Page 9 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Kids were drinking chai now? “Of course. Why not?” Grace made the drink, handing it over with a smile. “Careful, it’s hot, honey.”

The girl grinned, coins clinking on the counter, and skipped off.

Another customer swooped in for cranberry loaf. Then a couple for spiced cider. Before she knew it, Grace was back in full Cinderella mode, smiling and serving.

Mabel returned ten minutes later instead of five, looking smug. “Look at you! You’re a natural. The customers love you.”

“Oh yes,” Grace muttered. “Because I haven’t been doing this exact routine since I was in pigtails.”

Mabel slid another tray of pecan bars onto the counter. “Tradition, darling. You’ll thank me someday.”

Grace bit back a retort, her eyes scanning the crowd. Still no sign of Abe and Margaret. But she could see Zach with his friends. She’d tried to talk to him about what had happened at soccer practice to lead to that black eye, but he’d just dismissed it as a bad tackle. She knew her son, though. She knew it was more than that and if she saw his coach that night, she’d be having a word with him to find out what.

As she turned her gaze back to the customers waiting, she caught sight of Reese Spencer again, laughing with someone at the cider press. Perfect. Not only was she stuck serving pumpkin chai, but he was out there charming the town into handing him her future.

Grace had just finished sliding a slice of caramel walnut cake across the counter when she felt it—that shift in the air again, like the crowd leaning in one direction at once. She didn’t even need to look up.

“Smells good,” came a deep voice, smooth, Canadian, and annoyingly close.

She lifted her eyes to have it confirmed that Reese Spencer stood on the other side of the stall, lantern light painting him in gold.

His gaze flicked to the trays of pecan bars, pumpkin squares, frosted gingerbread. “Any recommendations?”

Yes. Try somewhere else, she wanted to say.

Mabel swooped in, smiling like the cat who’d cornered a canary. “Reese! How lovely to see you. You must try the maple pecan bars. Grace made this batch herself.”

“Maple pecan bar it is then,” he said, sliding a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and refusing change. He took a bite, chewed, then let out a satisfied hum that felt indecent for something involving nuts and sugar. “Not bad.”

Not bad. Not bad?

“You’re probably used to eating pastries baked by Michelin-starred chefs on your yacht,” Grace said.

“Grace!” Mabel hissed.

“True,” he said easily. “But I’ve had pastries from chefs all over—Paris, Vancouver, even some tiny kitchen up in Tofino—and this one beats most of ’em.”

Mabel beamed like he’d just proposed marriage. Grace rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn’t get stuck. Luckily, before her mom could say another word, Mabel was beckoned over by one of her friends.

“Anything else?” Grace asked, hand on hip.

Reese glanced at the neat rows of cider cups and pumpkin lattes, then leaned in even farther, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a dare. “Any chance there’s something with a bit more kick back there?”

“This isn’t a speakeasy.”

“Shame. Looked like the kind of stall that might have a flask hidden under the counter.”

She narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t wrong. Mabel had stashed a bottle of spiced rum under there since before Grace was born. Her “secret recipe” for cider that was only secret if you’d never smelled alcohol before. Grace reached for it, poured a generous splash into a fresh cup of spiced cider and slid it across to him.

“Careful,” she said. “You might not be able to handle it.”

His mouth quirked, both dimples on full display. “But can you?”

That did it. Grace sloshed some rum into her cup, raised it in mock salute then downed the drink in one go. The heat hit instantly: sweet and strong enough to make her cough.

“See?” she rasped, slamming the cup down like a challenge.

“Impressive,” Reese said, eyes glinting. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”