The Maple Island Inn

Chapter One Grace

One

Grace

Some Sundays you chase your dreams. Other Sundays your dreams get hijacked by unreliable servers and last-minute catering emergencies.

Grace was having the second kind of Sunday.

“Grace, honey, where are the extra napkins?” her mother Mabel called from across the kitchen of Blossoms & Brew. Grace knew that tone. It carried a distinctive note of “we’re understaffed, over-committed and about to serve lunch to people who think patience is an optional extra.”

“Linen closet, top shelf. Same as always,” Grace called back, balancing a tray of maple-glazed butternut squash tartlets while tying her apron.

“Don’t sass me, young lady. You’re lucky, you know. These people tip more in an afternoon than most folks see in a month.”

“Oh yes, very lucky,” Grace shot back. “Three hours of serving tiny food to people who probably think ‘rustic charm’ is something you order online with next-day delivery.”

Her mother gave her a withering look.

Grace wished she’d just said no when Mabel called that morning, voice vibrating with stress because their usual weekend server had mysteriously vanished.

She should have claimed she was busy, which, technically, she was since that loan application form was still glaring at her from her kitchen table, half-finished and judgmental.

But family was family, even when that meant sacrificing her one weekend off in a month to serve at a rich-boy soiree.

“Remember, these are important people, Grace,” Mabel said. “The kind who remember good service.”

“Yes, I remember, you’ve only told me ten million times.”

“And keep that attitude of yours in check out there,” Mabel continued, trying to tidy up Grace’s pink-tipped hair as Grace batted her hand away.

“I always do!”

Her mother gave her another look. “Honey, you once told that businessman from Elmsworth Falls his tie looked like roadkill.” Mabel put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “I mean it, Grace, behave. Promise me?”

Grace sighed. “I promise.”

“Good. Now get out there, they’re waiting.”

Grace took a deep breath then headed out of the kitchen, weaving through the café.

Blossoms & Brew was closed to the public that afternoon for the private networking event, the event host covering their usual Sunday-afternoon takings…

and then some. The café had thrown itself completely into autumn mode.

Pumpkins everywhere: fat orange ones on the windowsills, white heirlooms clustered by the door, tiny decorative gourds scattered across every available surface like someone had shaken them from a bag.

Mason jars wrapped in burlap held pillar candles that flickered on every table, their flames dancing behind glass.

Cinnamon-scented pinecones filled a wooden bowl by the register.

But it all felt strange without its regular crowd.

No chess players in the window nook, no knitting circle taking up the big table.

Just vintage teacups catching the light from tall windows, the worn wooden counter she’d wiped down a thousand times, that ancient map of Solace Lake her mother insisted was “charming” even though half the marks were coffee stains.

Grace pushed through the side door and into the courtyard.

It was a cozy patchwork of brick and wood, a firepit blazing even in the afternoon light, woodsmoke curling up past the deck railing where corn stalks tied with plaid ribbon framed the entrance.

The tall tables scattered across the decking had been dressed for the season too, with small pumpkins clustered at their centers, surrounded by acorns and crimson leaves.

As Grace stepped onto the wooden planks, wind instantly gusted around her, the strands of hair her mother had smoothed off her face escaping, those crimson leaves lifting in the air.

Good start, good start.

She peered at distant clouds. Looked like rain was threatening.

But despite this, Solace Springs in October really was quite something to behold.

The cherry trees around the café blazed gold and red, their leaves dancing down toward the wooden decking in the wind.

In the middle of Solace Lake, Maple Island was flaunting itself, those maple trees a riot of saffron and scarlet.

Rising from all that fall perfection was the stone and ivy tower of the inn that occupied the island’s center.

Grace let herself stare for a moment, the familiar ache settling deep in her ribs.

Soon, she promised herself. Real soon.

Grace had been obsessing over The Maple Inn ever since the Blackwells put it up for sale three months ago.

She could see it all: cozy guest rooms with handmade quilts, a dining room serving maple syrup pancakes made from scratch, rocking chairs on the wraparound porch where visitors could watch the sunrise over the water.

