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

Wren woke to the soft trill of her alarm, blinking in the pale gray dawn that seeped through her curtains.

Her notebook lay open beside her, filled with pages of scribbled lyrics she’d penned by lamplight until her eyes had burned with exhaustion.

The melody that always seemed to fill her mind in Finn’s presence was taking shape, though it remained elusive, hovering just beyond her grasp.

But she had penned the beginnings of another song, a defiant, hopeful piece that had the makings of a hit, although it needed a lot more work.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she reached for her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the dim room.

No message from Finn with directions to the farmers’ market, even though he’d said he’d send them.

Her stomach twisted, a sharp pang of self-doubt gnawing at her.

Had he changed his mind? Was yesterday just politeness, and she’d misread everything?

Why did it take the tiniest bit of uncertainty for confidence to come crashing down?

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself, pushing back the covers. She wouldn’t let self-doubt win, not today. Not when the prospect of the farmers’ market felt like her first real taste of freedom after weeks in hiding.

So what if Finn didn’t follow through? She was more than capable of finding her own way to the farmers’ market. However, she couldn’t ignore that seeing Finn again had been a large part of the reason she’d agreed to go.

Wren pulled up the market location on her phone.

A quick check confirmed the market wasn’t far; it was just off Main Street, nestled between the mountains and the creek that gave the town its name.

Wren tossed her phone aside and hurried to get dressed, pulling on her most inconspicuous outfit: worn jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and her oversized cardigan that hung past her hips.

She tucked her hair under her baseball cap instead of her trademark beanie and wrapped a scarf loosely around her neck.

The look was just enough to obscure her face without looking like she was trying to hide. Even though she was.

“It’s the pastries,” she murmured to herself as she laced up her boots. “I’m just excited about fresh-baked goods.”

But the butterflies in her stomach told a different story. Each time she thought of Finn, her heart did a strange little skip.

Wren paused at the mirror, studying her reflection. “You barely know him,” she reminded herself, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

As she drove through the waking hills, mist still clinging to the valleys below, Wren rehearsed little things she might say to Finn. Nothing too revealing, nothing too guarded. Just...normal. The word itself felt foreign after so long living behind the walls she’d built to protect herself.

Normalcy had become a foreign concept, something other people took for granted.

With Finn, she glimpsed the possibility of early coffee on the porch while watching the sun rise and conversations where she didn’t have to filter every word.

A life where “Wren” wasn’t a carefully managed brand but just a woman who happened to write songs, who could hang her fame on a hook by the door like a coat no longer needed.

The farmers’ market was just coming to life when she arrived, vendors arranging produce and crafts on wooden tables, the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods hanging in the crisp morning air. Wren’s spirits lifted at the sight of Finn’s truck parked near the entrance. So he was here.

She could not help the smile that spread across her lips. He had that kind of effect on her. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that made her feel lighter. It was something so subtle but so undeniable…

Then she spotted him, and her smile faltered.

Finn stood near a row of flower stalls, talking with a man whose polished look and camera bag tugged at her memory.

With a cold jolt, she realized where she’d seen him before.

When she got to Bear Creek, she’d done a search of the local press to make sure she could spot and avoid a local reporter on sight.

And Finn was here talking to one of them. John Davis, if she recalled correctly.

Damn it! How could he?

Heart hammering against her ribs, Wren froze, instinctively pulling her cap lower.

Every cell in her body screamed at her to turn and run.

This was exactly what she’d feared. With her identity exposed, the sanctuary she’d found in Bear Creek would be ruined.

Her throat tightened, and she had to force herself to breathe slowly, fighting back panic.

Had Finn really told a local reporter about her? After he’d promised?

For a split second, the old hurt threatened to take over. The ache of betrayal, of being used, pierced her heart.

But why? Why would Finn do this to her? Oh! The fundraiser for the community garden. This was one sure way to get some attention for the town and the fundraiser. Once word got out that she was here, the town would be flooded with her fans.

As if sensing her presence, Finn looked up.

Their eyes met across the growing crowd, and something passed between them.

A silent current that seemed to reach across the space.

The invisible thread that always seemed to draw her toward him pulled taut.

Something in his expression reassured her, even as uncertainty and disappointment warred in her chest.

Without missing a beat, Finn placed a protective arm around the reporter’s shoulders and steered him away. She watched as he led the man in the opposite direction, their heads bent in conversation that carried them farther from where she stood.

For a moment, she didn’t know whether to cry or laugh in relief.

Whether to run or stay. But with a mind of their own, Wren’s feet stayed rooted to the ground, though her pulse still raced with adrenaline.

