20. Grace
Grace
Before I shower, I hover outside Blane’s door, going over the last time I spoke to him. Only last night, after he’d walked in on Maddox and me. I helped him take the last of his gear to his room, dropping his camera bag on his bed, then faced him before he could get comfortable.
My voice was easy, expression neutral. “Whatever you think you saw—and whatever you think it means—stay out of it, Blane. This is my assignment. My subject. My call.”
I might’ve come on too strong, but I didn’t appreciate his veiled threats. Blane tilted his head, doing that thing where he pretended to consider what I said. “I was only helping you see how things might look. And Toby might think so, too.”
There was nothing subtle about his subtext, and I balled my fists at my sides. “Toby trusts me to bring him the best story. That’s how it’s always worked.” I let the silence stretch just long enough. “Don’t test me on this.”
Nodding, he changed the subject, and I thought he’d gotten the message.
But clearly, he hasn’t, not when his comments keep coming, and his sidelong looks keep hitting their mark.
And accessing my files—even though I’d talked to him about it this morning, I didn’t get the sense he’d do what was needed. I needed to make things clear.
And that’s why I erase any hesitation, knock on his door, and march into his room when he opens it.
“I want to thank you for today.” It’s the truth, though I don’t feel like handing out compliments.
I watch him puff up, chest out, smug smirk springing onto his lips.
Pride consumes all of him, and that’s my cue to continue.
“But we need to get a few things straight. I meant what I said about the shared drive. I thought I’d removed your access after Mensah wrapped.
Apparently not. But you knew that, and you went in anyway. ”
He opens his mouth.
“Don’t.” My voice is flat. “There are active investigations on that drive. Sources. Contacts. Things that have nothing to do with you or this assignment. You had no right.” I hold his gaze until he looks away, glad I’m saying everything I wanted to this morning but couldn’t in front of Maddox.
“I’ve removed you from the drive, I made sure of it.
But you need to delete any files you downloaded.
And don’t tell me you haven’t.” I don’t know for sure if he has the files on his personal drive, but I’m covering my bases.
“And if I find out you’ve done anything with them, we’ll be having a very different conversation. ”
His confidence slips. “The access was still there. I assumed—”
“We’ve been over this. You assumed wrong,” I cut him off, not wanting his excuses or justifications. “And while we’re at it—stop. Just stop with the ‘Gracie’ routine, the innuendoes and loaded comments. Stop with all of it.”
“Grace—”
“Blane, we were a mistake, and I’ve moved on. So have you.” While I don’t want to make this personal, he’s taking liberties because he thinks he can, because we have slept together. It’s fucking ancient history, and it ends here.
I soften my voice. “Let’s be great colleagues who respect each other and work well together to deliver the best damn assignment ever.”
He presses his lips together and glances away, shifting from side to side like he’s weighing his options.
“Well, that’s easy.” He flashes me his arrogant smile. “We are the best at what we do.”
I force what I hope sounds like an easy-breezy laugh and nod. “Great. See you at dinner.”
The door shuts behind me, and while I don’t quite feel relieved—it wasn’t lost on me that he didn’t apologize, and Blane never would—I hope he means what he said.
Truthfully, I wish I didn’t need his eye and his experience, but I’ve solved the Blane problem and plan on enjoying the night.
By the time Meredith calls us for Sunday dinner, the Hartley house smells like rosemary, garlic, and something warm and comforting.
I pause at the top of the stairs, pulse kicking up at the sound of laughter drifting from the kitchen.
Real, easy laughter between mother and son, people who genuinely like each other. The good kind. The enviable kind.
Maddox’s, especially.
It’s deeper than I expect, rougher, pulled from a place in him I rarely see. He doesn’t laugh easily—I’ve figured that out in the short time I’ve been under his roof—and hearing it now does something strange and unwelcome to my chest. A pinch, a tug, a soft spreading warmth I pretend isn’t there.
