Page 44 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“Our Colt Ashford?” Reese asked.

“Born right here,” Margaret said.

Ella nodded. “He went to school with Caleb, me, and Grace. Always thought rules were optional. Turns out rehab isn’t.”

Reese had booked Ashford once for a Christmas event for his staff: charisma, chaos, the whole package. He knew the type. Burning bright, burning out.

“Go on then, Tressa!” Caleb said.

Tressa hesitated, the stem of her glass turning nervously in her hand, then stood. She walked to the piano, moving with self-conscious grace.

“It’s called ‘The Night We Met’ by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers. It’s a duet,” she said, “but tonight…you’ll have to make do with both parts from me.”

The first notes floated out, soft as breath. Her voice wasn’t big or showy, just clean and real, the kind that went straight to the chest. Reese leaned back, letting the sound wash over him, watching how everyone seemed to quiet under it.

Then she hit a line about searching for trails to follow and something in him cracked a little. He’d spent half his life following trails. Business ones, flight paths, new starts. Always thinking the next place, the next project, would fix the restlessness that wouldn’t quit. But sitting there now, candlelight flickering across worn wood and familiar faces, it hit him how long it had been since he’d actually stayed anywhere.

He looked up and found Grace watching him from across the table. She was giving him the kind of look that made a man want to ask questions he had no business asking. For a brief moment, everything stilled: the chatter, the clinking glasses, the world outside. Reese felt a pull in his chest. That dangerous, steady ache of wanting something he hadn’t even named yet.

Then the last note fell away and the room erupted in applause, but Reese’s pulse was still caught somewhere in that song…and in Grace’s eyes.

“You’re staring,” Ella said quietly beside him.

Reese snapped his attention back. “What?”

“At Grace,” she whispered. “You’re staring.”

“I’m observing the competition.”

“Is that what we’re calling that particular expression on your face?” Ella’s smile was knowing. “Observing the competition?”

“I don’t have an expression.”

“Hmmm,” Ella said, unconvinced. She took a sip of wine. “Grace is good for this place, you know. She understands it in a way that can’t be bought or studied. It’s in her bones.”

“I can see that,” Reese said carefully.

“Can you?” Ella asked. “Or are you going to buy the inn anyway because you’re used to getting what you want…including pretty pink-haired women like Grace? She’s my friend and she’s had her heart broken. Just don’t want you taking out another chunk.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ella.”

“Oh really? How about you try not to look at her for the next few minutes, then?”

Reese gripped the table, knuckles white, just as Margaret stood up, tapping her wine glass with a fork. “All right, everyone,” she said, “time for the important question: who won?”

Sixteen

Grace

Well, hell.

Grace had been so busy trying not to look at Reese, she’d somehow forgotten the whole point of this exercise: someone had to lose. And historically speaking, that someone was usually her.

She glanced at Reese. He was gripping the table edge like it was keeping him afloat. His jaw was tight. His eyes sharp. His whole body had that coiled quality of a predator waiting to pounce. It actually looked like he cared about the outcome of this little stormy cook-off.

That shouldn’t have surprised her. Billionaires didn’t get to be billionaires by being chill about competition.

Competitiveness isn’t a character flaw, WildTrailGuide had told her once. It’s a resource. The people at the top? They didn’t get there by playing nice. They got there by being hungrier than everyone else in the room. Your job is to be hungrier than them.