Page 2 of The Sugar Maple Inn

The garden center. That was what she’d told her online mentor she was trying to buy. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at 1 AM when she’d first joined the business subreddit, desperate for help with loan applications and basic math that made her brain hurt. A single mom slinging coffee in Nowheresville, Washington? That didn’t exactly scream “winner” to internet strangers. But Australian AutumnDreams87 with her charming garden center sounded like she actually knew what she was doing.

WildTrailGuide had been the only moderator who’d bothered answering her panicked questions about profit margins with some honesty and no-nonsense talk, just what she needed. The man clearly knew his stuff: said he owned multiple businesses, talked spreadsheets like poetry. Somehow their exchanges had drifted from “how do I read a balance sheet without crying?” to swapping playlists and family horror stories.

Maybe WildTrailGuide had a point? Maybe today wasn’t a total write-off after all. The inn’s owners, Abe and Margaret Blackwell, may well show up. After all, this whole fancy shindig was about Mr. Money Bags schmoozing local businesses so they’d buy into whatever venture he had planned. Any new businesses in Solace Springs needed to be vetted and signed off by local people who had a vested interest in what happened to that town…and that started with the town’s small businesses. So if the Blackwells turned up, it could be the perfect chance for Grace to show them she had her act together, so when her offer for their inn eventually landed on their desk, they’d think she could pull this off.

Grace squared her shoulders and headed toward the well-dressed crowd milling around the courtyard, professional smile locked and loaded. The business types were exactly what she’d expected: pressed shirts, expensive watches and that particular brand of confidence that came with never having to check your bank balance before buying coffee. She wove between them, offering appetizers.

“Oh, how quaint!” gushed a woman in a cream blazer, accepting a tartlet like Grace was offering her a rare artifact. “Is this locally sourced?”

“The butternut squash? Sure is. Grew it myself out back between the espresso machine and the dumpster.” The woman looked uncertain, clearly not sure if Grace was joking.

A man in a navy suit waved Grace over. “You, server! Could you explain what’s in these? I have very specific dietary requirements.”

You have very specific personality requirements too, but we’re all suffering through it. “Of course, sir.”

As she rattled off the ingredients, her eyes snagged on a man standing apart from the others, phone to his ear as he looked out at Solace Lake. The tailored pants and expensive watch said money and civilization. But the messy dark blond hair, the constant scanning, the barely contained energy…that said something else entirely. There was something wild underneath all that polish.

He was tall. No, not just tall, huge, with broad shoulders that made the fabric of his white shirt work hard. As he paced up and down, everything about him was screaming restless energy, his huge hands flexing and unflexing.

He looked like a wolf pacing the perimeter of a cage. Dangerous. Restless. And unrepentantly hot.

“The Blackwells still haven’t shown,” Grace heard him saying, voice deep and rough. “You didn’t mention buying an inn out here’d be such a headache.”

Grace inched closer to listen in.

“Fine, bump the offer on the inn,” he snapped. “Money talks, even with stubborn old fellas like Abe Blackwell.”

He was talking about the inn. Her inn. The Maple Inn.

The tray in Grace’s hands started to shake and the universe decided that was the perfect moment for someone to back up behind her without looking, bumping right into her. Physics took over. The maple-glazed butternut squash tartlets launched themselves into orbit, achieving perfect distribution across Hot Wolf Guy’s back. One tartlet landed with a soft plop in his hair. Another decorated his shoulder blade. Several more turned his expensive shoes into an autumn-themed disaster zone.

He turned around, revealing green eyes that held far too much amusement for someone who’d just been assaulted by appetizers. He looked down at himself. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted and landed right on Grace.

“Going to have to call you back,” he said into the phone. “I’ve just been…attacked by hors d’oeuvres.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket, full lips curling into a hint of a smile, and Grace got her first real look at him. He was gorgeous, even in his imperfections: a scar through one eyebrow and a slight crook to his nose, like it had been broken once and hadn’t quite set right.

Stop staring, Grace. He’s your competition for that inn!

Before Grace could say anything, a woman in a sleek black dress appeared at the man’s elbow. “Mr. Spencer! Oh my God, are you okay?” She produced a handful of napkins and started dabbing at his shirt.

Mr. Spencer. Grace’s stomach dropped straight through the deck and into the lake. It was Reese Spencer, the human ATM who was hosting this event. And, it turned out, the same human ATM who wanted to buy her inn. The dream she’d been scrimping and saving for, the future she’d been planning down to the last detail…and this guy could probably outbid her with his pocket change.

“I’ve had worse dumped on me, Erika,” Reese said, eyes still on Grace. He raised that scarred eyebrow. “Or better, depending on your taste. Can you check on Mr. Eastman?”

Erika hesitated, her gaze flicking over Grace, clearly finding her lacking. Then she nodded and glided away.

Alone with her well-funded rival, Grace did what she always did when disaster struck: reached for humor like it was duct tape and tried to joke the mess into submission.

“Well, this is awkward,” she said. “I just dumped an entire tray of appetizers on someone who looks like they’re about to buy half the town.”

“Just a small part of the town.” He plucked one of the tartlets from the pocket of his shirt and took a bite. “These are real good. Maple glaze?”

“Yep, locally sourced from Maple Island’s very own trees,” she said, gesturing to the island. The island with her inn on it.

He tilted his head, a lock of blond hair falling in his eyes. “What next, syrup hand-tapped by folks singing ballads to the trees?”

“Please,” Grace said with an eye roll. “They sing lullabies. Keeps the sap tender. The maples, too.”