17. Maddox
Maddox
The next afternoon, after my workout with Oliver, I pull into the far side of the driveway. A taxi idles in front of the house. Nobody around here uses taxis unless they’re passing through or wants to make a statement.
A guy steps out. Tall, sandy-haired, with a polish to him that feels out of place—the kind of easy confidence that comes from never having to work too hard for anything. The type who’d flinch at dirt under his fingernails.
Behind him, the driver unloads an unusually large pile of bags from the van, most of them looking like equipment cases, while the guy stands there and watches.
Grace steps onto the porch and freezes, her expression cycling through surprise, dread, and something quietly resigned before she gets it under control.
That’s when I notice what she’s wearing—my old high school sweatshirt, one Mom must’ve unearthed for her to wear until she could get her things. I haven’t worn it since senior year.
But her things came yesterday.
It hangs loose on her, sleeves swallowing her hands, and something tightens low in my gut that I have no right to feel.
Did she keep the sweatshirt?
The thought lands somewhere it shouldn’t. She had every reason to give it back—every opportunity—and she didn’t. Maybe she just grabbed whatever was closest this morning, and I’m creating a whole story out of nothing.
No matter, I like it on her. Too much.
“Blane.” She manages a thin smile as her voice carries from the porch.
“Gracie.” He beams, striding up the porch steps like he’s already decided he belongs here, and pulls her into a hug, long, familiar, his hands sliding just a little too far down her back.
My jaw clenches.
None of this is my business.
She’s not mine.
She’s here to do a job, and this guy—whoever he is to her—is part of that world, not mine to have opinions about. Though it doesn’t stop the opinions from forming.
I repeat the words like a mantra, but they land false because when he leans in and presses a slow kiss to her cheek, something hot coils hard around my chest.
Before I’ve thought it through, I’m out of the truck and striding forward. Not fast, not aggressive, just present enough to make it clear I’m here.
“Everything okay?” Though appearing casual on the surface, I’m anything but underneath.
Grace steps back, flustered. “Maddox. This is Blane. He’s my colleague from the paper. He’s here to shoot photos and video.”
He turns to me, his hand already extended and smile already in place. “Blane Ross. You must be Coach Hartley. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I shake his hand. Firm enough to earn a surprised wince before he schools his features back into his polished grin. “Can’t say the same.”
His smile wobbles before he recovers. “Grace’s stories don’t do you justice.” He glances around like he’s appraising the whole scene for a magazine spread. “And this place… Adorable. Perfect small-town charm.”
Grace’s arms fold over her chest. “Blane, what are you doing here? You said you’d be here tomorrow.”
“Snagged an earlier flight. Figured I’d surprise you.”
Lucky her.
The front door opens behind Grace, and Mom steps onto the porch, dishtowel in hand. “Well, hello there. I’m Meredith.”
Why does she have to sound so genuinely delighted to see this stranger?
The guy brightens like he’s been waiting his whole life for her approval. “Blane Ross. I’m afraid I wanted to surprise Grace—we work together—but don’t know where I’m staying.”
This feels deliberate. And shit, the inn. I brace, knowing exactly where this is headed before the words even leave her mouth.
“Blane, that’s why you should’ve called.” Grace turns to Mom, then me. “I was going to ask for suggestions as to where he could stay. Maybe another resident could—”
“Oh, that won’t do.” Mom’s maternal instincts engage without so much as a pause for my input. “We’ve got a spare room. You’ll stay here.”
“Mom—”
One sharp look slices through my protest. It’s the same look that kept Oliver, Kellen, and me in line growing up.
Blane beams. “That’s incredibly kind of you, Mrs. Hartley.”
“Meredith, please.” She steps aside to usher him in.
No. Absolutely not. I scramble for alternatives. “Actually, Oliver and Wren might have space. Or Percy and Pop, it’s just the two of them—”
“Nonsense.” Mom waves off my words like mosquitoes. “It’s settled. Come in.”
Blane shoots Grace a grin so bright it makes my teeth hurt, then reaches for her wrist like it’s second nature, like he has any right. “Come on, Gracie. Help me grab my bags.”
She stiffens, just a fraction, and I catch it. Before either of them can move, I step forward and grab the nearest bag on the driveway. “I’ve got them.”
Blane reaches for one anyway. “Oh, I can—”
“I’ve got them,” I say through gritted teeth.
Mom tuts approvingly while steering Blane inside. His voice fills the hallway with a story about airport delays and camera equipment, too loud for a house that’s always been my refuge.
Grace hangs back and waits until the door swings halfway shut behind them before she turns to me, voice dropping low. “I’m sorry about him. I should’ve brought it up last night, but I got caught up in work—”
I should say it’s fine but can’t bring myself to, so I grunt instead.
“He’s a necessary evil.” She shifts awkwardly. “I need help with the footage and the art done right, and he’s good at his job.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.” I pause to study her, wondering why she’d ask a guy like that to help her. But what do I know, he’s most probably her kind of people.
A small, careful smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes cuts through. “Look on the bright side, now I’ll definitely be out of here on time. Isn’t that what you want?”
I let that sit for a moment, then my eyes drop to the sweatshirt. “You got your suitcase back yesterday.”
She blinks, opens her mouth, then loses it. A faint flush creeps up her neck. “Some of it needed washing.”
I hold her gaze long enough to make it uncomfortable. “Keep it.”
