10. Grace
Grace
The Hartley home is just on the edge of town, and the drive back to town unwinds in a few short miles.
Pines blur past in deep green streaks, sunlight melting the frost on the asphalt.
My fingers stay tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, the conversation with Maddox replaying in an uncomfortable loop.
We cleared the air.
At least… we said the words that were supposed to clear it. And yet something still sits lodged between us, like a pebble in your shoe—too small to name, too big to ignore. Not anger. Not quite hurt. More like he’s still not trusting, readying for a blow I never intend to deliver.
Helping him last night shouldn’t be complicated. It was simple, instinctive—see a problem, fix it. Not because it makes me better. I helped because I could. Because standing by while people struggle does something ugly to me. I’ll never forget the one person I couldn’t save.
Logically, I understand the impossibility of what happened to Cary.
He was in Florida, and I was in California.
It was a random act of violence. There was nothing I could’ve done even if I’d been there.
And yet, I try to save everything and everyone I can now.
Even stubborn, closed-off coaches with storm clouds for shoulders.
I let out a wry exhale. I’m glad we talked. His apology still echoes in my chest—quiet, sincere, and almost reluctant. It felt like giving it cost him something. Maybe letting me see even a fraction of what weighs him down is the hardest thing he’s had to do in a long time.
We’re not done, Maddox and I. Monday’s meeting looms, bringing with it the feeling that this story—his story—is already burrowing deeper into me than I ever planned.
My stomach growls, and I make a right, needing food.
Lou’s Big Sky Diner sits ahead, the old neon sign flickering in the daylight.
This is my first visit, and according to Patsy, it leans more greasy spoon while Pop’s Grill has a slightly more upscale, family feel.
I pull into the lot, squeezing between a rusted Jeep and a dusty minivan.
Inside, the rush of warmth, the chatter of the regulars, and the unmistakable smell of barbecue bring a sigh to my lips. I slip onto a chair near the window and shrug out of my coat.
My muscles finally settle, though my mind doesn’t. Maddox’s voice lingers, especially the way he asked why I helped. Something tells me people offer to help him all the time. So, what was it? Oh, more like needing someone, especially me, made him weak.
When the server brings over a menu, I take a second to look over the options, but my stomach is already set on something heavy and comforting.
“Chicken-fried steak, please. Extra gravy. And coffee—lots of it.”
She laughs, scribbles on her pad, and disappears toward the kitchen.
I sink back against the chair, letting the midday bustle of the diner settle around me. My phone buzzes against the laminate tabletop.
Buf: Call me. Now.
I sigh, already bracing for the onslaught. I talked to her early this morning after a restless night of barely any sleep, giving her the rundown on my first encounter with “The Mad One,” the away game, and the aftermath.
She already had all the juicy details of the “clash of the titans” at the Grill from that first afternoon, and she knew exactly where I was heading today.
I dial her number, and she answers before the first ring ends.
“Finally.” Her voice bursts through the line—fast, sharp, and predictably dramatic. “I’ve been dying over here. Did you talk to him? Did he apologize? Do I need to drive across the country to kick his fine coach booty?”
A laugh slips out of me. “We talked.”
“And? Give me the tea. Full spill.”
“He apologized. Things got… clearer. Still tense, but better.”
“Better as in ‘we won’t glare at each other in public,’ or better as in ‘I can now picture the two of you kissing in the gym’?”
“Buffy.”
“What? I’m asking for a scale.”
I swallow a grin, my gaze drifting to the parking lot. “Somewhere in the middle.”
A delighted gasp crackles through the speaker, nearly blowing out my eardrum. “Ohhh, the middle is fertile ground. I can practically smell the scandal from here.”
“Stop. I’m on assignment, Buf. I’m writing a profile, not auditioning for The Bachelorette.” I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, trying to sound more professional than I feel.
“Funny. You know who’d be all over this, right? He’d be telling you to go for it, conflict of interest be damned.”
I nod even though she can’t see me, a faint, bittersweet ache tugging at my chest. “Yeah, Cary would already have the wedding trek mapped out and a ‘Property of the Pit Crew’ shirt ordered for you. The two of you would be relentless. The tag-team from hell.”
