5. Grace
Grace
The leather of the rental car’s seat is stiff and cold, biting through my pants. I slam the car door, and the metallic thud echoes the frantic, deranged drum solo of my pulse.
“Unbelievable.” My palm strikes the rim of the wheel. “Completely unbelievable.”
The car smells of industrial cleaner and my own mounting exhaustion. I dig into my pocket, my fingers trembling as I pull out my phone. Adrenaline is still a live wire in my bloodstream, and if I don’t capture this disaster now, I’ll start second-guessing the madness.
I thumb the record button.
“Day one. Maddox Hartley is already proving himself to be an Olympic-level pain in the ass.” A sound slips from me, caught between a laugh and a sob. “Correction: a surprisingly attractive Olympic-level pain in the ass.”
I stab the stop button, and the phone vibrates with the force of the impact. No. Absolutely not. I am not documenting my own professional demise via thirst. I delete the clip, stare out the windshield at the dark, mocking night, and start over.
“Day one of the Hartley assignment: Subject stood me up, gaslit me into thinking the mix-up was my fault, then growled at me like I’m the one with a secret to hide.” My grip tightens until my knuckles ache. “Also—he’s charming, more than he has any right to be. Infuriatingly so.”
I kill the recording again because admitting that out loud feels like swallowing glass, the truth jagged and sharp in my chest.
I stare at the dark dashboard, seeing those sharp cheekbones and that stubborn jaw instead of the plastic console. His lips are a problem—entirely too distracting for a man with that much quiet, heavy confidence.
He’s the kind of handsome you tell yourself to ignore even as your brain short-circuits.
I catch my reflection in the side window. My cheeks are flushed, my hair is a wild mess from the Montana wind, and my eyes still burn with the echo of everything Maddox Hartley made me feel tonight.
Anger. Annoyance. Confusion.
A pull I absolutely don’t have time for.
Shit.
The phone buzzes in my palm, the vibration jarring, and a text from Buffy pops up.
Buf: U alive??? Did u meet The Mad One?? Tell me EVERYTHING
A weak laugh escapes me. Only Buffy could cram three existential crises and an explosion into one text. I thumb the screen and type out a response.
Me: Yes. Barely. Total disaster. Will call later—need to eat before I turn into a cautionary tale.
Three dots appear, dance, disappear, then start again.
Buf: Fine. But if u die, I get your Birkin.
I huff out a breath and drop the phone onto the passenger seat. She can have it. Mother gifted us those bags to look thoughtful and generous to the Hollywood crowd, but the leather came wrapped in a shit-ton of manipulation. More strings than a marionette.
My lungs tighten, and it isn’t only the thought of my mother’s brand of nasty. It’s him. His voice—low, rough, jagged with annoyance—is lodged somewhere deep in my chest. And the way he looked at me as he realized who I was?
That flash of heat in his eyes before it morphed into something sharp. I can still feel the prick of it.
God help me, I felt that.
The coffee in the cup holder is still scalding, and the steam hits my face as I take a long, cautious sip. I flip open my notebook to a clean page. My pen hits the paper hard, the ink slanted and aggressive as if the lines have personally offended me.
—Assignment will be harder than anticipated
—Subject: Defensive
—Subject: Charming (against my will)
—Subject: Cagey (is he hiding something?)
The nib of the pen stalls, and there it is. That instinct I’ve been trying to smother since the second he opened his mouth. Something is off… more than off—it’s buried.
I snap the notebook shut. Tomorrow is the away game, and I have to be on that bus. I square my shoulders and stare into the rearview mirror.
“You’ve survived worse, Grace. This is just a man. An irritating man.” The air finally flows easier through my lungs. “And tomorrow, you start over.”
The engine hums to life with my jab at the start button, and the vibration travels up through the soles of my shoes.
Something inside me shifts, a hard click of resolve pushing out the last of my frustration.
He can snarl, he can glare, and he can pretend I’m nothing but a nuisance, but I won’t back down.
Tomorrow, Maddox Hartley talks to me whether he likes it or not.
The Pine Hollow Inn sits tucked behind a row of towering pines, its front porch glowing like a gentle welcome in the dark. By the time I turn into the gravel drive, my shoulders have stopped climbing toward my ears.
