Page 12 of The Bear’s Matchmaking Mix-up Mate (Bear Creek Forever:Thornberg Vineyard #6)

Time slipped away as Wren stood on the east ridge looking down on the vineyard, the rows of vines stretching before them like green ribbons.

At the bottom of the valley sat a hacienda-style house, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the red tile roof and white stucco walls.

The sight took her breath away—not just the beauty of it, but the sense of permanence, of roots that ran deep into this mountain soil.

And in the distance, the mountain rose majestically, as if reaching for the sky.

But even more majestic than the mountains was the man by her side.

He stood silhouetted against the vast sky, his broad shoulders framed by wisps of clouds.

Wren found herself studying his profile, from the strong line of his jaw to the slight curve of his mouth as he gazed out over his family’s legacy.

The breeze ruffled his dark hair, making it dance against his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it back.

He looked as if he belonged here in the wilderness. He was as rugged as the mountains, yet there was a softness to him, like the grass beneath her feet. Yes, he was a man she could write songs about. Beautiful songs.

“Ready to go back down?” he asked, turning to her with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.

Wren nodded, and he held out his hand, and she took it. Not because the terrain was uneven, and she was worried she might fall. But because she wanted to feel the connection they shared, feel the rush of recognition flowing through her veins.

He led her down the trail, his grip steady and warm. When they reached the vines, he paused, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand in a way that sent shivers up her arm.

“This is where Philip taught me to ride a bike,” Finn said, pointing to a flat stretch between vine rows. “I crashed into those vines over there and got the lecture of my life from my dad, Hugo, about respecting the grapes.”

Wren laughed, the sound coming easily now. “How old were you?”

“Six. Stanley was supposed to be watching me, but he’d wandered off to catch frogs by the irrigation pond.” Finn’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I had skinned knees for weeks.”

“I bet you boys got into plenty of scrapes,” she said, imagining six boys rampaging through the vines and the wilderness beyond.

“Oh, we did. Our parents always said wild boys need wild spaces,” he said, eyes crinkling with the memory. “Dad would tell us the vineyard was our classroom, too—that we’d never learn patience from books alone, but we might learn it watching the grapes ripen year after year.”

“He sounds like a wise man,” Wren replied.

“He is, although I don’t think your godmother would agree.” Finn looked into the distance as if recalling his childhood.

A wave of longing swept over Wren. How she longed to be part of a family like that. To raise her children to run wild and free and learn the lore of the land, and find the songs in their hearts. Just as she had found the song in her heart thanks to Finn.

“We used to have these massive summer picnics right here,” Finn continued, gesturing to a clearing beneath an ancient oak.

“Mom would make these incredible sandwiches with homemade bread, and Dad would bring bottles of the previous year’s vintage.

Non-alcoholic for the kids, of course. All of us boys would race through the vines playing tag until we were so tired we’d just collapse right where we stood. ”

“It sounds idyllic,” Wren said wistfully.

“What about you?” Finn asked, his voice gentle. “Any childhood memories like that?”

Their hands brushed as they walked, the contact brief but electric. Wren curled her fingers slightly, letting them graze his again. Not quite holding hands, but something more than accidental.

“Not quite the same,” she admitted. “My mom and I moved around a lot when I was little. But when I was thirteen, we spent a summer in this tiny coastal town. Every evening, we’d take my guitar down to the beach and play until sunset.

Sometimes people would stop to listen; sometimes it was just us and the waves. ”

Finn smiled down at her. “That sounds beautiful. I love the sound of the ocean.”

“It was.” Wren smiled, surprised by how easily the memory came, without the usual sting. “That’s where I wrote my first real song. Not just poems set to chords, but something that felt...true. Like a part of me. A part of my story.”

Their hands brushed again, and this time, Finn’s pinky finger hooked around hers for just a moment before releasing. The touch sent a thrill through Wren—one that lingered, emboldening her. She let her hand drift closer, her skin tingling in anticipation of the next touch.

“Bear Creek reminds me of that summer,” she confessed. “There’s something about this place that feels... I don’t know. Like I can breathe again.”

“I know what you mean,” Finn said, then ducked his head with a self-conscious laugh. “Though I guess I’ve always been able to breathe here.”

“You’ve never wanted to leave?” she asked.

“No.” His expression faltered for a moment. “But I guess I would. For the right…reason.”

She was about to reach for his hand properly, no more accidental brushes, no more pretending, when Finn suddenly stiffened. His shoulders tensed, his jaw setting in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, the words out before she could second-guess them.

Finn turned to her, his expression caught between worry and hope. “My parents are coming this way. We could skirt around the vines to avoid them.”

Wren followed his gaze and saw an older couple walking arm-in-arm along a path that would intersect with theirs. Even at a distance, she could see the easy affection between them, the comfortable way they moved together.

Then she looked back at Finn, and there was such longing in his face, such hope. Wren realized with sudden clarity how much it would mean to him for her to meet his family, to take a step into his world.

So, before her old fears could rise and swallow her courage, Wren reached for his hand. She wove her fingers through his and squeezed gently.

“I’d like to meet them,” she said, her voice steadier than she expected.

The transformation of Finn’s face was immediate and breathtaking. His entire being seemed to light up from within, his smile spreading wide and boyish with relief and joy. In that moment, Wren knew she’d made the right choice. Whatever this was between them, it was worth being brave for.

“If you are sure,” Finn said.

“I am,” Wren assured him.

