4. Maddox
Maddox
Someone steps up to the booth. “Mr. Hartley, I’m Grace Buchanan.”
The sound of her name hits first, then the woman. Long blonde hair catches the light, and cornflower blue eyes laser into me with the certainty of someone who came here specifically for me. She doesn’t look like she’s from Winslow Grove, but hell, I’m more than willing to make her feel at home.
“Well, hello, Grace.” My mouth pulls into a smile I’d forgotten I was capable of.
She’s a hell of a sight… all bright edges and quiet confidence. Heat flickers low in my chest, quick and sharp. Until her name slots into place. Grace Buchanan.
Fuck.
Every part of me holds still, the beer bottle halfway to my mouth. I blink once, twice, and the room swirls.
The reporter.
Here.
In Winslow Grove.
“What are you doing here?” It rips out of me, low and rough, before common sense can catch it.
She goes razor-straight, every inch of her red-hot fire under polished control. “Why wouldn’t I be here? We were supposed to meet at the gym this afternoon. I waited almost forty-five minutes before admitting you weren’t coming. So, forgive me if I’m confused why you’re the one who’s pissed.”
Something coils tight in my chest—guilt, irritation, the ache of being caught flat-footed. Forty-five minutes. Shit.
Jaw clenched, shoulders locked, a dozen excuses fight for room on the tip of my tongue, and none a grown man would own.
“The interview was virtual.” I’m too defensive when I’ve fucked up. But it still doesn’t explain why she’s here, in the flesh, ready to dismantle me. “So, I’ll ask again, what are you doing here?”
Her laugh isn’t a laugh at all, more a blade cutting through the air. “Right. Virtual. And even if it were, something tells me the interview still wouldn’t have happened... even if I’d sent a link.”
I freeze. At first, I’m not following, and then a sinking sensation spreads through my chest. My mind flashes back to the table, to my voice carrying over the low hum of the diner. I never got a link. That’s on the reporter.
She heard me.
My flinch is small, barely a twitch of the jaw, but her gaze narrows, catching it. Of course she does.
Across from me, Oliver and Wren wear the same wide-eyed holy hell expression.
The reporter gives them a blunt, polite half-smile. “Sorry to interrupt your evening.” Then her attention jumps back to me, the heat of it nearly physical. “This isn’t an interview.”
She measures out each word as if laying down charges in a courtroom.
“I’m doing an in-depth profile. A double-truck in the Los Angeles Daily Journal, plus an extended online feature that’ll run across our partner publications worldwide.
It requires more than a five-minute phone call or you deciding whether you feel like remembering I exist.”
My stomach drops.
A double—what?
Bile burns its way up my throat. All at once, the noise of the restaurant dulls, the surrounding conversation fading to static as she stands there, chin high, eyes lit with something sharp enough to carve through bone.
“A double what?” It’s all I’ve got.
She rolls her eyes, looking crisp, annoyed, and somehow… beautiful, doing it.
Where the hell did that come from?
“A two-page spread. Prime real estate.” Her fingers tick the items off with clinical speed. “An online magazine feature, a lifestyle angle, several shorter pieces banked for later, plus videos, photos…”
Every word lands with the force of a shove. This woman walks into my town, my night, my booth and detonates the illusion I can keep any part of my old life buried.
Fuck.
Marcos must be laughing his ass off. Over the years, I’d seen his petty, vindictive side, but I’d never imagined I’d find myself on the receiving end of his malevolence.
Her hands drop to her sides, gaze narrowing as she deciphers my confused expression. “You should know all this. At a minimum, Ginny should’ve briefed you.”
I lean back, pulse hammering behind my ribs. I did read Ginny’s email, but not the way I should have. I assumed—like an idiot—it was more of the standard post-retirement hoopla. The easy kind, over in an hour. But I should’ve known better given the players involved.
Before I can get a foothold on the panic clawing through my chest, she drops the bomb. “I’m here for six weeks.”
“What?” The word flies from me, loud enough to snap nearby conversations in half. People turn to stare, but I’m too stunned to give a damn.
“Yes. So, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I’m eager to get started.” She pulls her phone from her blazer pocket, her thumb hovering over the button. “I’ll be recording our sessions. Why don’t we start now?”
She shifts her weight, hip angled against the edge of the booth, eyes locked on mine. She doesn’t wait for a yes. “You could’ve raced another five years, maybe more. Why retire at the top of your career?”
