3. Grace #2
The thought of her—margaritas, tacos, her soft, contagious laugh—pulls another smile from me. As I approach the school office, I square my shoulders, tuck everything back where it belongs, and step inside.
I glance down at the woman sitting behind the front desk. “I’m looking for Maddox Hartley.”
“Coach Hartley should be in the gym.”
She leads me down the hall, gleaming tiles and dented blue lockers stretching out ahead of us. The air carries that signature high-school blend of floor wax, dog-eared textbooks, and overdone body spray.
Through the large double doors to the gym, she gestures toward the far wall, where a small window glows next to a closed door. “Right in there.”
The office is dark, but before I can ask where he might be, she’s down the hall. I cross the gym floor, my heels clicking against the polished wood, and I peer into the office window. The room sits still and unoccupied. I knock anyway, wait for a beat, then try the handle. Locked.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I’ll give him.
Boredom wins after ten, and I walk back to the front office. The secretary pages him over the PA, her voice echoing through the empty halls, but there’s no Maddox Hartley.
When I return to the gym, patience fraying, I pull up my recents and hit his assistant’s number.
“Ginny, it’s Grace Buchanan. I’m at the school. Mr. Hartley isn’t here, and I have no way to reach him.” My frustration bleeds into my tone. If she’s going to insist on being the only bridge between us, she needs to keep the bridge open.
There’s a long pause, and I pull the phone away, checking the screen. The seconds are still ticking up, and the line is still connected.
Finally, she clears her throat. “That’s strange. I sent him—” She catches herself, her professional mask slipping for a beat. “Something must’ve come up. I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up before I can ask for his number again. She guards him like a state secret, and I’m the one wasting my afternoon in a high school gym.
Picking up a stray basketball, I bounce it, and the thud echoes in the cavernous space, a lonely, rhythmic sound that matches my heartbeat, until the phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
It’s Toby.
I drop the ball, which bounces away with a hollow ring, and hit the screen. My insides fizz with the possibility he’s calling to tell me to get on the next flight back to LA.
“Hey, Toby. What’s up?”
“Buchanan. How’d it go with Hartley?”
All my enthusiasm fades, and I stop pacing to stare at the empty bleachers. “We’ve hit a little snag.”
“What does that mean?”
“We were supposed to meet, but he isn’t here. His assistant’s on it. Probably miscommunication.” I downplay the inconvenience and bite my tongue to keep from asking about the Vitale negotiations. It’s only been a few days.
“All right, Buchanan.” His tone is clipped, the sound of a man already onto his next email. “Keep me posted.”
The phone beeps against my ear. “Will do. I have to go—that’s his assistant now.” I end the call and switch lines. “Grace Buchanan.”
“Hi, it’s Ginny. Unfortunately, Mr. Hartley won’t be able to meet today. He apologizes and says Monday after school works.”
Bullshit.
I’m uncertain what is her exact tell—maybe a slight hesitation in her voice or the way her volume dips—but she isn’t telling the truth.
“Monday?” I walk toward the exit, my frustration echoing with every step. “I don’t have time to spare. What about tomorrow, Friday, before the weekend?”
“He can’t.”
I want to push. Not because I enjoy being a hardass, but because something is off. She gives an excuse that belongs to a man who forgot, avoided, or simply didn't bother. If that’s his attitude, the next six weeks will be a special kind of hell.
“Fine. I don’t suppose I can get his number now?”
“Um, uh—”
It’s a hard no, even if it’s only a stumble of vowels, and I spare her the rest of the lie. “Have a good evening, Ginny.”
I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket.
Instead of heading to the inn, I follow the hollow ache in my stomach toward the center of town. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m too busy mulling over the problem of Maddox Hartley to care about checking in yet.
Pop’s Grill sits on the main drag, its cedar siding weathered in that charming, small-town way, suggesting the locals have been eating here for generations.
Warm light glows through the broad front windows, carrying the scent of seared beef, fried onions, and cooling pie. Inside, voices hum in a low, steady drone, the tableware clinks in an easy rhythm, and the whole place radiates a level of comfort that’s entirely foreign to me.
A pretty redhead weaves through the tables, clutching a stack of menus. “Hi there.”
“Table for one, please.”
I follow her toward a booth in the back but stop short before I can slide onto the vinyl. My breath hitches, snagging in my throat at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man—easily over six feet—heading toward a nearby table where a couple sits.
Maddox Raymond Hartley.
A spark ignites, low and sharp, right under my ribs. He moves with an easy, fluid confidence. Dark, tousled hair, relaxed posture, and a smile with enough mischief to make you look twice.
I’ve seen him on TV a dozen times, but the screen didn’t do him justice. He’s imposing, though that isn’t quite the right word. It’s his presence.
Unbothered.
Magnetic.
Effortlessly commanding.
He’s a man who takes up space without apologizing for it, and even from a table away, he pulls the oxygen out of the room.
The hostess taps the edge of my table, pulling me back to reality. “I’m Percy. I’ll be your server. Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menu?”
I don’t look at her. I can’t.
At Hartley’s table, the woman across from him leans in, and they’re close enough that I can hear what she says. “Everything all right, Maddox?”
“Yeah.” He drags a hand harshly through that dark, wavy hair. “I was supposed to do an interview and completely forgot about it.”
I stiffen, then give Percy a quick shake of my head—no drink—hoping she’ll take the hint and float away before I miss a single word.
Hartley’s voice snaps my focus back to his table. “I never got a link. That’s on the reporter.”
My brows knit in confusion. A link?
The blond guy sitting with him arches a brow. “Now what?”
“We’ll do it Monday.”
The slow burn inside me flashes hot, the heat rising all the way to my scalp. This two-time world champion brushed our interview aside without a second thought, and now he’s sitting here with the audacity to treat me as the inconvenience.
Fantastic.
He might not be the person responsible for the current powder keg of my life, but he’s the one sitting ten feet away. And unfortunately for him, he’s about to get whatever is left of my patience.
I slide out of the booth and march toward his table, stretching a smile across my face—thin and sweet as poison—and thrust out my hand. “Mr. Hartley? I’m Grace Buchanan.”