Page 2 of The Bear’s Matchmaking Mix-up Mate (Bear Creek Forever:Thornberg Vineyard #6)

This was not exactly how she’d expected to spend her afternoon at Rowan Cottage. Not that she minded the intrusion. Anything to distract her from her songwriting.

Or lack of it.

Her creative well had truly run dry.

Each morning she opened her notebook, stared at the empty page, and waited for words or music to come. Most days, all she found was silence and an ache in her chest, a hollow left by something she wasn’t sure she’d ever get back. She wondered, not for the first time, if she was broken for good.

What she needed was a little inspiration.

And perhaps this unexpected visit from Finn Thornberg was just exactly that.

Wren leaned against the kitchen counter, watching as Finn settled into the chair across from Mrs. Abernathy and the plate of scones. His movements were careful, deliberate, but also a little awkward as he was hyperaware of her. But then she often had that effect on people. Especially men.

Starstruck, her mom called it. And she was right.

Sometimes, she felt like she was living in the shadow of someone else.

A version of herself assembled out of glossy magazine interviews, staged photographs, and tabloid rumors.

The real Wren, the one who burned toast and snorted when she laughed and felt music in her bones, had always been harder for people to see. Harder to trust anyone with.

And that often led to disappointment.

For both of them.

But Finn Thornberg…there was something about the way his hand brushed the back of a chair before sitting, how he set his portfolio down with care instead of tossing it on the table that was reassuring. As if he cared about the small things.

Or was she projecting her own thoughts and desires onto this man she had only just met?

The yellow paint stain on his jacket shoulder caught her eye, an oddly endearing imperfection that made him seem more...human.

And then there was the way he made her stomach flutter. She’d felt it the moment she’d opened the door. It was like an electric current threading through her veins.

It still lingered now, humming beneath her skin, making her acutely aware of his presence. She pressed her thumb against the pendant at her throat, a nervous habit she’d developed since everything with Vince fell apart.

No. She wasn’t going there again. Not with anyone, certainly not with this stranger who’d appeared on her doorstep.

The last thing she needed was to develop a ridiculous crush on the first friendly face she’d encountered since fleeing to Rowan Cottage.

Her life was still in shambles from Vince’s betrayal, the tabloid headlines still fresh enough that she sometimes woke up with their words scrolling behind her eyelids.

She couldn’t risk letting someone get close enough to ruin her all over again. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“So, have you been in Bear Creek long?” he asked, the low timbre of his voice stirring something deep inside her, testing her resolve.

“A few weeks,” she said, the words clipped, automatic. Her standard deflection.

“Do you like it here?” he asked as if he hadn’t noticed her tone.

“It’s quiet.”

He nodded, seemingly unbothered by her brevity. “That’s what most people come here for. The quiet.”

Wren felt a twinge of guilt at her curtness. He was only making conversation, after all. But every question felt like it might be a trap, a way to extract information she wasn’t ready to share. She’d learned the hard way how quickly casual words could become headlines.

The silence stretched a beat too long before Mrs. Abernathy swallowed a mouthful of scone and then took a sip of her coffee. “Wren is here to finish her album.”

“Album?” Finn asked. “So, you’re a musician?”

“Finn, don’t tell me you didn’t recognize Wren when you arrived!” Mrs. Abernathy said in a shocked tone that made Wren cringe.

Finn’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “No, should I have?”

Wren felt a small, unexpected smile tug at her lips. Most men would not be so honest. But Finn’s sincerity was refreshing. He had no pretense, no angle.

Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “My goddaughter is quite the accomplished musician. Her last album went platinum.”

“Really?” Finn’s eyes widened, but there was no sudden shift in his demeanor. No calculated interest, no dollar signs flashing. Although he did look impressed. “That’s incredible.”

“It was a lifetime ago,” Wren said. At least, that was how it felt. So much had happened, so much heartbreak, so much betrayal. It had aged her, jaded her, robbed her of her love of music.

A love she desperately wanted to reclaim.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Abernathy countered, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were talking to one of her students. “It was barely two years ago.” She paused and then added, “And you’ll find your way back to it when you’re ready.”

Wren caught the protective concern in her godmother’s eyes. The same look she’d had when she’d opened her door at 2 AM three days ago to find Wren on her doorstep, hollow-eyed and exhausted.

“What kind of music?” Finn asked. He either wasn’t picking up on the undercurrent of tension in the room or was choosing to ignore it.

She was beginning to warm to this guy.

Wren hesitated, then found herself answering. “Folk-pop, I guess? Acoustic, mostly. Nothing fancy.”

“I’d love to hear it sometime,” he said, then immediately added, “if that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.”

He left her an out, she realized, a way to say no without embarrassment. The lack of pressure was disarming. She’d grown so used to men chasing her for what she could give them—fame, stories, a trophy to display—that she barely remembered what it felt like to be seen as just…a person.

“I…I’d like that,” she stuttered.

“These scones are heaven-sent,” Mrs. Abernathy declared, changing the subject as an awkward silence ensued. “Honey, at the bakery, outdid herself with this batch.”

Finn took one gratefully. “Honey’s scones are legendary. My brother Alfie once ate an entire dozen in one sitting.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” Mrs. Abernathy laughed. “That boy always had hollow legs.”

