Page 54 of The Sugar Maple Inn

The fabric of Reese’s sweats did nothing to disguise his desire. The peak was impossible to miss. A thick, insistent, bobbing whenever he shifted his weight. He was as turned on as she was.

She pulled the blanket tighter. Not that it helped. She could still feel his gaze like a physical thing.

And here was the problem: She was looking back.

Because somewhere between the whiskey, the storm and the forced honesty of being trapped in a tower together, Grace had to acknowledge something deeply inconvenient: Reese Spencer wasn’t just a rich man. He wasn’t just the man trying to steal her dream. Or a pretty face with a perfect chest and arms that could probably bench-press her entire café. He was deeper than that. Smart in ways that had nothing to do with money. Funny in a dry, unexpected way that kept catching her off guard. And lonely—genuinely, honestly lonely—in a way she recognized because she saw it in her own mirror every morning.

Which was worse. So much worse than just attraction.

Reese stood to refill their glasses. As he passed her chair, his hand brushed her arm. It was barely a touch, just his warm skin against her skin through the thin material of her cardigan. But to Grace, it felt like an electric shock. When he settled back in his chair, Grace was hyperaware of everything. The way Reese’s fingers wrapped around his glass. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

“I saw you were engaged once, to the film director?” Grace heard herself say. “Or married? The internet wasn’t clear.”

Reese’s expression shuttered. “Married. Megan. It…didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his drink like it held answers. Then:

“She said I didn’t love her. Said I don’t love anyone because I’m a robot. That I just collect people like I collect everything else.” His voice was flat. Careful. “Then she threw a vase at my head. Still got the scar.” He raised his blond fringe to reveal a small scar.

Grace winced. “Sounds dramatic. So…was she right? That you collect people?”

Reese looked up, meeting her eyes. “The collecting part was wrong. I cared about her. But the love part?” He shook his head. “Maybe she was right. Wasn’t built for that, I guess. Business? That I can do. That fits.”

“You’re doing yourself a disservice,” Grace said quietly. “You’re not a robot, and anyone who made you feel less than human is wrong. You have layers.”

Reese stared at her. “You say that like you believe it.”

“I do believe it, now that I know you a little more,” Grace admitted. She sighed, looking away from him, out at the lake. “Look, I still think you’re an arrogant ass who’s trying to steal my dream. But you’re not…empty. You’re not what I expected.”

“You’re not what I expected either, Grace.”

She turned back to look at him. Thunder rolled overhead, long and deep, and Grace felt it in her chest. The space between their chairs suddenly seemed to have shrunk to nothing as they stared at each other.

“Grace,” Reese said, and her name in his mouth sounded like a question and a statement and a warning all at once.

She should make a joke. Should do literally anything except sit here staring at his mouth and wondering what it would taste like.

“Yeah?”

Reese’s knuckles went white around his glass. He stared at her like she was a problem he was trying to solve and then—

He slammed the glass down on the side table and stood in one fluid motion, all coiled energy. He crossed the space between them and dropped to his knees in front of her chair, pulling it toward him and bringing them eye to eye.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice rough and low.

Grace’s breath caught. “Do what?”

“Pretend I’m not thinking about kissing you every damn minute.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. The blanket slipped farther, forgotten. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to close the distance, to find out if his mouth felt as good as it looked.

No, that would be a terrible idea wrapped in bad judgment and topped with a cherry of future regret. But the storm was raging outside and she was so tired of being careful, being responsible, being the good girl who never took what she wanted.

“Then stop thinking about it,” Grace heard herself whisper, “and maybe do it instead. Shut up and kiss me.”

His laugh was low and dark. “If you say so, Sullivan.”