Page 37 of The Sugar Maple Inn

The inn revealed itself slowly as he explored. Kitchen off the main restaurant: serious equipment, the kind that could handle a full house. Storage rooms, bathrooms, the usual maze of service areas that kept places like this running.

But it was in the back storage room that he found it.

A rug. Oriental and dusty, sitting in the middle of nowhere like it was covering something. The pattern was faded—deep reds and golds that had seen better days—and the edges were frayed where they met the floorboards. When he lifted it, he could see the floorboards underneath were different: older, set in a pattern that didn’t match the rest. Reese pulled the rug aside…but there was nothing there.

He heard footsteps and smoothed the rug back down just as Grace walked in. “Why are you kneeling down?” she asked, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Examining the floorboards,” Reese said, pretending to check the integrity of the wood. “Checking for water damage, rot, that kind of thing. Important to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Getting yourself into? Bit sure of yourself.”

Reese stood up, brushing dust off his jeans. “Hard not to be when I win everything I aim for.”

Grace tilted her head, giving him a quizzical look. “You win everything? Wasn’t it a draw yesterday?”

Reese couldn’t help but feel a flash of anger. To him, a draw was a loss. “There’ll be no draw tonight. I’m a damn good cook. Let’s see what you’ve got, Sullivan.”

“What I’ve got?” Grace turned on her heel. “You’re the one who’s about to get schooled.”

Reese’s eyes tracing the curve of her butt in those fitted pants. Damn. Even walking away from him, she managed to look like a dare. Wolfish hunger tugged at him and he forced his jaw tight, dragging his eyes back up. This wasn’t supposed to be about wanting her. This was about beating her.

His phone rang then. Reese glanced at the screen, then called after Grace, “Go on without me, Sullivan. I’ll catch up.”

He waited until Grace left and then answered. “Ma.”

“Well, there he is!” his mother boomed, her Canadian accent broad and bright. “My globe-trotting boy. Did the deal close yet?”

“Not yet,” Reese muttered. “Bit of a snag.”

“Well, spit it out then.”

“Her name’s Grace Sullivan. Local. A waitress.”

“Oooooh, I love her already,” his mother crowed. “Waitresses get things done. They’ve got eyes in the backs of their heads, balance five plates at once and still smile when some dink sends back his steak.”

“Yeah, she’s fire, Ma. Doesn’t scare easy.”

“Good!” she barked. “About time someone made it difficult for you.”

“I’ll still get the place.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

Down the hall, Zach slouched by, all attitude. Reese’s gaze lingered. “She’s got a kid. Single mom, like you. The kid reminds me of me at that age.”

“Well, God help her,” his mother said with a laugh. “I had my hands full with you and you didn’t come with what kids have within reach now, like social media. What are you up to now?”

Reese shook his head, smiling. “About to do a cook-off. The owner of the inn insisted on it, another goddamn challenge.”

“A cook-off? You?” She roared with laughter. “Oh, I like these owners already. What you making? Don’t tell me you’re trying something fancy. If you say soufflé, I’m flying down there myself.”

“Was thinking beef steak—”

“No, no, no. Go with venison if they have it. Real Canadian meat. That’ll win ’em over faster than free Timbits.”

Reese exhaled, shaking his head. His mother, the only one who could out-alpha him and make him laugh at the same time.

“I better go, Ma.”