Page 10 of The Bear’s Matchmaking Mix-up Mate (Bear Creek Forever:Thornberg Vineyard #6)

Wren drove away from her godmother’s house with her fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles ached. She forced herself to flex her fingers and breathe, but nothing could stop the whirlwind of contradictions in her head.

What was wrong with her? The question circled in an endless loop as she navigated the winding mountain roads, sunlight dappling through the trees in patterns that matched her scattered thoughts.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head slowly.

The look on Finn’s face when she’d deflected his words played on repeat behind her eyes. That moment when his expression had shifted from hopeful to…devastation? Was that what she’d seen before he carefully masked his emotions?

Why hadn’t she let him speak? Because she’d known exactly what he was about to say, and she’d panicked. Cut him off with talk about garden plans and bills.

A deer darted across the road, and Wren slammed on the brakes, her heart leaping into her throat. She sat there for a moment, breathing hard, watching the graceful creature disappear into the woods.

“Get it together,” she whispered, her voice small in the quiet car.

She eased back onto the road, the memory of Donna’s hands on Finn rising unbidden. Those perfectly manicured fingers sliding over his stomach, his arm, claiming him with a touch. The possessiveness of it had made Wren’s blood boil, even as she’d told herself she had no right to feel that way.

But Finn had looked so uncomfortable. Had tried to step away. Had told Wren with such conviction that Donna meant nothing to him. That there never had been. There never will be. Ever.

She’d seen the words he wanted to add in his eyes before her godmother had interrupted. Because you are the only one for me.

“And when he tried to tell you again, you just pushed him away,” she said to the empty car, her throat tight as she forced back tears. “Again.”

The truth was like a weight on her chest, pressing against her lungs so that she could barely breathe. She wasn’t afraid that Finn didn’t care for her. She was terrified that he did.

Because if she let herself believe in this…

in him. If she opened that door even a crack, what would happen when reality came crashing in?

When the peaceful bubble of Bear Creek burst, and her real life caught up with her?

When the press found out about them, when the fans and the critics and the industry vultures descended?

Wren puffed the air out of her cheeks, frustration burning behind her eyes. That wasn’t even the whole truth. It wasn’t just about protecting Finn from her messy life.

It was about protecting herself.

Her music had finally started coming back, notes and melodies unfurling in her mind like spring flowers after a long winter.

For the first time in months, she could feel songs taking shape inside her.

But if she let herself fall for Finn and it all went wrong—like it had with Vince—she might lose the music again.

And this time, it might not come back. Ever.

“Coward,” she whispered, the word bitter on her tongue.

But was she really? After what Vince had done? After he’d taken her most vulnerable songs and twisted them into ammunition, using her own words to paint her as unstable.

A flash of Vince’s voice surfaced in her head, sharp and dismissive. “You’re too much, Wren. You feel everything too loudly.” The memory stung. She flinched, the ghost of old rejection making her shoulders hunch for a moment, as if trying to fold herself smaller, safer.

Wren slowed the car, pulling onto a small turnout that overlooked the valley. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, forcing herself to breathe deeply.

“He’s not Vince,” she whispered into the silence.

The memory of Finn’s face swam before her—his eyes wide and earnest as he’d tried to explain about Donna, the almost desperate honesty in his voice as he swore it meant nothing.

He’d looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world, like he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.

No one had ever looked at her quite that way before. Not even Vince in their best moments.

She remembered the careful way Finn had touched her arm, how his gaze had lingered on her face, and how his smile lit up his eyes. That unguarded openness was unfamiliar, and all the more dangerous for how much she wanted to trust it. To trust him.

She rubbed her shoulder where his hand had rested, letting that sensation root her in the present. Vince was her past. Finn was her future.

As she sat there, the melody she’d been humming all day played in her head, tentative at first, like a fragile thing testing its wings.

Wren straightened, humming softly, letting it grow.

With each note, the memory of Finn’s touch, of his smile, grew stronger, drowning out the insecurities that had haunted her for so long.

By the time she pulled back onto the road, the song had returned in full force, more insistent than before. Her fingers drummed against the wheel, keeping time with the beat that pulsed through her veins.

Finally, Rowan Cottage came into view. Wren parked the car and sat for a moment, savoring the vibrant energy thrumming through her body.

Her heart felt light, as if she could float away over the mountain peaks, and she knew if she risked a look in the mirror, she would be glowing.

Just as her godmother had described her earlier.

Wren got out of the car and headed inside, barely pausing to drop her keys on the hall table before heading straight for the makeshift studio she’d cobbled together in the spare room.