Her mouth parts slightly like she wants to argue, or maybe say something else entirely, but nothing comes out. Picking up the bags, I move past her into the house before she can find the words.
Dinner is usually easy, predictable in the best way, like running a familiar drill that settles my nerves after a long day. Tonight, it feels like an unexpected sub showed up and started freelancing on the court, turning something simple into something I have to actively ignore.
Mom moves around the kitchen with her usual ease, setting steaming bowls of stew on the table and sliding a basket of warm bread between us. She’s glowing—happy to have guests, happy to feed people—and on any other night that would be enough to help me unwind.
Not tonight.
Because across from me sits Blane Ross, who has already charmed my mother halfway to the moon.
She laughs at his jokes, accepts his compliments, and somewhere between the breadbasket and the second helping, she’s reminiscing about her mother’s shepherd’s pie.
He has that effect, clearly, turning a room toward him without appearing to try.
Mom’s loving every second of it.
I’d rather be running suicides.
Grace sits beside him, shoulders a little too stiff, smile a little too tight. I’ve spent enough time with her in the last couple weeks to know the difference. She’s performing, but the shine’s too bright—the brightness of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
And I hate that I notice.
“So, Blane.” Mom butters her bread. “You’re the photographer?”
“And videographer.” He lays on that smooth tone like lacquer. “Gracie and I have collaborated on quite a few pieces together. Nice to be back in the field with her.”
Gracie.
I hadn’t really clocked the nickname when he first arrived, too irritated by his general existence to give it much thought. But sitting across from him now, hearing it again, it chafes in a way I don’t particularly want to examine.
My spoon hits the side of my bowl a little too hard. “Together?”
His grin widens as he glances her way. “Professionally, of course.” He takes a beat, just long enough to be deliberate, and then, because apparently he can’t help himself, he adds, “And sometimes not so professionally.”
Grace sets down her spoon with a quiet, deliberate click. “Blane.” Her voice is pleasant, even, the kind of calm that has an edge underneath it. “We’re guests in Meredith’s home. Let’s act like it.”
He only shrugs. “What? We’re among friends.”
“Exactly. So, let’s not embarrass ourselves in front of them.”
The table settles, but her words don’t. Embarrass ourselves. Not embarrass me, which suggests there’s something to be embarrassed about. Something that exists between them beyond deadlines and bylines. The thought lodges in my chest like a splinter I can’t quite reach.
I hold his gaze long enough for the message to land, and his eyes drop to his plate.
Mom, shrugging off the tension, pats his hand. “Well, you’ll find Winslow Grove a lovely place. Small, yes, but full of heart.”
“Already obvious.” He flashes that smile again. “You’ve raised quite a son, Meredith.”
“He’s sitting right here.”
Grace coughs into her napkin, and Mom smiles, unfazed. “You’ll get used to him, Blane. Mads has been this way since he could talk.”
I don’t deny it. But when I glance toward Grace, there’s a glint in her eye—dark, amused, knowing—that settles somewhere in my chest before I can redirect it.
We haven’t had a moment alone since the bathroom, and that’s a good thing. The smart thing. Yet I can’t seem to stop the memory from surfacing anyway.
I reach for my water glass, and it doesn’t help.
Blane leans back in his chair, casually draping an arm across the back of Grace’s chair.
“So, Maddox, Grace tells me you’re something of a local legend. Racing champion, hometown hero, now the big man at the high school?”
“Something like that.”
“Hell of a résumé.” He lifts his glass in a mock toast. “You must miss the thrill though—speed, adrenaline, fans screaming your name.”
“I was born and raised here. This is home. I like the quiet.”
“Really.” His dry chuckle rankles. “Because I’ve read a few of Grace’s notes. Sounds like you still like to keep control of the wheel.”
Her head shoots up, frown fixed on her pretty features. “Blane—”
Something uncomfortable moves through me, though not quite anger. The realization prickles. All the things Grace has been writing down—observations, impressions, things I’ve said at the school, café, and across this table—and Blane Ross has read them.
I don’t like it and won’t give him the satisfaction of rising to it. So, I smile, sharp, and weighted, the kind that makes freshmen rethink their life choices.
“Control’s not a bad thing when lives depend on it. Something tells me you’d understand that.”
His grin falters, then he lifts his glass in a lazy salute. “Touché, Coach.”
My mother claps her hands together. “Dessert, anyone? I made apple crumble.”
Saved by the crumble.
Later, once the table’s cleared, Blane announces he’s moving the rest of his bags into his room—when I’d come in earlier, I had left them in the hallway. His exit loosens the air enough for me to breathe. Grace helps Mom tidy up and I try to help, but they ignore me.
“I get the feeling there’s history.” Mom’s tone is gentle as she directs her gaze at Grace.
“Just old coworkers. He can be a lot.”
“Hmm.” Her expression shifts in one of her soft, impossible-to-wiggle-out-of looks. “And Maddox is being a lot in return.”
Grace startles, color rising in her cheeks. “That’s one way to put it.”
Neither of them so much as glances my way, too caught up in each other to remember I’m standing right here.
Mom chuckles and pats her arm. “You’ll figure it out. Just don’t underestimate him—my son has a way of seeing straight through people, even when they’d rather he didn’t.”
Grace opens her mouth—to deny it, maybe, or challenge it—and I clear my throat before I find out which.