Or maybe it’s not the laughter itself. Maybe it’s everything else. The bathroom the other night. In the moment, I told myself it didn’t mean anything. Chemistry, proximity, a moment. Then what happened in the kitchen proved me a liar.
The kiss. His mouth on mine wasn’t careful—it was brief, yes, but devastatingly sure, claiming me in a way that made my knees weaken and my thoughts scatter. The heat of him seeped into me, quick and drugging, like my body recognized something dangerous and leaned in anyway.
My pulse hasn’t slowed since. I can still feel the phantom press of his hand at my hip, the way he kissed me like stopping himself cost him something.
That should terrify me. Maybe part of me is terrified.
Love always comes with a bill. I learned that early.
My parents taught me that marriage was cold and transactional, sharp-edged and hollow—respect optional, affection conditional.
Buffy and Palmer are the exception, and I’m genuinely glad for them, but I’ve never believed love was built for someone like me.
Gripping the railing, I head downstairs, and when I step into the kitchen, Meredith glances up from the stove. “There you are, sweetheart.”
Before I can answer, the back door swings open, and cold air sweeps through. A woman steps inside—dark hair in a loose braid, cheeks flushed from the wind, and Maddox’s eyes. That same stormy gray, sharp but warm. The resemblance hits before anything else.
Her gaze finds me instantly. “You must be Grace. I’m Katie Rae, but everyone calls me Katie.” No hesitation, just a warm smile that softens her whole face. She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and frost. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Hopefully nothing terrifying.”
“Only that you single-handedly saved the inn from burning down.” Her wink is pure tease.
Behind her, a tall, broad-shouldered man steps in with an easy grin and a six-pack in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. “Grace Buchanan in the flesh. Maddox didn’t undersell you.”
My pulse stumbles. “All lies, I’m sure.”
Katie elbows him. “Behave. This is my husband, Raf.”
Blane materializes behind me, camera already out, lens cap dangling. “Blane Ross. Photos, video, occasional chaos.”
Raf snorts. “Chaos is Katie’s job.”
She lifts her chin, unapologetic. “Someone has to keep this household interesting.”
Introductions blur into laughter and shuffling coats, Katie already stealing a spoon to taste whatever’s simmering on the stove. Then Patsy barges in—cheeks pink, curls frizzed, carrying a pie dish like it’s her pride and joy.
“Meri, darling, I brought dessert.” She beams at the room, breathless. “And don’t you dare argue. I know you said no one needed to bring anything, but this crowd”—she waves a hand at all of us—“doesn’t understand moderation.”
Meredith squeezes her arm. “Wouldn’t dream of arguing.”
Patsy’s attention swings to me. “Grace, honey. You got your things okay?”
I nod, smiling at how this woman beams even with everything she’s juggling. “Hon, you’re practically glowing. Is it the Montana air?”
“Might be the near-death experience.” The corner of my mouth lifts.
She cackles. “Nothing says welcome to Winslow Grove like almost burning down the most historic inn.”
Blane zooms in with his camera. “Or a certain race car driver.”
I tense—the reaction is visceral and immediate—and I want to throttle him. I’ve told him twice now. Clearly, words aren’t working. I need to find another way to shut this down before it becomes everyone’s problem, not just mine.
Patsy swats him away. “Put that thing down and grab plates.”
Maddox is in the corner, sleeves rolled up, helping Meri twist open a stubborn jar. His biceps flex with the effort, and a sound escapes Patsy that’s half gasp, half laugh. “Honey, if the coaching thing ever falls apart, you could always jar tomatoes for a living.”
He shoots her a look, and she fans herself, making everyone laugh. And there it is again—that small, disloyal sting of longing. For the man. For all of it.
I’ve never been part of something like this.
My childhood home was chandeliers and private chefs and carefully staged photo ops.
My mother treated dinner like a performance.
My father treated it like an inconvenience.
