Page 51 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Trapped in a tower with Grace Sullivan.

Half of Reese wanted to laugh at the absurdity. The other half was acutely aware that she was standing three feet away in a nightgown so thin the moonlight made it irrelevant.

Dangerous. This whole situation was dangerous.

He focused on the bottles. Safer than looking at her. Safer than thinking about how her hair caught the light or the curve of her hip, or the fact that they were going to be alone up here until morning.

Behind him, he heard rustling. Fabric moving. When he glanced over his shoulder, Grace had grabbed a thick blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around herself like armor.

Disappointment hit him harder than it should have.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Something strong enough to make me forget I’m trapped in a tower with a man who’s trying to ruin my life?”

He laughed. Did she know those little quips of hers only made him harder?

Reese grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses. No ice. If they were doing this, they were doing it properly.

Grace settled into one of the armchairs by the window, tucking her legs under the blanket. Reese took the other chair, leaning over to hand her the glass. Their fingers brushed. Brief. Electric.

She turned away, diverting her attention to the view outside the small balcony where the storm raged. Wind screamed past the tower, rain lashing the windows in sheets. Lightning cracked across the sky, highlighting the lake below in brief, violent flashes. From this height, they could see the whole northeastern shore of Solace Lake, the dark mass of forest below bending under the wind’s assault.

It was wild and primal. Beautiful in the way natural disasters were beautiful when you were safe from them.

Or were they safe?

Reese took a drink. Let the whiskey burn down his throat. “So,” he said, “what would you do with this tower?”

Grace looked at him over her glass, eyes sharp even in the dim light. “Not going to tell you that, am I? You’re the competition.”

“I can guess.”

“Go on then.”

“You’d keep it the same. Fix what’s broken. But you wouldn’t change the bones of it. You’d want guests to feel like they’d stepped back in time.”

She didn’t say anything. Just took a sip of whiskey, watching him. “What about you?”

He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs out. “I’ll add to the balcony, wrap it around the exterior. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Your turn.”

She bit her lip as she looked out at the storm, then to the clock on the wall. “Honestly, I’m not in the mood to talk about my plans for the inn. I mean, what chance do I actually have against a freaking billionaire?”

That surprised him. The first real crack in her confidence. Grace had been all fire and fight since the moment they’d met; sarcasm and stubbornness wrapped in pink-tipped hair and a waitress uniform. But this? This was something else.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said. “Abe and Margaret, they seem like the types to go with heart over head.”

“No.” Grace shook her head firmly. “Abe’s all head. He’ll go with whoever makes the most sense financially to keep his legacy alive…and that’s not the single mom with the bank rejection letters.” She took another sip. Deeper this time. “The dream’s over. I just haven’t accepted it yet.”

Reese studied her. Trying to figure out if this was a play. An appeal to his pity, some strategy to get him to back down. But she seemed genuine. And that made him feel…something.

“I was serious, you know,” he said. “About taking you on as manager. You could live in that annex out back with Zach. I’d get the place fixed up properly. Modern systems, structural work. You’d have a real salary, benefits. Security.”

He expected gratitude. Maybe relief. Instead, anger flashed across her face.

“You clearly didn’t listen to me,” Grace said. “I don’t want to manage someone else’s dream. I need something that’s mine. Something that can’t be taken away when the billionaire gets bored and moves on to the next project.”

There was the fire and fight.