Her trust was shaky, a fragile thing still healing from old wounds, but she forced herself to stay, wanting, needing to believe in Finn.

Minutes stretched like hours as she waited, pretending to browse a display of local honey. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked up a jar, reading the label without absorbing a single word. Just as her courage began to fray at the edges, a familiar presence appeared at her side.

“Hey there,” Finn said softly. His arrival was so quiet she jumped, though her racing heart had less to do with surprise than with how good it felt to be near him.

She turned to find him looking mortified, a flush creeping up his neck as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I am so sorry,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I somehow sent the market details to the wrong person, and John—he’s with the local paper—must have gotten them by mistake. I swear I didn’t tell him about you.”

The sincerity in his eyes made her want to believe him, even as caution whispered its familiar warnings.

“He had a camera,” she said, hating how small her voice sounded.

“He always does. He’s covering the market for next week’s edition.” Finn stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of cedar and coffee that seemed to cling to him. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about you, and I meant it. This was just a stupid mix-up.”

“I thought maybe you’d sold me out,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

“Never,” Finn said, the certainty in his voice such that she let go of the last of her fears. He smiled then, that crooked, hopeful smile that made her stomach flutter. “Now, what do you say we find those pastries I promised you? They’re worth facing a reporter or two.”

Despite herself, Wren laughed, feeling the tension slip from her shoulders as easily as a discarded coat. “Lead the way.”

They set off together through the bustling stalls, Finn close at her side, his presence both exciting and steadying. The market was coming fully alive now, locals greeting each other with easy familiarity, the morning air filled with the mingled scents of fresh bread, flowers, and coffee.

As the noise and movement swelled around them, Wren felt a momentary wave of panic at the press of bodies and a sudden flash of someone raising their phone for a photo. But Finn gently reached for her hand, his fingers warm as they entwined with hers.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “I’ve got you.”

The simple touch anchored her, grounding her in the here and now.

They wandered from stall to stall, sampling cheeses and breads, Finn pointing out his favorite vendors and telling stories about each one.

At the Henderson’s bakery stand, he bought them both cinnamon-orange pastries still warm from the oven.

“Oh my god,” Wren moaned at the first bite, sugar and spice melting on her tongue. “This might actually be better than the ones I used to buy.”

“Fate must have brought us here,” he said, the look on his face indecipherable.

They continued through the market, Finn helping her select fresh vegetables and a jar of wild berry jam the vendor swore would change her life. Wren caught herself smiling more than she had in ages, her old defenses quietly dissolving in Finn’s company.

“The honey is better,” Finn insisted as they debated the merits of fresh honey versus wild berry jam. “Trust me on this.”

“I prefer the tartness of berries,” Wren countered, enjoying the easy back-and-forth between them. “Sweet on sweet is too much.”

“Well, well,” a familiar voice interrupted. “I didn’t expect to see you out and about so early, dear.”

Wren turned to find Mrs. Abernathy standing behind them, a basket over one arm and a knowing twinkle in her eye. Her godmother looked between them with undisguised interest, her gaze lingering on their still-joined hands.

“Mrs. Abernathy,” Wren said, feeling a blush warm her cheeks. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I never miss the farmers’ market,” Mrs. Abernathy replied, clearly delighted to find her goddaughter out and about. “Although I never see certain people here this early in the morning.” She gave Finn a pointed look that made him shift his weight from one foot to the other.

“The early bird gets the pastries,” Finn said, lifting the paper bag from Henderson’s as evidence.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Abernathy agreed, her smile widening. “Just remember, you still owe me that garden consultation. Free of charge, I believe!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Finn assured Mrs. Abernathy. “I’ll come by soon to take a look.”

“Excellent. And Wren, dear, you must come for dinner soon. Maybe Finn could join us, too.” Mrs. Abernathy’s tone made it clear this was less an invitation and more a decree.

Before Wren could formulate a response, Mrs. Abernathy patted her arm and moved on, disappearing into the crowd with a satisfied smile that suggested she’d accomplished exactly what she’d come to do.

“Your godmother is...” Finn began.

“Determined?” Wren offered.

“I was going to say ‘terrifying,’ but in the best possible way.”

Terrifying in the best possible way. That was exactly how her feelings for Finn felt. They rushed through her veins like wildfire, warming places inside her that had gone cold, threatening to consume every careful boundary she’d built.

But those feelings were also exhilarating.

With Finn’s hand still in hers, Wren felt a sudden rush of certainty. Whatever this was between them, she wanted more. So much more.