Page 11 of The Bear’s Matchmaking Mix-up Mate (Bear Creek Forever:Thornberg Vineyard #6)

Finn woke and stretched as images of Wren filled his head. Ever since he’d met her, she was the last thing he thought about at night and the first thing on his mind in the morning.

And he would not have it any other way.

His bear chuckled. She also occupies our thoughts for most of the hours in between.

That she does, Finn agreed as he pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

As he dressed, he hummed to himself, the same tune Wren had been humming yesterday. The same tune she had finished writing last night.

How did he know?

Because last night, his bear had paced the tree line beyond Rowan Cottage for hours, soaking in every note as Wren fleshed out the song. A song filled with such longing and hope that it had taken every ounce of discipline not to shift into his human form and go to her.

Then, when the song was done, he’d been blessed with the sight of her standing on the porch, a glass of bourbon in hand and starlight in her hair.

It had made his chest ache with a sweet, painful need to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her. To claim her.

So what now? his bear grumbled, already restless despite the early hour. Shall we go to her? Tell her everything?

Finn sighed, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. That was exactly what he wanted to do. But he knew in his heart, in his soul, that they needed to give her time.

Patience. We can’t rush this, Finn told his bear. She pushed us away, remember. So we need to let her come to us.

Patience, his bear scoffed. We’ve waited years. I don’t want to wait another minute.

Finn grinned, shaking his head as he reached for his phone. Easy, Romeo. It’s not just about us.

His thumb hovered over the screen, nerves jangling. The urge to text her, to see her again, was almost painful in its intensity. But what would he say? ‘Good morning, I’m the bear you heard last night, and by the way, you’re my destined mate?’

That would be a good start, his bear replied.

Which might lead to a bad end. Finn stared at his phone screen, trying to figure out his next move.

Just invite her to the vineyard, his bear suggested, a note of impatience threading through his voice. Simple. Direct. No pressure.

Good idea. Finn nodded, typing out a message before he could overthink it.

It’s another beautiful day in Bear Creek! How about that vineyard visit today?

His bear snorted. Smooth, Romeo . Light, upbeat, no strings.

Finn rolled his eyes as he hit send. Let’s hope it works.

He tucked his phone in his pocket and padded downstairs to the kitchen, the wooden floors cool beneath his bare feet.

After fulfilling his duty of feeding his three cats…

a duty that Midnight, Rusty, and Shadow had made clear came before Finn’s need for coffee…

he filled the coffeemaker and grabbed his favorite mug.

But as he moved around the kitchen, he kept one eye on his phone, waiting, watching for the familiar buzz that told him he’d received a text. The silence stretched, each minute feeling like an hour.

Maybe she is too tired after her late-night music session, his bear fretted. Or maybe she’s too busy calling her manager to tell him she’s written a hit song to bother with us.

Relax, Finn countered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. She’ll answer.

But as his coffee finished brewing, and he poured out a cup of his mom’s special blend, his confidence waned. His bear might be right. Now that Wren had her music mojo back, she might be ready to leave Bear Creek and him behind.

The thought made his stomach turn. But then his phone buzzed, and Finn nearly knocked over his mug in his rush to check it. Rusty paused his morning wash to watch Finn with his amber eyes, passing judgment as Finn grabbed his phone and tapped the screen, and read Wren’s reply.

Sure :)

Relief flooded through him, so powerful he had to grip the counter to steady himself.

See? he told his bear, a grin spreading across his face. She said yes. Our mate wants to spend time with us.

His phone buzzed again, and his stomach dropped. She’s changed her mind, his bear groaned. Brace for heartbreak.

But the message read only: What time?

Finn let out a breath with a whoosh as he quickly checked his calendar. Two client gardens this morning, both needing attention before the spring rains came.

Call in sick, his bear urged. Say you’ve got a fever. Love fever.

No, Finn said firmly, although he found his bear amusing. I keep my promises. That’s how you build trust. And without trust, I would not have a business. And without a business, we could not provide for our mate.

Although Finn suspected Wren was worth more than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime, thanks to her album sales.