It would take every penny of her savings and a loan that made her break out in cold sweats. But it would be hers. Or, more accurately, theirs because it would be a legacy for her son, Zach, too. It was time to stop serving her mother’s dreams and start creating her own.

But how was that possible when the time she carved out to do just that was hijacked all the time? Story of her life, really.

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her apron pocket, smiling when she saw it was a Reddit message from WildTrailGuide:

If it feels like punishment, you’re finally learning something worth knowing. Find the angle, turn it to your advantage. You need that garden center, right?

The garden center. That was what she’d told her online mentor she was trying to buy.

It had seemed like a brilliant idea at 1 AM when she’d first joined the business subreddit, desperate for help with loan applications and basic math that made her brain hurt.

A single mom slinging coffee in Nowheresville, Washington?

That didn’t exactly scream “winner” to internet strangers.

But Australian AutumnDreams87 with her charming garden center sounded like she actually knew what she was doing.

WildTrailGuide had been the only moderator who’d bothered answering her panicked questions about profit margins with some honesty and no-nonsense talk, just what she needed.

The man clearly knew his stuff: said he owned multiple businesses, talked spreadsheets like poetry.

Somehow their exchanges had drifted from “how do I read a balance sheet without crying?” to swapping playlists and family horror stories.

Maybe WildTrailGuide had a point? Maybe today wasn’t a total write-off after all.

The inn’s owners, Abe and Margaret Blackwell, may well show up.

After all, this whole fancy shindig was about Mr. Money Bags schmoozing local businesses so they’d buy into whatever venture he had planned.

Any new businesses in Solace Springs needed to be vetted and signed off by local people who had a vested interest in what happened to that town…

and that started with the town’s small businesses.

So if the Blackwells turned up, it could be the perfect chance for Grace to show them she had her act together, so when her offer for their inn eventually landed on their desk, they’d think she could pull this off.

Grace squared her shoulders and headed toward the well-dressed crowd milling around the courtyard, professional smile locked and loaded.

The business types were exactly what she’d expected: pressed shirts, expensive watches and that particular brand of confidence that came with never having to check your bank balance before buying coffee.

She wove between them, offering appetizers.

“Oh, how quaint!” gushed a woman in a cream blazer, accepting a tartlet like Grace was offering her a rare artifact. “Is this locally sourced?”

“The butternut squash? Sure is. Grew it myself out back between the espresso machine and the dumpster.” The woman looked uncertain, clearly not sure if Grace was joking.

A man in a navy suit waved Grace over. “You, server! Could you explain what’s in these? I have very specific dietary requirements.”

You have very specific personality requirements too, but we’re all suffering through it. “Of course, sir.”

As she rattled off the ingredients, her eyes snagged on a man standing apart from the others, phone to his ear as he looked out at Solace Lake.

The tailored pants and expensive watch said money and civilization.

But the messy dark blond hair, the constant scanning, the barely contained energy…

that said something else entirely. There was something wild underneath all that polish.

He was tall. No, not just tall, huge, with broad shoulders that made the fabric of his white shirt work hard. As he paced up and down, everything about him was screaming restless energy, his huge hands flexing and unflexing.

He looked like a wolf pacing the perimeter of a cage. Dangerous. Restless. And unrepentantly hot.

“The Blackwells still haven’t shown,” Grace heard him saying, voice deep and rough. “You didn’t mention buying an inn out here’d be such a headache.”

Grace inched closer to listen in.

“Fine, bump the offer on the inn,” he snapped. “Money talks, even with stubborn old fellas like Abe Blackwell.”

He was talking about the inn. Her inn. The Maple Inn.

The tray in Grace’s hands started to shake and the universe decided that was the perfect moment for someone to back up behind her without looking, bumping right into her.

Physics took over. The maple-glazed butternut squash tartlets launched themselves into orbit, achieving perfect distribution across Hot Wolf Guy’s back.

One tartlet landed with a soft plop in his hair.

Another decorated his shoulder blade. Several more turned his expensive shoes into an autumn-themed disaster zone.

He turned around, revealing green eyes that held far too much amusement for someone who’d just been assaulted by appetizers. He looked down at himself. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted and landed right on Grace.