Page 97 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“You’re supposed to be in Cuba,” Mabel said.

He turned to Grace’s mom, a charming smile on his face. “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan. I was. But I left. I hope it’s okay to take your daughter out over her lunch break?”

Grace’s mother put her hand to her heart. “Hell, honey, she can have the whole afternoon off.”

“You left Cuba?” Ray said. “But the sanctuary—”

Reese turned to him. “Hey, Man Who Served Me the Best Fish Ever on Sunday. The sanctuary is being handled by people far more qualified than me. Any more questions?”

Sophie put her hand up but Grace dragged it down.

Reese took a step closer, and she caught the full force of him: the intensity in his eyes, the barely contained energy that seemed to crackle around him. “I needed to see you,” he said. “You weren’t answering my texts.”

The knitting ladies gasped, giving Grace disapproving looks. “You didn’t text him back?” one of them said.

Reese turned to her. “I know, right?” Then he turned back to Grace. “So I thought I’d come see you in person. How about it then? Lunch?”

Grace grabbed her bag and whipped off her apron. “I’m in.”

Thirty-Seven

Reese

Reese’s Aston Martin sat angled across two spots. He wanted to say it was because he’d stopped caring about parking tickets around the time his portfolio topped nine figures. But truth was, he’d just been desperate to get to Grace from the airport.

Grace wasn’t impressed.

“Wow,” she said, staring like he’d parked a UFO in front of the café. “Compensating for something with a car like that? And why are you taking up two spaces?”

He laughed. Most people saw the car and immediately started rehearsing their best networking pitch. Grace saw it and fired the first shot. God, he loved that about her.

“You know I’m not compensating for anything,” he said, placing his hand on her back and opening the door for her.

He caught the flush on her cheeks then watched her hesitate. Her eyes darted between the polished leather interior and her own reflection in the window: pink-tipped hair frizzed by lake air, smudged eyeliner from the espresso machine steam. He could practically hear her inner monologue gearing up for a self-critique.

She had no idea how beautiful she was. None.

“Reese,” she said, still rooted to the spot, “I can’t get in your fancy car looking like this. I look like—”

“Perfect,” he said. “You look perfect, Grace.”

She rolled her eyes. “I look like I’ve been running muffins and lattes for four hours.”

He smiled. “You look like yourself. That’s the part that works for me.”

His hand found her cheek, warm skin against the cold morning air. Her breath hitched.

“Don’t fight me on this, Grace. I’m exhausted and I just want you all to myself. Get in the car,” he said softly. “Please.”

And there it was. The tiny shift. Her shoulders relaxing, eyes softening. Surrender wasn’t the right word, but something close.

She slid into the passenger seat, muttering something under her breath about leather and overcompensation. He circled to the driver’s side, grinning despite himself. Watching Grace in a world like his was like watching a wild bird land on a high-rise balcony—out of place but impossible to look away from.

He got in beside her, the air between them charged.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”