They walked hand in hand to meet his parents, and Wren felt the warm pressure of his palm against hers like an anchor. As they drew closer, she could see where Finn got his height, his strong jawline, and his father’s features reflected in his own. But his smile, that was his mother’s.

“Mom, Dad,” Finn called, his voice filled with barely contained excitement. “I want you to meet Wren. Wren, these are my parents, Leanne and Hugo Thornberg.”

Just her name. No explanations, no labels. But the pride and affection in his voice said everything words couldn’t.

His mom stepped forward immediately, her arms opening to pull Wren into a warm, all-encompassing hug that smelled of rosemary and cinnamon. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” she said, and the genuine welcome in her voice made Wren’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

When Leanne pulled back, Wren found herself looking into eyes that seemed to see straight through her careful defenses.

There was recognition there, a spark of awareness that told Wren that Finn’s mother knew exactly who she was.

But instead of the usual reaction, the widened eyes, the sudden shift to calculated interest, there was only warmth and a gentle understanding that made Wren’s chest ache.

Hugo Thornberg took her hand next, his grip strong but gentle, his eyes crinkling at the corners just like Finn’s. “Welcome to Thornberg Vineyard,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Thank you,” Wren replied. “You have an amazing vineyard.”

“It is special,” Leanne said. “I hope Finn gave you the grand tour.”

“If we’d known you were coming, we’d have come and said hello earlier. But Finn didn’t say a word,” Hugo said with mock accusation, squeezing Finn’s shoulder. “Means you must be something special.”

Finn’s cheeks flushed, but his hand remained steady in hers. “I was just showing Wren around,” he said, and Wren could hear the undercurrent of something deeper in his voice—a silent plea for his parents to understand what he couldn’t yet say aloud.

They seemed to hear it, too. Hugo and Leanne exchanged a look so full of quiet understanding that Wren felt like an intruder witnessing something private. Then Hugo turned back to them, his smile widening.

“Well, why don’t you both come inside? The afternoon’s winding down, and a glass of our new Merlot would be the perfect way to end the day.”

Finn looked at Wren, his eyes asking the question his lips didn’t form. Waiting for her decision, giving her a chance to make an excuse if she needed to.

The old Wren would have made an excuse. The woman who’d arrived in Bear Creek a month ago, bruised and wary, would have backed away from this invitation, this closeness, this potential for new hurt.

But standing here, with Finn and his parents in this amazing vineyard, Wren found herself wanting to step closer, not away.

“I’d love to,” Wren said.

They walked together toward the hacienda, the gravel path crunching beneath their feet. From the corner of her eye, Wren caught Leanne and Hugo exchanging glances and small, secretive smiles that made her wonder what they were thinking.

Did they assume she and Finn were a couple? Or perhaps Leanne was simply excited to have a celebrity visiting their home. The thought made Wren’s stomach tighten. She’d hoped to be just Wren here, not the country music star with platinum albums and Grammy nominations.

“Everything okay?” Finn’s voice was low, meant only for her ears. His eyebrows pulled together in concern.

Wren snapped her attention back to him, realizing she’d been lost in her thoughts. His eyes searched hers.

“I am,” she said, and as the words left her mouth, she realized they were true. More than true. A smile spread across her face, unbidden but genuine. “Actually, everything’s better than okay.”

“Good,” he said, mirroring her smile.

Life wasn’t just okay. It was good. Really good. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Wren felt like she belonged in her own skin, living in a moment she didn’t want to escape from.

The hacienda was even more beautiful up close. Terra-cotta pots overflowed with vibrant flowers, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the whitewashed walls. Wren breathed in the scent of roses and sun-warmed stone as they stepped onto the wide veranda.

“Come in, come in,” Leanne urged, holding the heavy wooden door open.

“Thank you,” Wren said as she stepped inside.

The interior was cool and inviting, with high ceilings and exposed wooden beams. Family photos lined the hallway, the faces of generations of Thornburg smiling back at her.

Wren spotted Finn immediately in several frames, from a gap-toothed boy holding a fishing rod to a teenager with an arm slung around his brother’s shoulders.

“Come through to the kitchen,” Leanne said, leading them through an arched doorway.

The kitchen was obviously the heart of the home, spacious and warm, with copper pots hanging from a rack and herbs growing in pots along the windowsill. A large wooden table dominated the center, its surface marked with years of family gatherings.

Hugo moved to a wine rack that covered one wall, his fingers dancing over the bottles before selecting one with a satisfied, “Ah!”

“Good vintage?” Finn asked with a wink at Wren, who smiled shyly.

“Yes. Our 2018 Chardonnay,” he announced, holding it up to the light streaming through the window. “Lovely mineral notes with just a hint of oak.”

“Why don’t you open it and let Wren appreciate it for herself?” Leanne teased as she set out four crystal glasses on the table.

Hugo carefully uncorked the Chardonnay, the soft pop echoing in the warm kitchen. Wren watched as he poured the pale golden liquid into each glass with practiced precision. The wine caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, transforming into liquid amber.

Finn took two glasses from the table, his fingers purposefully brushing hers as he handed one to Wren. The brief contact sent that now-familiar spark racing up her arm. She accepted the glass, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened when their eyes met.

Hugo passed a glass to Leanne, with the look of love that had grown deeper with each passing year. It was beautiful to witness, and Wren felt a pang of longing for something she’d never known.

Hugo raised his glass, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “To new friends, old vines, and unexpected beginnings,” he said, his voice rich with warmth. “The best things grow slowly and strong.”

As she touched her glass to Finn’s, and their eyes met, she knew he could give her that same kind of love. If only she were brave enough to reach out and take it.