She giggles, the sound bright and sharp, and for a second, I can almost see her glowing face. Her laughter peters out, thinning into the air until a heavy, familiar silence balloons between us. It’s the kind of quiet that usually has a third voice cutting through it.
“He really would’ve loved the fire suit,” she whispers.
I trace a circle in the condensation on my water glass. “He would’ve tried to steal the car.”
A small laugh carries over the line. “Seriously, though, you okay?”
“I think so.” The words come out quiet. I almost don’t recognize my own voice. “We’re not done navigating whatever this is, but at least we’re not stuck in no-man’s-land.”
“That’s progress.”
I snort, the sound cutting off abruptly as the server slides a plate onto the table. It’s a literal mountain of golden, crispy battered steak and mashed potatoes, the whole thing drowning in a lake of gravy.
My pulse skips—possibly from too much talk of Hartley, but more likely from the impending cholesterol. I mouth a silent thank you to the server, my eyes already surveying the savoury landscape of my lunch.
“I meant it in a purely journalistic sense.” Buffy sighs dramatically like I’ve personally offended her. “Get your head out of the gutter.”
“Right. What are we calling it? Journalistic stripping.” The mental image of his fire suit coming off—of what’s under it—sends a warm, unwelcome swoop through my gut. I slide the fork into the gooey potatoes, the steam rising like a delicious veil. “I’m a professional. So what if he’s attractive—”
“Pfft, attractive doesn’t even touch him. G, he’s hot.”
“Buf, not helping.” I lower my voice like I half expect to see Toby behind me. “His hotness gets filed away the way I file everything—useful detail, nothing more. I don’t look twice. I’m looking for his soul, not what’s under the fire suit.”
“Look, G, if you find a soul under that fire suit and all those sponsor patches, let me know. I bet the man sweats high-octane.”
“He probably smells like burnt rubber and ego,” I mutter, though I can’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth.
“Exactly. The good kind of ego.”
I press my lips together to suppress my laughter and shake my head. “Uh, Buf? I’m at a restaurant, and my lunch is here.”
“Fine. Call me later.”
“Promise.”
We hang up, and I take the first bite, letting my eyes slide closed as pure comfort hits my tongue.
I’m halfway through my meal when I spot Wren coming in, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the cold, her red waves bouncing with every step. She isn’t alone. Trailing her is the server from Pop’s and a petite blonde with straight hair.
Wren leads her little parade over to my booth. “Grace, hi.”
“Hey, Grace. I’m Percy... from Pop’s Grill, and this one’s sister.” Percy hooks a thumb at Wren, her grin wide and effortless.
“Hiya, Wren. Percy.” I swipe a napkin over my mouth, praying I don’t have a gravy mustache.
The blonde hangs back a step, almost waiting for permission to join the huddle.
“And this is Serena.” Wren gestures between us. “Serena, this is Grace. Our bigshot reporter from California and the official highway hero of the week.”
Serena’s green eyes double in size. “Oh my gosh, you’re that Grace? The one who handled the bus mess?”
Heat creeps up my neck, stinging my cheeks. “How do you even know about that? It was literally last night.”
Wren smirks, leaning against the edge of the laminate table. “Sissy Beckett.”
“She’s the town’s human newsfeed,” Percy chimes in. “You’ll learn quickly, Grace. Nothing stays secret in Winslow Grove. Not even if you order your eggs over-easy more than twice.”
“It’s true.” Serena nods solemnly.
I lift my mug and take a sip with exaggerated, wide-eyed caution. They all break into a laugh, the sound cutting through the lunch rush hum. I need a change in topic before they ask for more details about the bus. Not going there.
“So, Wren, I heard you were in Helena?”
Her whole face lights up, the kind of glow that usually requires a professional lighting crew.
“Sure was. I pitched an expansion for Bright Horizons—it’s a support program I founded for foster kids aging out of the system who want to go to college. And the city approved the whole thing.”
Percy wraps an arm around her sister’s shoulders and gives a triumphant squeeze. “My sister, the mogul. They want their own branch.”
“Congratulations.” I set my fork down, genuinely caught up in the excitement.
Wren practically vibrates in place. “Thank you. We’re here on a supply run—picking up fuel for the guys working on Maddox’s roof.”