And anyway, Philip and Kris are leaving for the winemakers conference this afternoon, so we’ll have more privacy. Less prying eyes, Finn reminded his bear.

Perfect, his bear said happily.

Finn quickly typed his reply and texted back: Three this afternoon?

The reply came almost immediately: Looking forward to it.

Finn pumped his fist in the air, nearly spilling his coffee. Told you, he crowed to his bear. She wants to spend time with us.

His phone buzzed again: Do I need directions?

He quickly texted: I’ll pick you up.

Okay, came her answer, and suddenly it was the best day of Finn’s life.

His bear snorted happily. She said yes. This is fate, Finn. Don’t mess it up.

How can I when, like you said, this is fate? But he could not deny the nervous energy that flooded his veins. There were a million and one ways this could go horribly wrong. What if he misread her feelings again? What if…

What if it goes right? his bear said, ending the conversation as he settled down to sleep.

The morning passed in a blur of soil and pruning shears.

Finn forced himself to focus on his clients’ needs—Mrs. Henderson’s rose garden, the Millers’ new vegetable beds—but his mind kept drifting back to Wren.

Every once in a while, he caught himself whistling the tune she’d hummed yesterday, his heart flipping every time he remembered her smile.

Imagine her in our kitchen, his bear suggested as Finn checked the drainage in Mrs. Henderson’s garden. Imagine her at the table, a cat in her lap, writing music while we make her tea.

I’m trying to work here, Finn muttered, finding the image far too distracting.

Imagine her everywhere, his bear continued dreamily. Imagine her singing just for us. Imagine waking up next to her every morning.

Finn nearly fell headfirst into a rosebush, catching himself just in time. “Focus,” he told himself sternly, but his bear just laughed.

By the time he finished his second appointment, Finn’s jeans were mud-streaked and his hands smelled of earth and growth, but he couldn’t have cared less. He barely noticed the soreness in his back because his mind focused only on what came next.

Wren.

He drove home with the windows down, singing along to the radio. Wren’s most recent album, which he’d downloaded the day after meeting her.

You sound terrible, his bear teased.

I don’t care, Finn shot back as he belted out the next song.

At home, Finn showered quickly, changing into clean jeans and his favorite blue button-down.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, debating whether to trim his beard, but decided against it.

He checked himself in the mirror, hoping Wren would see someone she could trust, maybe even someone she could love.

Back in his truck, he found himself switching radio stations as he approached Rowan Cottage. He couldn’t risk being caught fanboying over her own song.

His bear snickered. I’d be more worried about her hearing you sing.

Nothing could dent Finn’s happiness as he pulled up to the cottage, and then the door opened, and Wren stepped out.

She looked like spring personified with her hair loose around her shoulders, a soft green sweater making her eyes shine like sunlit leaves.

And her smile…well, her smile nearly stopped his heart.

She looked so much brighter than when he’d last seen her outside Mrs. Abernathy’s. As if her songwriting had healed her soul and made her whole.

“Hey,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. The nearness of her made his mouth water.

“Hey, yourself,” Finn managed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “You look happy.”

Happy? She is glowing, his bear said. As bright as the summer sun.

“I wrote a song last night,” she confessed, buckling her seatbelt. “I think I finally got my mojo back.”

She’s given us our mojo, too, his bear said proudly.

Finn smiled, wishing he could tell her he’d heard her song, and it was amazing. “That’s wonderful,” he said.

“It kind of is,” she said wistfully. “And I can’t wait to see your family’s vineyard.”

“And I cannot wait to show it to you,” Finn said and put the truck in drive.

They drove through rolling hills, the road winding between budding trees and meadows dotted with wildflowers.

When they crested the final hill and the vineyard spread before them—rows of vines stretching toward distant mountains, the hacienda-style main house gleaming white in the sun—Wren’s breath caught audibly.

“Wow,” she whispered, leaning forward in her seat. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Finn agreed. “I haven’t lived here for years, but it always feels like home.”

“I can see why,” Wren replied as Finn went around the back of a storage barn where they were less likely to be seen.

