Page 22 of The Bear’s Matchmaking Mix-up Mate (Bear Creek Forever:Thornberg Vineyard #6)

Wren stood at the window, hand pressed to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat against her palm as Finn’s truck disappeared down the lane, dust rising in golden clouds behind his tires.

His goodbye kiss still tingled on her lips, and the memory of his whispered “See you tonight” sent a rush of heat through her body.

She lingered at the window long after his truck had vanished, savoring the afterglow of love and the sweet anticipation of his return. There was something different about loving Finn, something pure and true that she’d never experienced before.

It wasn’t the dizzying, spotlight-bright romance she’d had with Vince, but something deeper, something that felt like roots taking hold in fertile soil.

Wren turned from the window and poured herself another mug of coffee, breathing in the rich aroma as steam curled upward. She hummed a snippet of melody that had been dancing at the edges of her mind since waking in Finn’s arms.

He sure did inspire her.

She hadn’t felt this pull in months, this urgent need to capture sound and feeling before it slipped away. Wren abandoned her half-empty mug on the counter and headed upstairs, still barefoot, wearing yesterday’s oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts.

She’d grown to love her small studio with her guitar leaning against the wall, notebooks scattered across the desk, morning light streaming through the east-facing window. She settled onto the window seat, guitar cradled in her lap, and closed her eyes.

The first chord came easily, then another, building into a progression that felt as natural as breathing.

Words followed, tumbling out faster than she could write them down.

She scribbled in her notebook, crossing out and rewriting, her fingers moving between strings and pencil in a familiar dance she’d feared she might never feel again.

Time disappeared as Wren lost herself in creation.

She recorded rough demos on her phone, layering harmonies, adding texture.

This wasn’t the carefully constructed radio-ready sound her label had pushed for on her last album.

This was raw, honest—the sound of her heart cracking open after a long winter.

“Perfect,” she whispered, playing back what she’d recorded. “I almost forgot music could feel this way.”

She started another verse, her voice catching on a particularly vulnerable line about finding home in someone’s eyes.

Her hair had escaped its loose bun, falling around her face as she leaned over her guitar.

A pencil tucked behind her ear threatened to drop with each movement of her head, but she was too absorbed to notice.

The sharp knock at the front door jolted her from her creative trance. Wren blinked, disoriented, as she set aside her guitar. Had hours passed? The sunlight had shifted, now streaming through the west-facing window instead.

Finn. Her lips curved into a smile. He must have wrapped up his appointments early, unable to stay away. The thought sent a flutter through her stomach as she set her guitar aside.

Wren padded downstairs, heart light, bare feet silent on the wooden steps. She didn’t bother checking her appearance; Finn had seen her at her messiest and loved her, anyway. The thought made her smile wider as she swung open the door without hesitation…

…and froze, the smile dying on her lips.

Vince stood on her porch, designer sunglasses perched on his perfectly styled hair, wearing that practiced look of regret she’d seen on magazine covers and in carefully staged paparazzi photos.

His crisp white button-down and tailored jeans looked absurdly out of place against the backdrop of wildflowers and weathered wood.

Her stomach dropped, a physical sensation like missing a step in the dark. Her joyful bubble burst.

“Wren.” His voice was exactly as she remembered, smooth and practiced, with that hint of a drawl he’d cultivated for authenticity. “You look good.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

“Can I come in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, already shifting his weight forward.

Wren found her voice. “What are you doing here?” The words came out smaller than she’d intended, as she tried to recover from the shock of him being here.

“I had to see you.” He removed his sunglasses with a deliberate motion she recognized from a thousand interviews. “Look, I know I messed up. The thing with Melody didn’t mean anything. It was stupid, and I’ve been paying for it every day since.”

The familiar script made her skin crawl. She could almost predict his next words before he spoke them.

“We were magic together, Wren.” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of his cologne, too sharp, too manufactured compared to Finn’s natural warmth. “The label’s going crazy without you. The fans miss you. I miss you.”

His eyes roamed over the cottage behind her, his mouth twisting in a barely concealed smirk. “This little...retreat...was good for you, I’m sure. Very quaint. But it’s time to come back to the real world. To where you belong.”

