14. Grace
Grace
For a heartbeat, everything inside the kitchen goes still, nothing but the hiss of the sprinklers and the scream of the alarm and the sound of my own uneven breathing. Then the back door smacks open and boots pound in.
“Fire department.”
I can’t tell whether it’s been ten minutes or two hours since the alarm went off—time did something strange in there, stretched and compressed all at once. What I know is this: There was a fire, I grabbed the extinguisher, and somehow it’s out.
They take over without ceremony, and I lean back against a stainless-steel prep table, soaked through, smoke still curling around me, lungs working harder than they should for charred, acrid air.
A tall firefighter with kind eyes and a strong grip catches my elbow and steers me away from the kitchen. “You need air and water.”
I nod, but my legs wobble like the ground has shifted under me.
Outside on the front lawn, guests have gathered in a loose cluster, faces wide and anxious in the cold.
Sissy, who’s usually behind the front desk, moves among them pressing blankets into hands and apologizing with a frantic, breathless edge.
More staff filter out to help, but the fear doesn’t dissipate—it spreads thinner, stretching across all of us.
Nearby, Patsy leans toward one of the firefighters, and his response carries enough to reach me.
“We’re checking to make sure everyone’s out.
Look around, make sure no one’s missing—there’s a lot of smoke and chemical residue.
We’ll assess structural and ventilation safety before anyone goes back in. ”
She presses a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Lord. We renovated last fall.”
A woman slips in beside her, dark hair threaded with gray, posture quietly steady in a way that calms everyone around her. I’ve seen her around the inn once or twice without ever catching her name.
She loops an arm around Patsy with the kind of familiarity that speaks of years, grounding her without a word.
Then her gaze moves across the cluster of us gathered on the lawn, faces washed in the rotating lights of the fire trucks, blankets pulled tight against the November cold—counting, assessing, taking stock.
It lands on me. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re covered in soot.”
“I’m fine,” I croak.
“Nonsense.” She reaches for a damp cloth from a tray someone has brought outside and brushes my cheek with a practiced care—the kind that comes from years of tending cuts and burns and whatever else life hands a person without warning. “You helped put it out?”
“I just grabbed the extinguisher.”
“That was brave.” She offers a small smile. “And foolish. You could’ve been hurt.”
“Story of my life.”
A light chuckle slips out of her, warm but threaded with worry.
Some time later, the firefighters regroup in a semicircle of reflective stripes and crackling radios. The verdict lands heavy. The structure is stable on initial inspection, but the smoke and chemical residue mean no one can stay inside until the wiring and ventilation are cleared.
A few days at minimum, more likely weeks once the water damage from the sprinklers is factored in. They went off throughout the entire building, and the kitchen is a write-off.
Patsy wrings a blanket between trembling hands, staring at the smoke-stained siding above the outside kitchen wall. “I can’t have my guests out on the street.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” The dark-haired woman is already back at her side. “I’ll make some calls.”
Half an hour later, the parking lot has become a makeshift triage of sorts—blankets wrapped around shivering guests and staff, cases of bottled water stacked near the entrance, smoke still drifting off the building while firefighters stow their hoses.
Patsy stands to one side, still on the phone with her insurance company, her voice low and strained. And the dark-haired woman moves through the small crowd with a clipboard she definitely didn’t have before, pairing displaced guests with locals who’ve offered spare rooms.
The inn wasn’t at full capacity, which means there are only a handful of us to place, and the townspeople agree before she even finishes her pitch. There’s something about her that makes no feel like an impossible answer.
I still don’t know her name, but she’s equal parts kindness and command, and right now, this town is lucky to have her.
When she reaches me, she pauses. “You’re Grace Buchanan, right?”
I nod, and her gaze flicks over me—sharp, assessing—and in a split second, I recognize something familiar in the exact way she takes me in. That unblinking directness.
“I’m Meredith Hartley. You’re with me.”
Oh. That explains the resemblance. And the competence. And why my stomach chooses this precise moment to attempt an Olympic-level somersault.
“Oh, I—” My lungs shrink around the words. “I can find a motel. Really.”
She waves me off, already writing my name on her clipboard. “The closest motel is in Prospect, forty minutes away, and Helena is farther still. I’ve got space, and you’ve had enough excitement for one afternoon.” A brief pause, almost an afterthought. “I live with my son. Maddox. He won’t mind.”
All the air leaves my chest at once. Arguing with Meredith Hartley, I’m already learning, is like trying to plug a waterfall with a thumbtack.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hartley.”
“Meredith.” The correction comes with a soft, immovable smile. “Come along. We’ll get you cleaned up.”
The Hartley house comes into view as we pull up—white clapboard, wide front porch, a gleaming new roof catching the last of the afternoon light.
Like I’d thought when I came by last weekend, it’s the kind of place with memories.
Good ones. Comfortable ones. The opposite of everything I grew up with.