Wren reached for a scone, her fingers accidentally brushing Finn’s as they both went for the strawberry jam.

A spark jolted up her arm, surprising her with its intensity.

She told herself it was nothing, a fluke of nerves and adrenaline, but the warmth lingered, humming beneath her skin long after she’d pulled her hand away.

“Sorry,” they both said in unison, then smiled.

“Ladies first,” Finn gestured to the jam.

Wren took it, suddenly feeling silly for her overreaction. “Thanks.”

As she smeared jam onto her scone, Wren caught herself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in ages.

Maybe nothing would come of this. Maybe she’d go back to the silence in her head and her stubborn, empty notebook.

But for one bright, unexpected moment, it felt like the music might not be lost forever.

“Have you explored much of Bear Creek since you arrived?” Finn asked, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

Wren shook her head. “Not really. I’ve mostly stayed here at the cottage.”

“You should show her around, Finn,” Mrs. Abernathy suggested with a twinkle in her eye that made Wren suspect her godmother was up to something. “No one knows these mountains better than a Thornberg.”

Finn leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. “The falls are incredible this time of year. The snowmelt makes them twice as powerful, and on sunny days, there’s always a rainbow in the mist.”

“Oh, the falls,” Mrs. Abernathy sighed. “I used to hike up there and write poetry. Something about that place just opens up the creative spirit.”

“There’s this one spot,” Finn continued, “where the creek narrows between two boulders before spilling over the edge. The locals call it Whisper Point. If you stand next to it, it’s like the mountain is whispering its secrets to you.”

Wren found herself leaning in, captivated by the images his words painted. She could almost hear the rush of water, feel the cool mist on her skin.

“And the wildflowers will be starting soon,” Mrs. Abernathy added. “The mountain meadows turn into a sea of color. Ah, bluebells, Indian paintbrush, wild lupine.”

“My mom says that each season has its own song,” Finn said, his eyes distant.

“There’s no place like it,” Mrs. Abernathy murmured. “The air is so clear.” She reached her hand across the table and touched Wren’s.

“That’s why I came here,” Wren admitted, surprising herself with the disclosure. “I needed somewhere to hide out for a while. Somewhere I could breathe again.”

“Everyone needs that sometimes,” Finn said simply, no judgment in his voice. Just understanding.

She studied him over the rim of her mug. Then she felt it…a tiny, tentative spark.

She could almost hear a tune, faint and half-remembered. For a moment, it felt like a song was waiting for her, just on the other side of silence.

Then, just as quickly, a memory intruded: Vince rolling his eyes as she’d played him a new chorus. “Too sentimental,” he’d said, dismissing her with a sigh. “No one wants that soft stuff anymore. You need to reinvent yourself, or your career will die.”

Just as their love had died.

The music faded. Wren blinked and looked down at her hands, suddenly unsure again.

“Oh, is that the time already?” Finn glanced at his watch, a reluctant note in his voice. His chair scraped softly against the floor as he stood. “I should really get back to work. I still have to head over to Rose Cottage.”

Wren smiled, feeling oddly disappointed that his visit was ending. “I’ll walk you out,” she offered, folding her napkin and setting it aside with more care than was necessary.

As they headed for the door, Wren noticed the rhythm of their footsteps, the soft duet of her bare feet and his boots. A quiet, companionable sound that felt almost like music.

Then Finn paused and turned to face her. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something more—something important—but he only offered a gentle, warm smile.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he said, “even though I showed up uninvited and disturbed your peace.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Wren admitted, a small, unguarded smile curving her lips. “My godmother vouched for you, so I figured you couldn’t be all bad.”

“High praise indeed,” he said, with a playful warmth in his eyes. “I’ll come back in a day or two to look at the garden, if that’s okay? Maybe bring a bottle or two of Thornberg wine.”

His voice lingered in her mind, the cadence of his words echoing like the last note of a song. A song she wanted to play on repeat.

She surprised herself with how quickly she answered. “Yes. That would be…nice.” Her voice sounded lighter than it had in weeks.

Finn hesitated, and once again she thought he was going to say more.

Then he gave a little wave as he made his way down the steps, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he strode to his truck.

She watched him climb into the driver’s seat, glance back once, and then drive off down the winding lane, sunlight catching in the dust behind him.

As the sound of the truck faded and the quiet returned, Wren lingered in the doorway watching the dust settle. Then it hit her.

Her foot was tapping against the wooden threshold to a steady, insistent rhythm, like the beginnings of a chorus that wanted to be written. The sound felt foreign and familiar at once, the kind of thing that would have made Vince sigh in annoyance but now made her heart lift.

“You’re tapping,” Mrs. Abernathy observed quietly from behind her, a smile in her voice.

Wren’s foot stilled for a second. However, as she looked back at her godmother, her foot picked up the beat once more. “I guess I am,” she whispered, almost afraid to break the spell.

Mrs. Abernathy joined her in the doorway and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “See, what did I tell you? This is where you need to be. This is where you will find yourself again,” she urged. “Don’t be afraid to let it in.”

Finally, Wren let herself hope—really hope—that the music inside her might not be gone for good.