At the mention of his name, Serena’s face turns a shade of red that rivals Wren’s hair. She snaps her gaze toward a napkin dispenser as if fascinated by the chrome finish.
I tap my fork against the rim of my plate, the rhythmic clink matching the sudden uptick in my pulse.
Reporter brain engaged. “So… is there a Maddox and Serena story I should know about?”
Percy lets out a snort. “Please. She had a tragic crush on him all through high school.”
“Perce!” Serena’s cheeks border on neon. “We’re just friends.” She presses her palms over her face as if she can physically push the embarrassment back in. “It’s not like I ever had a chance with Erica around anyway.”
My heart gives a single, sharp thud against my ribs.
Erica?
Serena drops her hands, trying to smooth out her expression, though she’s still flustered. “It’s ancient history. Really. That ship didn’t even make it out of the harbor, let alone set sail.”
“Order up. Wren.” Lou’s voice bellows from the counter, cutting through the sudden tension like a foghorn.
Wren gives a quick wave. “Coming.”
She turns toward the counter, Serena trailing behind her, likely grateful for the escape.
I take a slow, deliberate sip of my coffee, watching them until they’re well out of earshot. There’s a vibration in the air, that low-frequency hum that tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
Gently setting my mug down, I peer up at Percy. “So... Erica?”
She doesn’t look away, but her posture shifts, her shoulders losing their easy slump. I’ve got her attention. “Is she still in the picture?”
She shakes her head, her expression twisting into something complicated.
“I don’t really know. Honestly, most people don’t.” She exhales, a long, weary sound. “They were high school sweethearts. They got engaged and left town together the second Maddox got his racing gig.”
Her voice drops, her eyes darting toward the counter to check on the others. “But it didn’t last. They split within a couple years away. Although...”
She trails off, biting her lip as she weighs how much more to give me, and slides into the seat across from me.
“Rickie—that’s what everyone around here calls her—she never really left his life.
Doubt she ever will. Even though they were done, she was still in Spain with him. Mad isn’t the type to let go easily.”
A cold thread of unease stitches through the warmth of my chest, dragging my stomach down with it. “Where is she now?”
Percy shrugs, her expression turning unreadable. “No idea. She hasn’t been back to Winslow Grove since the split, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t talk to anyone here.” She pauses, nibbling on her bottom lip as if debating the next part. “Well, except for Mad.”
Before I can dig into what that means, Wren returns, her arms overflowing with takeout bags. “Ready to roll?”
Percy stands, but her eyes linger on my empty plate. “So, give it to me straight. Lou’s or Pop’s?”
“Pardon?” I blink, caught off guard by the shift.
“Which one is better? The food, the vibe, the total experience?”
Wren gives her sister’s arm a light, warning tap, and my reporter instincts scream—there’s a story here, and it’s not about the gravy.
I lean forward, my pulse thrumming. “Why the sudden market research?”
Percy arches a brow, her mouth opening to deliver what looks like a zinger, but Wren cuts her off with a sharp look.
“Full disclosure, Grace—‘Pop’ is Luke Tyler. Our father.” She narrows her eyes at her sister. “And that isn’t a fair question. We love Lou. He’s Pop’s best friend and family in every way that counts. He isn’t competition.”
“Hey, I’m conducting a little field study.” A spark of ambition lights up Percy’s eyes. “Seeing as I’ll be running the Grill eventually.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Wren hands Percy a takeout bag, effectively ending the debate. “Pop’s still able-bodied and spends more time at the Grill than he does at home.”
They offer a chorus of waves and head for the door, but I don’t miss the way Percy is no longer bubbly or smiling.
I watch them disappear into the parking lot, mentally filing Percy’s “Grill” ambitions right next to the ghost of Rickie.
Engaged, split up early in his career, but she still lingers in Maddox’s orbit.
Something spasms deep in my chest—an unexpected, unwanted little jolt of static.
What is wrong with me?
He’s a subject. A profile. A freaking stepping stone back to my real life. He isn’t some guy I find wildly, inconveniently attractive.
Nope. Absolutely not. I am not doing this.
I take another long, slow sip of the lukewarm coffee, letting the caffeine hit the back of my throat.
Feelings later.
Definitely later.