Old wounds stirred inside her, phantom pains from scars she’d thought were healing. For a moment, she felt herself shrinking, becoming the woman who’d fled to Bear Creek with her confidence in tatters.

Then she thought of Finn. Of his gentle hands and honest eyes.

Of how he’d shown her his truest self, trusted her with his secret, claimed her as his mate, and given her joy.

She thought of the community that had welcomed her, of Mrs. Abernathy’s fierce protectiveness, of the Thornberg family’s immediate acceptance.

She had found her place here. Found her people. And her person…Finn. There was no way she was going to let Vince take any of that away from her.

“No, Vince.” Her voice was steady now, stronger. “You don’t get to rewrite the past. What happened between us wasn’t just one mistake. It was years of you putting yourself first, of using my songs, my pain, my life for publicity. I’ve found my place here. And my person. I don’t want you here.”

His expression hardened, the practiced regret giving way to something colder. “Your person? You mean that…what is he, a gardener ? Come on, Wren. You’re bigger than this small town. We were great together. Let’s try again.”

He stepped forward again, one foot over the threshold. “The label’s offering a new contract. Double what you made before. We could co-headline a tour…”

“No.” Wren placed her palm against his chest, physically stopping his advance. “I need you to leave.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice took on an edge she remembered too well. The one that preceded his temper. “You can’t seriously prefer this… ” he gestured dismissively at the cottage “…to what we had. To what I’m offering you.”

“I do.” She stood straighter, blocking the doorway with her body. Her voice shook slightly, but it did not break. “You need to leave. Please don’t come back.”

Vince’s face darkened. He grabbed for the door, trying to push it wider. “Wren, you’re not thinking clearly…”

“My thoughts have never been clearer.” She shoved back, surprising herself with her strength. “Go. Now.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, the air between them charged with years of history and hurt. Then Vince stepped back, his expression shifting to something calculated.

“Fine. Have it your way. Play house in this backwater town.” His smile was sharp-edged. “But when you’re ready to rejoin the real world, don’t expect the same offer to be waiting.”

Wren closed the door firmly in his face, turning the deadbolt with a decisive click. She leaned back against it, heart pounding wildly in her chest, listening to his footsteps recede across the porch, followed by the slam of a car door and the growl of an engine.

She slid down to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. “I chose myself,” she whispered into the quiet cottage. “I chose Finn.”

Pride bloomed in her heart. She had stood her ground. The Wren, who’d arrived in Bear Creek months ago, would have wavered, maybe even let Vince in, let him talk her around with promises she knew he wouldn’t keep.

Her phone buzzed from where she’d left it on the coffee table. Wren pushed herself up on shaky legs and crossed the room to retrieve it. A notification from the Bear Creek community page lit up the screen.

Her blood turned to ice as she opened the post. Someone had snapped a photo of Vince on her porch, his hand on her arm in what looked like an intimate gesture. The caption underneath was deliberately provocative: “Reunited! Are they back together?”

Panic clawed at her chest, sharp and immediate. Finn. He would see this. He would think…

She tapped his name in her contacts, her fingers trembling so badly she had to try twice. The call went straight to voicemail. Of course. He was still at his appointment with Mrs. Henderson, probably with his phone silenced.

Wren tried texting instead: It’s not what it looks like. Vince showed up uninvited. I sent him away. Please call me.

The message was marked as delivered, but there was no immediate response.

She tried calling again, but got the same result.

Her anxiety spiraled tighter with each passing minute.

What if he saw the post before he saw her message?

What if he thought she’d invited Vince? What if he believed she was reconsidering her choice?

She paced the living room, hugging herself tightly. “Don’t let old fears ruin this,” she whispered fiercely. “Finn trusts you. He knows you.”

But the doubt crept in any way, insidious as smoke under a door. She moved to the window, watching the lane, willing Finn’s truck to appear. She would explain everything when she saw him. She had to.

Wren pressed her forehead against the cool glass, gathering her courage to fight for the life—and love—she’d finally found.