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour.” He hopped out of the truck and went around to the passenger door, and cracked it open. But Wren didn’t move.

“I forgot to bring a hat.” She pressed her lips into a thin line.

Without comment, Finn ducked back to the cab and grabbed a spare cap, handing it to her. “Here,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if anyone is around.”

Her grateful smile, tinged with mischief, made his heart leap. She slipped the cap on, the brim shadowing her eyes, and Finn thought he’d never seen anything lovelier. “What? Do you have Spidey senses or something?”

“Or something,” he said, wishing he could say more.

“In that case, I will put my trust in you.” She slipped out of the truck and stood next to him, taking in the scene before her. “Where to first?”

“This way.” He offered her his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, she took it. The sense of connection flooded through his veins, and as she squeezed his hand gently, he knew she felt it, too.

Something had changed in her. It was as if she’d stopped running. As if she had put her past behind her.

As if she knows we are her future, his bear said.

As they walked between the rows, Finn pointed out different varietals, explaining the growing process while trying not to sound like he was lecturing.

“The first vines were planted generations ago,” Finn explained as they walked between the neat rows. “One of my ancestors had this vision of making wine that captured the essence of these mountains.”

Wren crouched down to examine the gnarled base of an older vine, her fingers gently tracing the twisted bark. “They have such character.”

“Some of these vines are nearly eighty years old,” Finn said, feeling a swell of pride. “The older vines produce fewer grapes but with more concentrated flavor. It’s quality over quantity.”

She stood, brushing soil from her hands. “And the harvest? When does that happen?”

“Late September usually, depending on the weather.” Finn gestured toward the rolling hills.

“The whole family comes together for it. Even distant cousins show up. We make it a celebration—everyone picking by hand, sharing meals under the stars. And it’s a tradition that we stomp some of the grapes the old-fashioned way. ”

Wren’s eyes widened. “You actually stomp them with your feet?”

“For one small batch, yes. It’s tradition,” Finn laughed. “I remember when we were kids. We’d come out looking like tiny grape monsters, purple from head to toe.”

The image made Wren smile, and Finn felt that familiar tightening in his chest. How he wished she could experience a Thornberg harvest firsthand.

One day soon, our kids will stomp the grapes and end up like tiny grape monsters, his bear murmured.

I cannot wait for that day, Finn said, imagining his children carrying on the tradition started so long ago.

“And after the picking?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

Finn led her toward the small production building. “That’s when the real magic happens. The grapes are sorted, destemmed, and crushed. For white wines, we press them immediately. For reds, we let the juice ferment with the skins to extract color and tannins.”

He described the aging process, how some wines rested in French oak barrels while others matured in stainless steel tanks, each method imparting different characteristics to the finished product.

Wren listened intently, asking questions that showed her genuine interest and a need to understand. “So each bottle tells a story of that particular season,” she mused. “The rainfall, the sunshine, the soil…it’s all captured there.”

“Exactly,” Finn said, impressed by her insight. “It’s like each vintage sings a different song.”

Her eyes met his, a flash of understanding passing between them. “That’s how I feel about my albums. Each one reflects where I was in my life at that moment.”

The connection shimmered between them, stronger than ever. Finn wanted to bottle this feeling, preserve it like the finest vintage.

“Would you like to see the east ridge?” he asked. “You can see the entire valley from up there.”

Wren nodded, falling into step beside him. The path grew steeper as they climbed, winding between wild sage and juniper. As they climbed, Finn stole glances at her profile, memorizing the way sunlight caught in her eyelashes, how her lips parted slightly with each breath.

When they finally reached the ridge, they stood side by side, gazing out over the valley spread before them like a living painting.

The vineyard stretched below in neat, orderly rows, the vines reaching toward the sun.

Beyond that, the mountains rose in layers of blue-green, each ridge fading into the distance until they blended with the sky.

Finn didn’t speak. Wren didn’t speak. For once, there was no need for words, no song that needed singing. The moment held its own perfection.

The song in our hearts is all we need, his bear murmured contentedly.