Page 92 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Still nothing from Grace.

—

By evening, Reese had slipped into what his team called “Reese mode,” where emotion fucked off and problems became checklists. Conference calls with insurance. Video meetings with contractors. Emails with his foundation board about interim facilities, with the vet school about temporary placements for the animals, with his PR team about donor communications.

The sanctuary fire was trending on socials. Most of it sympathetic: billionaire’s passion project destroyed, tragic. But the usual vultures were out, too.

Maybe karma for rich guys playing at conservation while locals can’t afford basic services.

Billionaire cries about pocket change while real rangers make $20k/year.

Reese closed the app. Read three more reports. Approved emergency repairs. Signed off on a revised budget for temporary housing.

By the time he got back to the hotel at 11 PM, his eyes burned and his neck felt like concrete. The hotel was a small eco-lodge he’d invested in two years back. Sustainable architecture, solar power, the kind of quiet luxury tourists paid good money for. His room overlooked the forest canopy. He could hear howler monkeys in the distance. It was beautiful.

It was also empty.

More importantly, Grace wasn’t there.

Reese stripped off his shirt, poured whiskey from the minibar, stood on the balcony. The mountains at night were dark except for scattered lights in the valley. Somewhere below, voices drifted up. Laughter.

His phone rang.

Sam’s name lit the screen.

“Hey,” Reese answered. “Late for you. Kids okay?”

“Kids are great. Ellen sends her love. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Yeah. Property damage. Could’ve been worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Reese took a drink. “I’m fine.”

“Liar. I could tell when I picked you up on the island that something’s up, beyond what’s happened with the fire. Something that lives in Solace Springs.”

Despite everything, he smiled. Sam had known him too long.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “And don’t give me that ‘fine’ bullshit.”

Reese was quiet. Then: “Met someone.”

“Oh?”

“The other person vying for the inn. Name’s Grace. She’s…” He trailed off. Didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “Something. Everything. Nothing like anyone I’ve met before.”

“Wow. You’ve got it bad.”

“Apparently.”

“So what are you doing in Cuba, then?”

Reese looked at the dark scar of fire damage visible across the valley. “You know what I’m doing. Dealing with this. It’s my responsibility.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got teams. Sure, good of you to show up but now you’re just hiding.”

“I’m not—”