Cary, Buffy, and I clung together in the cracks between the two of them—a world within a world, small but solid. Until we weren’t.
I swallow hard and take a seat at the table.
Dinner is loud and warm and a little frenetic—everyone talking at once, plates passing, hands reaching, laughter spilling from one end of the table to the other.
Maddox, on the other hand, is silent, not withdrawn but watchful. Blane keeps ticking me off—every time he leans too close, every time his hand brushes my arm passing a dish—but every time it happens, Maddox stiffens. His jaw ticks. Tight. Controlled. Contained.
It shouldn’t thrill me.
It absolutely does.
“Oh, I have news.” Patsy’s head swivels around the table, making sure she has everyone’s attention. “Lara Crandall is on a crusade to shut down the VFD.”
Katie and Meri gasp, and Maddox leans forward, scowl already in place. “Why the hell would she do that?”
“What’s the VFD?” Blane asks.
“Volunteer Fire Department.” Katie’s concern is written all over her face.
“She can’t.” Meri sets down her water glass. “Imagine what would’ve happened to the inn if they hadn’t—” She stops herself.
Patsy pales, nodding. “Exactly. She’s going after Mayor Malone’s grant money and making a case for using it for whatever it is she wants.”
“And what about the fire department? The town won’t have one.” Everything about Raf constricts.
Patsy presses a hand to her chest. “She’s saying we could use Prospect’s department.”
“That’s forty minutes away.” Maddox’s jaw tightens. “What does she want the funds for?”
“Knowing Lara Crandall, this is going to be rich.” Katie’s features sharpen. “Remember how she went after Wren and her job at the library?”
Meri and Patsy nod in matching disgust.
“She went after Wren?” I can’t help myself. Who targets someone like Wren?
“She sure did. And Wren showed her.” Patsy juts her chin out, satisfied, and a ripple of agreement circles the table.
“From what I hear.” Patsy taps the table with her palm. “Lara hasn’t said where she wants the funds redirected. Only that it’s a better use for the town.”
Raf leans forward. “Could be the clinic. We need at least one new doctor with Doc Halliday retiring, and Chen leaving soon.”
Katie glances at her brother. “Does Eddie know?”
“Not sure. Ol hasn’t mentioned it.”
I file it all away—the VFD, Lara Crandall, the clinic, the ripple of unease moving through people who clearly love this town. I don’t live here, but I can see exactly what losing a volunteer fire department and the nearest back-up forty minutes away would mean.
Sensing the shift in mood, Raf lifts his glass. “With Thanksgiving coming up, don’t forget the weekend after next is the big one. Ten years since Ray passed. Hard to believe.”
The table quiets—not painfully, just with a soft, collective reverence that tells me exactly how much Ray meant to all of them. The name pricks at something familiar, a half-remembered detail from research I skimmed on the plane.
Katie breaks the silence first. “Some days I still expect to see Dad walk through that door.” She nods toward the kitchen walkway. “He built this house, you know.”
My breath catches at the idea of how much love must’ve been poured into these walls, at how different it is from the house I grew up in, where everything was curated, staged, replaceable.
“I read about him.” I set down my fork. “Raymond Hartley. He sounded important to the town.” I’m clumsy with my words and flush.
Of course he was important. He was a husband. A father. His loss is theirs in a way I understand all too well.
Meredith’s expression softens into something more somber but no less warm. “He was, and not because he won awards or had a big personality. He just showed up. For everyone.”
Katie leans forward. “He was a jack of all trades and came out for anything. If a car broke down, he had tools in the truck. If someone needed a roof fixed or a barn door rehung, he dropped everything. He even did everything he could to make F1 a reality for Mads.”
Raf’s voice as well as his gaze drops. “Even when he was hurting.”
Maddox’s knife scratches the plate before stilling, like a fault line shifting beneath the table.
“Hurting?” The word slips out before I can think better of it.
No one looks at me, almost as if they hope my question didn’t exist.