The space was nothing like her professional studio back home, just a small room with decent acoustics, its equipment minimal but sufficient.

In the corner waited her guitar, its edges worn smooth from years of use, the same faithful companion that had caught her first tentative melodies when she was barely more than a girl with dreams. Wren picked it up, her fingers already finding the strings before she sat down on her stool.

It was time to get the tune out of her head and into the world.

The first few notes came out halting, uncertain, but then something broke open inside her, and the music poured forth in a rush.

Then the words came at last, not polished but raw and true.

She didn’t think about hooks or bridges or what would sell; she simply followed where the song led, letting it carry her through verses about shadows and light, about walls crumbling, about finding courage in someone else’s steady gaze.

As she sang, tears streamed down her cheeks—tears of release, of relief, of finding herself again after so much silence. Her hands shook on the strings, but she didn’t stop, didn’t dare. Sometimes she laughed between verses, amazed at the joy pouring out as easily as the grief.

She lost all sense of time, swept up in creation. Chords and lyrics entwined, the ache of longing and hope threaded through every note. This wasn’t just a new song; it was as if her career was being born anew.

It was the truest thing she’d written in months, maybe years. As if she had been transported back in time and was that same young girl filled with hopes and dreams.

As the last chord faded, Wren blinked back sudden tears. Her throat felt raw, her fingers tender from pressing against the strings. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. It was hers.

She set down her guitar, hands trembling with exhaustion and triumph, and reached for her notebook, scribbling down the lyrics before they could fade from memory. Her handwriting sprawled across the page, messy but urgent. When she finished, she sat back, staring at the words she’d captured.

“Well,” she whispered to the empty room, “there you are.”

She snapped a quick photo of the page with her phone…just in case. Then, in a small act of celebration, she placed the notebook on her pillow, promising herself that tonight, she’d dream only of music, not mistakes.

Although she could not promise that Finn might creep into her dreams, too.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since those pastries with Finn at the market. With a self-satisfied smile on her face, she padded downstairs to the kitchen.

The bourbon bottle caught her eye as she passed the small liquor cabinet. Bourbon was not her usual choice, but tonight felt different. Special. She poured herself a finger’s worth into a tumbler, cradling the glass as she stepped out onto the porch.

The night air was crisp, heavy with the scent of grass and far-off rain. Stars punctured the darkness overhead, impossibly bright and clear. Wren sipped her bourbon, letting the warmth bloom in her chest as the silence settled around her.

She closed her eyes, humming the melody under her breath, letting the night carry the tune where it wanted. For the first time in forever, the silence was welcome, not suffocating.

Then it came—a sound that sliced through the quiet like a silver blade. A bear roared somewhere deep in the forest, its voice lifting in a long, mournful cry that seemed to reach for the stars. The sound vibrated through the night air, primal and ancient.

Wren froze, glass halfway to her lips. The haunting call sent a cascade of goosebumps racing down her arms, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. But the sensation wasn’t fear—not even close.

Instead, a delicious thrill coursed through her veins, sharp and sweet, identical to the electricity that sparked whenever Finn stood near. Her heart thudded against her ribs, each beat echoing the rhythm of the song she’d just written.

She set her glass down on the porch railing and stepped forward, drawn toward the tree line as if pulled by an invisible thread.

“Are you out there?” she whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them.

The bear roared again, closer this time, its voice rising and falling in what almost sounded like an answer. Wren pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the wild pounding beneath her palm. Something about that roar felt familiar, as if it carried Finn’s voice, his essence.

She laughed softly at herself. Romantic nonsense, surely. And yet...

“I hear you,” she murmured, leaning against the porch post.

The bourbon sat forgotten as Wren stared into the shadows, wondering if Finn was somewhere out there, too, walking beneath the same stars, feeling the same connection that hummed in her blood.

She closed her eyes, letting the night sounds wash over her, imagining him moving through the forest, strong and sure-footed.

When she opened her eyes again, she caught a flash of movement at the edge of the clearing, something large shifting between the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as moonlight glinted off what might have been eyes, watching her from the darkness.

For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to just that gaze and hers. Then whatever it was—bear or shadow or wishful thinking—melted back into the forest, leaving only the rustling of leaves in its wake.

Wren shivered, but not from the cold. She gathered her bourbon and stepped back toward the door, pausing for one last look at the tree line.

“Goodnight,” she whispered to the forest, to the bears, to Finn…wherever he might be.

Inside the cottage, she locked the door behind her, though she felt no fear. The encounter had left her buzzing with a strange energy, as if she’d glimpsed something magical and rare. Much like true love.