Page 7 of The Sugar Maple Inn

AutumnDreams87: Define dirty.

WildTrailGuide: Not illegal. But strategic. Go for the emotion. Think of ways you can appeal to the heart of the sellers, not the head.

AutumnDreams87: You really think I can do this?

WildTrailGuide: I know you can. You’re smart, determined, and you’ve got more grit than half the executives I work with. This woman’s got no shot if you stop doubting yourself and start playing to win.

AutumnDreams87: You make it sound so simple.

WildTrailGuide: It’s not simple. It’s hard as hell. But you’re harder. Now stop talking to me and go get ready to show this woman what you’re made of.

AutumnDreams87: Okay. I’m doing this. Thank you, WildTrailGuide. You’re the best mentor-friend-person a girl could ask for.

She went offline and Reese stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he thought about his own business challenge.

Looked like he’d need to fight dirty too…and that involved attending a small-town event that evening.

Three

Grace

Mid-October in Solace Springs only meant one thing: Harvest Festival night. Third Sunday of the month, every year, no excuses. Once upon a time it was about fishermen hauling in their last big catches before the lake turned mean, families smoking trout and swapping jars of whatever they’d managed to grow. These days? Less survival, more sugar rush with a focus on cider and stalls with everyone pretending fried dough counted as dinner.

Grace walked through the crowds, watching as smoke from the bonfire drifted across the water, mixing with the smell of trout, maple fudge, and batter sizzling in oil. Lanterns bobbed along the shoreline, their reflections wobbling on the lake like tipsy fireflies. Kids tore down the dock with jam-stained fingers while some old man with more confidence than talent tortured a banjo loud enough to scare off every duck within a mile.

Grace knew it better than most, having worked this festival every single year since she could balance a tray. At eight she handed out napkins, at twelve she poured cider until her wrists ached, at sixteen she sulked behind her mom’s pumpkin bread samples while her friends ran wild under the lanterns, flirting, laughing, sneaking kisses at the end of the dock. She never got to be one of those girls; she was too busy smiling through gritted teeth and scraping cinnamon sugar off the tables.

And here she was again. Different year, same festival, still playing Cinderella with the mop and apron while everyone else got to have a ball.

She paused to look at the inn across the lake. A thin layer of mist was beginning to form over the surface, the kind that came with the temperature drop once the sun started its descent behind the mountains. Fallen leaves floated like small boats near the dock—gold, rust, amber—slowly making their way toward the island where the inn’s stone tower rose above the treeline. The air smelled like wet earth and woodsmoke, that sharp autumn scent that meant winter was coming whether you were ready or not.

If she could buy the inn, it could be different. She just needed to get to Abe and Margaret before Reese Spencer did.

“Grace!”

It was her mother, beckoning her over to the Blossoms & Brew booth. The stand was unmistakable: gingham tablecloths, fairy lights twined around the posts, the air around it smelling of cinnamon, sugar, and espresso. On the ground in front of it were baskets spilling with apples and pumpkins and cinnamon sticks tucked into jars. The front board listed specials in her mother’s loopy handwriting: Maple Pecan Latte. Spiced Apple Cider. Pumpkin Chai with Whipped Cream. Caramel Walnut Cake. Cranberry Orange Loaf.

It was practically sugar-coated blackmail.

There was a new addition to the festival, too. The Cherry Blossom Boathouse Bookshop booth! Grace held up a finger toward her mother—the universal “give me one second” gesture—and made a beeline for her friend’s stall.

Sophie, who ran the bookshop, had outdone herself. It looked like autumn had exploded: maple leaves strung like garland and pumpkins carved with intricate book quotes graced the ground in front of it. She had arranged her books by color, creating this incredible gradient from deep burgundy mysteries to golden romance novels.

Grace had to hand it to her friend. When Sophie Bennett had shown up in Solace Springs earlier that year all the way from London, soaking wet from an unplanned swim in Solace Lake, nobody had expected much. Just another city transplant with more dreams than sense. But she’d turned that old boathouse into something special, building a real bookshop business that actually served the community instead of just extracting money from it. Plus, she’d somehow managed to civilize Grace’s good friend and local boatman Luke Rhodes, which most people had written off as impossible.

Luke was behind the stand too, his large presence making it look tiny. Same dark hair, same weathered lake-man face, same faint expression like he was enduring the festival rather than enjoying it. Luke’s brother Finn wandered over with another box of books, looking remarkably less like he’d been sleeping rough for months. The man had good bones under all that previous misery: sharp jawline, those expressive brown eyes that were actually focusing properly now instead of looking through everything. When he set the box down and gave Grace a quick nod, his brown curls bouncing, she noticed two teenage girls watching him. Looked like Luke’s mysterious brother was going to be quite the heartbreaker once he got his feet properly under him.

“Holy hell, Sophie,” Grace said when she got to the booth. “This looks like something out of a magazine.”

Sophie looked up from arranging a display of cozy mysteries, her dark, wavy hair escaping from a messy bun. “Grace! Perfect timing. I was just trying to convince Luke that we need more romance novels on display.”

“I’m not arguing against romance novels,” Luke said, wrapping one arm around Sophie’s waist and pulling her snug against his chest as he looked down at her. “I’m just saying, maybe books with shirtless men on the covers aren’t what a harvest stall needs.”

“Are you kidding?” Grace said firmly. “Hot lumberjacks are exactly what we need over the harvest period.”

“See?” Sophie smoothed her palm along Luke’s forearm and smiled up at him. Grace eyed them—Sophie glowing, Luke looking grumpily satisfied—and felt a mix of envy and affection. Sophie had come here with nothing but dreams of turning a ramshackle boathouse into a bookshop, and found a future husband in the process, too.

Meanwhile, Grace was still living above her mother’s café, scraping glaze off her apron.