Inside, it smells like lemon cleaner and something faintly floral, warm light spilling over worn hardwood floors, and my chest pinches unexpectedly at the coziness of it all—at how much it feels like somewhere a person could exhale.
Meredith ushers me into the kitchen with the same brisk efficiency she’s applied to everything else this afternoon. “Soap and towels are there. Shower first, or food? Dinner will be a little while yet.”
I want to say neither, but I need both… just not right now. Sensing the indecision written all over me, Meredith cuts in before I can flounder. “Sit, dear. Both can wait. I’ll find you something comfortable to change into.”
“You really don’t—”
“Grace.” She levels me with a look that makes arguing feel genuinely pointless. “Let me help.”
I nod and turn to the sink, scrubbing soot from my face and hands until the water runs clear, then raking my fingers through my hair and freeing clumps of ash that fall like gray snow into the basin.
I should shower, but my legs are still unsteady, and this counter is doing half the work of keeping me upright. Later. Once I’ve pulled myself together.
When I catch a warped reflection of myself in the stainless-steel microwave—hair wild, cheeks streaked, lashes stuck together—I almost laugh. I look like I’ve crawled out of a chimney.
Movement behind me causes me to glance up, expecting Meredith with a pile of clothes.
It’s Maddox.
He stops in the doorway like someone has knocked the air clean out of him, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
His eyes track slowly across what I can only imagine is the soot smudged along my jawline, the wet streak down my temple, and the browned tips of my hair.
The concern that flits over his face is so fast and unguarded it sends butterflies into full riot in my stomach.
“Grace.” His voice comes out rough and thick. “What happened?”
“There was a fire at the inn. A small one, something to do with cooking equipment. I’m fine.”
He steps closer, gaze narrowing as he assesses every inch of me for damage. “You don’t look fine.”
“It was mostly smoke.” I brush a hand through my damp hair, aiming for casual.
“Smoke can kill you.” The rasp in his voice hooks somewhere deep inside me. “You could’ve been hurt.”
It shouldn’t affect me the way it does—his voice, the concern, the way he’s looking at me like I walked off a battlefield rather than out of a kitchen fire.
I curl my fingers into my sleeves and give myself a breath. “I wasn’t. Really.”
Meredith appears behind him with a stack of folded clothes. “Mads, don’t scold. She’s had enough for one day.”
“I’m not scolding.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“Yes, you are.” She passes me a pair of joggers and a soft T-shirt. “These should fit. Guest room’s upstairs, second on the left.”
“Thank you.” My voice comes out softer than I intend, but right now, I’m grateful for the out—anything to step away from the intensity of his gaze.
When I return, dressed in borrowed clothes, smelling faintly of lavender detergent, Meredith’s in the living room, on the phone, gently but firmly orchestrating solutions for getting the displaced guests their luggage.
Maddox is still in the kitchen.
Of course he is.
He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a question he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask. “You shouldn’t have run into a fire.”
So, his mother filled him in. Great. “I didn’t run.” I fold my hands around the warm mug of tea he’s already set out for me. “It was more of a brisk jog.”
A flicker of amusement tugs at his mouth, unwilling but there. “You always this stubborn?”
“Only when someone tells me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
That earns me a real smile—slow, reluctant, and entirely unfair. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Silence settles between us, not quite awkward. Charged. A little too intimate for two people who are supposed to be keeping things professional.
His gaze drifts again, lingering on my hair and the faint soot still clinging to my strands. I desperately want to shower, to wash all of this out, but everything inside me still buzzes, and my thoughts are too scattered to trust myself near that much water and quiet.
He reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes his thumb along my hairline. The touch is nothing—a single second, barely a sweep of skin against skin—but something in my chest spasms, loosens, then constricts all over again.
“You missed a spot.”
I clear my throat, aiming for lightness. “Guess I need a better mirror.”
He doesn’t respond right away, still studying me with a thoughtful, almost cautious expression. It’s like he’s trying to work out how I ended up here, in his mother’s kitchen, wrapped in her clothes, smelling faintly of smoke and frayed nerves.
Finally, he clears his throat. “You’re staying here tonight.”
“That’s what your mom said.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“It’ll be safer. And—” His eyes cut briefly to the side. “Convenient. For interviews.”
Right. Interviews. Convenient. Absolutely nothing else.
My heart thumps anyway.
Before either of us can say more, Meredith calls from the other room. “Dinner in ten minutes, you two.”
He exhales and pushes off the counter. “You should rest.”
“I’m fine.”
A crooked grin surfaces, slow and a little dangerous, calling me out without a single word. “You keep saying that, Buchanan. One day I might believe you.”
He leaves the kitchen, steps light but shoulders tight, and I stay long after he’s gone. My tea cools between my palms, heart beating an uneven rhythm it has no business beating. Because the truth is I’m not fine. Not from the fire, not from being in this house, and not from him.
And the worst part? For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want to be.