clearing, to Kirk standing before her one moment and then—impossibly, magically—changing.
The air had crackled with energy, tiny sparks dancing around him, and then…
a bear. A massive, beautiful bear with intelligent eyes that were unmistakably Kirk’s.
She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of her fingers sinking into thick fur, the rumbling purr that had vibrated through his massive form when she stroked his ears. The wonder of it all. The strange, undeniable rightness she had felt instead of fear.
And afterward—his arms around her, solid and warm, as they made love beneath the canopy of stars. The weight of his body against hers. The whispered words between them.
Isla poured coffee into her favorite mug, the one Percy had given her for Mother’s Day last year, with World’s Most Awesome Mom painted in wobbly letters. She carried it to the sofa and sat, staring out at the surrounding forest.
For a strange moment, she understood Kirk in a new way. What it might mean to carry two selves inside one life.
Her reflection wavered in the dark surface of her coffee, and for a moment, it really did feel as though two different women were staring back at her.
The Isla, who felt as though she belonged here in Bear Creek, cooking in Kirk’s kitchen, foraging in his forest, sleeping in his bed.
And the Isla Marshall, her readers followed online, the one who had built a career—a reputation—on being sharp, incisive, and often brutal in her judgments.
She took a sip of coffee, letting the bitter warmth spread through her chest. Kirk didn’t know about that part of her life. She had been careful not to mention it, skirting around the specifics of her “writing” whenever it came up.
What would he think when he found out? A man who poured his heart into cultivating the perfect chili, who spoke about heat with reverence and passion—how would he feel about someone who made her living passing judgment on other people’s work?
The coffee seemed to turn sour in her mouth.
With a sigh, Isla set down her mug, crossed to her bag, and pulled out her laptop. The deadline for her review of The Pinecone was tomorrow. She had promised herself that she would finish it before Percy returned.
The screen glowed to life, her document already open from yesterday’s aborted attempt. The cursor blinked accusingly at her, waiting for the words that usually came so easily.
She typed a sentence, then deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too.
The words refused to come.
Isla stared at the blinking cursor, her mind drifting back to the meal at The Pinecone. The slightly tough pastry. The overcooked trout. The technical flaws she had automatically cataloged.
But also Percy’s delight in the tomato soup that tasted like sunshine.
Her screensaver flickered on, replacing the blank document with a photograph of Percy at the beach last summer. His grin was wide and gap-toothed, his hair sticking up in sandy spikes, pure joy radiating from his small face.
Something tightened in her chest.
This was why she did it. Why she had cultivated that sharp, critical voice. For him. For the stability it gave them. For the security of knowing they would never struggle the way she had growing up.
If she stopped writing, that stability went with it.
Isla drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She clicked away the screensaver and placed her fingers on the keyboard once more.
This time, the words came.
The Pinecone presents itself as Bear Creek’s answer to rustic fine dining, but falls short in both execution and ambition.
The mushroom tartlet arrived with pastry that could have doubled as a frisbee, while the trout was so overcooked it might as well have been jerky meant for a hiker’s backpack. ..
Her fingers flew across the keys, the familiar critic’s voice sliding easily into place—sharp, witty, ruthless. She found the perfect cutting phrase for the grainy chocolate mousse, a devastating comparison for the unbalanced beurre blanc.
Too easily.
She paused, rereading a particularly brutal line about the chef’s apparent inability to tell the difference between seasoning and embalming. It was clever. Her readers would love it. But something in her made her soften it, changing embalming to preserving.
Then she stared at the edit, her finger hovering over the delete key.
The brand her audience expected was the brutal one. The one that didn’t pull punches. The one restaurant owners feared and readers devoured with gleeful schadenfreude.
After a moment, she deleted the change and made it sharp again.
Outside, the crunch of tires on gravel pulled her attention to the window. A car was pulling up—Rachel’s SUV. Isla quickly saved the document and closed the laptop, setting it aside as she moved to the door.
The morning sunshine felt bright after the dimness of the cabin. Isla stepped onto the porch just as Percy burst out of the back seat, his face alight with excitement.
“Mom! Mom! You won’t believe what we did! We made a fairy garden with little houses and a pond, and everything! And I let them borrow my dinosaurs to guard it from bad fairies!”
Isla couldn’t help smiling as he launched himself at her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “That sounds amazing, sweetie.”
Rachel approached more slowly, her daughters, Aria and Lucy, trailing behind her. “He was an absolute delight,” she said warmly. “The girls haven’t stopped talking about their new friend.”
“Thank you for having him,” Isla said, genuinely grateful. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” Rachel insisted. “In fact, we’re planning a hike this weekend, and maybe a trip to the local animal sanctuary next week. We’d love for you both to join us.”
“Can we, Mom? Please?” Percy looked up at her with hopeful eyes.
Isla hesitated only briefly. “We’d love to.”
After goodbyes and promises to arrange details later, Isla ushered Percy back inside. He immediately launched into a detailed account of everything they had eaten for breakfast, along with the elaborate rules of a game involving dinosaurs, fairies, and something called magical berries.
Isla listened with half an ear as she picked up her laptop again and opened it to check her analytics while Percy chattered on.
Her latest review had gained another thousand views overnight.
The comments were full of readers praising her acerbic wit, her unflinching honesty, and her refusal to sugarcoat.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her agent.
Bigger update. Daily Tribune interested in a syndicated weekly column. National reach. Better money. They want a sample of your sharpest work ASAP. This could be the big one.
Isla’s heart gave a hard, sudden thud. The Tribune. A weekly column. That kind of stability would mean never having to worry about money again. It would mean a real college fund for Percy, a house with a yard instead of an apartment, security for both of them.
But it would also mean doubling down on the version of herself she was no longer sure she wanted to be.
The Tribune would not want gentle, thoughtful food writing.
They would want bite. Blood in the water.
They would want the Isla Marshall, who could eviscerate a chef’s life’s work in three hundred perfectly crafted, merciless words.
“Mom?”
Percy’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.
“Can we go see Kirk today? Maybe eat more of his chili?”
Isla set her phone down slowly. “Actually, Kirk mentioned there’s a local food event happening today in the town square. He’s going to be there with his chilies.”
Percy’s eyes widened. “Can we go? Please? I want to show him my new dinosaur facts. And maybe he’ll let me try a not-too-spicy chili.”
“We can go,” Isla said, smiling at his enthusiasm. “We just need to get cleaned up first.”
Percy pumped his fist in the air and raced toward the bathroom, already calling back questions about what kind of chilies might be there and whether Kirk might have some chili ice cream.
As Isla gathered clean clothes for him, a small voice from the bathroom doorway made her pause.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
Percy stood there, his expression suddenly serious. “You’re not going to be mean about the food, are you?”
The innocent question hit her like a blow. Isla stared at her son, then looked back at the laptop screen, still open to her draft of The Pinecone review. The harsh words glowed up at her in the morning light.
Her career had been built on that voice.
But for the first time, she found herself asking a question she had never allowed herself to ask before.
If she softened it… would everything she had built begin to crumble?