Page 57 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Not again.

Tomorrow would come whether he wanted it to or not.

He just had to survive until morning.

Except morning felt about a thousand years away as he lay on the chaise longue a few minutes later: too short, too narrow, designed for aesthetics, not for a six-foot-five man trying to avoid temptation.

The storm had quieted to steady rain. That damn clock kept ticking. And across the room, maybe fifteen feet away, Grace was in bed.

He could hear her breathing. Not the steady rhythm of sleep. Restless. Like she was as awake as he was, lying there thinking about—

Stop.

Don’t go there.

But his brain wasn’t taking orders tonight. It kept supplying unhelpful images: Grace in his lap. The way she’d moved against him. The small gasp she’d made when he’d cupped her breast. The heat of her.

The way she’d looked at him after he’d pulled away. Hurt. Embarrassed.

Christ.

Reese shifted on the chaise, trying to find a position that didn’t make him hyperaware of every sound she made. The rustle of sheets. A sigh. The creak of the bed frame when she moved.

This was torture. Actual, designed-by-sadists torture.

He should be able to compartmentalize. He’d spent his entire adult life perfecting the art of shutting down distractions, focusing on the goal, ignoring everything else. That was how you built empires. That was how you won.

Except Grace Sullivan wasn’t a distraction he could file away and forget about. She wasn’t like the women he usually met. The ones at charity galas who saw dollar signs or the society types who treated relationships like business mergers or even the smart, ambitious women in his professional circles who understood the game and played it well. Grace was raw and real and unpolished in the best way. She challenged his ideas and made ravioli that tasted like autumn itself. She fought for what she wanted with everything she had, not because she had resources to fall back on, but because she didn’t. She was raising a kid alone, working herself to exhaustion, dreaming bigger than her bank account allowed, and somehow still managing to be kind. To care about people. To create warmth wherever she went.

And she was also right there. Close enough that if he got up and crossed the room in about six strides he could—

No.

Reese closed his eyes. Forced his breathing to steady. Tried to think about anything except the woman in the bed and what he’d rather be doing instead of lying on this ridiculous piece of furniture.

Property valuations. Occupancy rates. The structural surveys for the areas beneath the tower. Yes, that was what he’d think about. The fact that whatever was down there, he needed to find it. Needed to secure this property before Grace or anyone else got in his way.

Focus on that. The goal. The acquisition.

Not on Grace’s mouth. Or the way she’d tasted like whiskey and defiance. Or how she’d felt pressed against him, all soft curves and sharp edges at the same time.

Fuck.

Eventually, exhaustion won. His thoughts turned fuzzy around the edges. The sound of rain became white noise. His breathing slowed despite himself and sleep crept in.

Then the usual nightmares that came with it…

Twenty-Two

Grace

Two hours.

Grace had been lying in this stupidly romantic bed for two goddamn hours and sleep was nowhere in sight.

Instead, she got: the sound of the rain still battering the windows, the memory of her own humiliation playing on repeat, Reese’s steady breathing from across the room and that antique clock on the mantel that ticked so loudly she was considering throwing it out the window.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.