The question slams into me, blunt and merciless.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
My throat constricts. She wields her question like a weapon—sharp, efficient, and aimed with unsettling precision.
If this is her warm-up, I’m in real trouble. I’ve buried the truth deep, but I get the sinking impression that if anyone can dig it up, it’s her.
Shit. Was this Marcos’s plan all along?
He’d love nothing better than for the truth to finally come out. He made that clear enough before I walked away.
Is this his parting gift? A reporter with a scalpel, sent to bleed me dry while I play nice for the cameras.
I rise from the booth, towering over her, and plaster on a practiced smile. I reach to steady her shoulders, my voice dropping into my casual, media-trained lilt. “Easy there, Inkslinger.”
It’s a reflex, an attempt to disarm her with a touch and a nickname, but she slides out of reach before I can make contact. The air where she stood chills.
“My name is Grace Buchanan.” Her voice is clean steel. “You can call me Grace. Or Buchanan. Or Miss Buchanan.”
“Okay… Miss Buchanan.” My sheepishness stumbles out on a breath I can’t quite regulate as I rub the back of my neck, grappling for my footing. “You just had me thinking of that phrase—what is it? The pen is mightier than the sword.”
The laugh I add is supposed to break the tension, but it’s thin and shaky. Useless.
I clear my throat and regroup, gesturing toward Oliver and Wren, who are both frozen as if they’re afraid to draw her fire next. “Look, I’m here with friends. And I’m guessing you came in for dinner. So, enjoy your meal. Let us enjoy ours. And we’ll start fresh on Monday.”
The space between us crackles—unspoken things, unasked questions, and unwelcome truths pressing hard at the edges. And this is only day one.
Percy hustles toward the table, her eyes darting between my defensive stance and the reporter’s stony glare.
“Everything okay?” She glances at Buchanan, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you still need your table, or are you joining them? A fan of the Mad One?”
Buchanan’s expression makes it clear she’d rather swan dive into a vat of acid. “No. I’ll order to go.”
“Sure.” Percy gestures toward the counter. “Right over there.”
Grace waits until Percy walks away, then levels one last, searing look at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Hartley.”
“Wait.” I step toward her and she stops, but only to throw a glance over her shoulder. Her foot taps once—sharp, impatient. A countdown. “I’ve got an away game tomorrow. Monday wou—”
Now she faces me head-on, gaze narrowing into something cool and fixed.
“Then I guess I’ll be at the away game. Good night.” She spins away.
The pink silk under her blazer flashes like a lure in the diner light as she strides toward the front counter.
I watch her—sun-bright hair swinging, hips rolling enough to pull my focus.
I like the view more than I should. But then I catch the set of her shoulders.
They’re rigid enough to trip every alarm bell in my head.
I drop back into the booth, the air heavy, like the oxygen’s been swapped for something dense and hard to swallow. I got rid of her for now, but the victory feels hollow.
I replay our encounter, coming back to the set of her jaw and the way she didn’t flinch when I snapped at her in front of half the Grill. Unshaken.
Grace Buchanan isn’t here to tick off a few questions and fly home. She’s here to dig, and a gnawing dread settles in my gut at the thought of what she might find.
“What was that about?” Oliver leans his forearms on the table.
Across from me, Wren’s brows pinch, eyes soft with concern. “Mad, it did seem like you screwed up.”
“I did.” I scrub a hand over my mouth, tension burning under my skin. “Big time. And I don’t want to do this. I thought it was a quick virtual thing. Fifteen minutes. I didn’t realize…” The words trail off as I grab my beer and drain what’s left. It’s warm and flat, but I swallow it anyway.
“You didn’t realize it was a full-blown feature?” My best friend’s eyebrows collide. “The way she described it… that’s huge.”
“Yeah.” I set the bottle down with a sharp clack against the table. “And I can’t back out. It’s in the retirement deal.”
Oliver lifts two fingers, flagging Percy for another round before turning back to me. “You sure there isn’t a way to renegotiate? Move it? Limit the access?”
“Already tried. If there was a loophole, I would’ve found it by now.” My jaw flexes. “Marcos made sure there were no loose ends.”
The memory pinches deep, the past tightening like a noose as my mind drifts back to the conference room in Madrid. The air conditioning blasting, turning the sweat on my spine to ice.
Marcos sat at the head of the table, with his team lawyers fanned out beside him. His own personal firing squad. My agent was the only buffer on my side.