The place looks exactly like the kind of inn a stressed-out, emotionally frayed journalist should be staying in, if said journalist actually slept. I cackle in the darkness of the car, far too tired to think straight.
A few lights flicker softly beneath the wraparound veranda, and I smile at the movie set vibe of the rocking chairs lining the front, swaying faintly in the breeze. The place is charming as hell, and I resent it instantly.
Inside, the air is warm with lemon polish, bread, and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a postcard. Or a trap. I don’t trust the homey sensation creeping into my bones.
“Be right with you, hon,” a woman calls from a doorway.
She looks to be in her late fifties, dark curls piled high, wearing a floral blouse that radiates a cheerful, aggressive sort of welcome.
Her name tag reads Patsy, and her smile could probably thaw the Arctic. “Well, hi there. You must be Grace.”
I stiffen, taken aback by the familiarity, like we’re old friends, and I haven’t even checked in yet.
I swallow past the sudden lump of uneasiness in my throat. “That’s me.”
My bag slides off my shoulder, the weight hitting the floor with a dull thud, and I set my now lukewarm coffee and takeout bag on the wooden countertop.
“Wonderful. Meri told me you were coming.”
“Sorry… Meri?”
“Meredith Hartley.” Patsy beams, the expression so bright I’m surprised it doesn’t leave a glare. She has no idea she just ignited a landmine under my feet. “Maddox’s mama. We’ve been best friends since middle school.”
She nudges a registration card across the counter. “She said her son’s assistant needed a place to tuck away a reporter for a few weeks. I figured that had to be you.”
Of course. Because why wouldn’t the universe plant me directly under the Hartley family tree?
I force a professional smile, though it feels brittle. “Small world.”
“Small town.” Her laugh is breezy, and I try to find a reason to dislike the sound and fail. “One grocery store, five stoplights, and more gossip than we know what to do with.”
“I can imagine.”
“Room four.” She hands me a brass key attached to a wooden tag worn smooth from use.
“Up the stairs, second door on the left. The bathroom is small, but you’ve got it all to yourself.
I’m putting out dinner around seven—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, nothing fancy.
Unless inspiration hits, then you might get a salad, too. ”
“That sounds lovely, but I’m good.” I point to the bag of food. “Thank you.”
Her smile softens into something motherly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie, but you look like you could use about twelve hours of sleep.”
If she only knew.
The BLT is exactly what I need—salty, crunchy comfort that makes me feel human again. I polish off the last of the fries and the dregs of my coffee, then discard the wrappers and bag.
I head back downstairs, on a mission for something hot to drink, something to settle the restless hum still buzzing under my skin.
Patsy takes my order for a chamomile tea and chats with me as if we’ve been neighbors for decades.
She’s more than happy to fill the silence, detailing the town’s Christmas festival plans (as if I’ll be here for that), the century-old history of the inn, and which neighbor’s teenager eloped last month.
She mentions Meredith Hartley twice, fondly, but she never once says Maddox’s name. It’s a tiny mercy, one I didn’t realize I needed until the tension in my neck finally ebbs.
When I head outside, the steam from my tea ghosts into the cold air, a pale shroud against the November night, and the veranda greets me with a sharp, pine-scented chill and the faint perfume of woodsmoke.
Down the street, a few porch lights glow like anchored fireflies, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once before settling into the silence.
My boots thud softly against the hollow boards as I reach the railing and lean into the quiet, closing my eyes. For a second—just one—it feels like I can breathe.
Then my mind, the traitorous thing, slides right back to Maddox Hartley. I keep replaying his expression when I confronted him—the way his irritation flashed surprise, then sharpened into something darker. I was annoyed, sure, but I was also... aware. Far too aware of the space he occupied.
I blow across the rim of my mug, the heat stinging my lips. This assignment is supposed to be easy-peasy. A routine fluff-piece, a detour before I head back to the real world—back to Los Angeles to finish the Vitale investigation.
That’s the goal. Smooth sailing, a bunch of interviews, a few sound bites, some videos, grip and grin photos, and a plane ticket out of this postcard town.
But this assignment already sits like a stone in my throat. I have to get through this without losing my temper, my patience, or my common sense. Preferably in that order.
Maddox radiates arrogance like a biological function—steady, effortless, impossible to ignore. It tracks for men who rule their sport. They wear confidence like a second skin, and yet tonight, something else lived under that swagger. Something quieter.