Chapter Three Grace #2
Another customer swooped in for cranberry loaf. Then a couple for spiced cider. Before she knew it, Grace was back in full Cinderella mode, smiling and serving.
Mabel returned ten minutes later instead of five, looking smug. “Look at you! You’re a natural. The customers love you.”
“Oh yes,” Grace muttered. “Because I haven’t been doing this exact routine since I was in pigtails.”
Mabel slid another tray of pecan bars onto the counter. “Tradition, darling. You’ll thank me someday.”
Grace bit back a retort, her eyes scanning the crowd.
Still no sign of Abe and Margaret. But she could see Zach with his friends.
She’d tried to talk to him about what had happened at soccer practice to lead to that black eye, but he’d just dismissed it as a bad tackle.
She knew her son, though. She knew it was more than that and if she saw his coach that night, she’d be having a word with him to find out what.
As she turned her gaze back to the customers waiting, she caught sight of Reese Spencer again, laughing with someone at the cider press. Perfect. Not only was she stuck serving pumpkin chai, but he was out there charming the town into handing him her future.
Grace had just finished sliding a slice of caramel walnut cake across the counter when she felt it—that shift in the air again, like the crowd leaning in one direction at once. She didn’t even need to look up.
“Smells good,” came a deep voice, smooth, Canadian, and annoyingly close.
She lifted her eyes to have it confirmed that Reese Spencer stood on the other side of the stall, lantern light painting him in gold.
His gaze flicked to the trays of pecan bars, pumpkin squares, frosted gingerbread. “Any recommendations?”
Yes. Try somewhere else, she wanted to say.
Mabel swooped in, smiling like the cat who’d cornered a canary. “Reese! How lovely to see you. You must try the maple pecan bars. Grace made this batch herself.”
“Maple pecan bar it is then,” he said, sliding a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and refusing change. He took a bite, chewed, then let out a satisfied hum that felt indecent for something involving nuts and sugar. “Not bad.”
Not bad. Not bad?
“You’re probably used to eating pastries baked by Michelin-starred chefs on your yacht,” Grace said.
“Grace!” Mabel hissed.
“True,” he said easily. “But I’ve had pastries from chefs all over—Paris, Vancouver, even some tiny kitchen up in Tofino—and this one beats most of ’em.”
Mabel beamed like he’d just proposed marriage. Grace rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn’t get stuck. Luckily, before her mom could say another word, Mabel was beckoned over by one of her friends.
“Anything else?” Grace asked, hand on hip.
Reese glanced at the neat rows of cider cups and pumpkin lattes, then leaned in even farther, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a dare. “Any chance there’s something with a bit more kick back there?”
“This isn’t a speakeasy.”
“Shame. Looked like the kind of stall that might have a flask hidden under the counter.”
She narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t wrong. Mabel had stashed a bottle of spiced rum under there since before Grace was born.
Her “secret recipe” for cider that was only secret if you’d never smelled alcohol before.
Grace reached for it, poured a generous splash into a fresh cup of spiced cider and slid it across to him.
“Careful,” she said. “You might not be able to handle it.”
His mouth quirked, both dimples on full display. “But can you?”
That did it. Grace sloshed some rum into her cup, raised it in mock salute then downed the drink in one go. The heat hit instantly: sweet and strong enough to make her cough.
“See?” she rasped, slamming the cup down like a challenge.
“Impressive,” Reese said, eyes glinting. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
Grace ignored the sudden warmth flooding her cheeks, blaming it entirely on the rum.
Before she could decide whether she wanted to throttle him or pour herself another drink, her tattooed firefighter friend Jake, trouble sparking in his dark eyes, appeared.
He put his hand out. “Jake Martinez, Solace Springs’ fire chief.
I heard you’ve been set some harvest challenges by Abe Blackwell? ”
“Sure have,” Reese said, smiling as he shook Jake’s hand. “And it’s Lord Spencer, not Lord Deeppockets. What exactly are we talking about?”
Abe and Margaret appeared then, Abe fixing Reese with the kind of stare that had probably terrified junior officers for decades. “You still want my inn, boy?”
“Still keen to talk terms, sir,” Reese said.
Sir. Per-lease.
“Terms.” Abe’s laugh was sharp. “I’ll give you terms. You prove yourself tonight—show this town you’re worth a damn—and we’ll talk business. Fall flat on your face like most of you city types, and you can take your fancy offer and shove it.”
The crowd was gathering now, drawn by the promise of entertainment and the rare sight of an outsider being put through the wringer.
Grace could feel the energy building and something inside her just…
snapped. Maybe it was the rum. Maybe it was watching this stranger waltz in and charm his way toward her dream.
Maybe it was all these years of being the good daughter, the reliable one, the person who smiled and served and never made waves.
“I want to take part too!”
The words were out before she could stop them, cutting through the crowd noise like a blade. It felt like every head turned toward her, including her mother’s horrified stare…Reese’s gaze, too, a small, intrigued smile spreading over his handsome face.
Grace stepped out from behind the stall, heart hammering but voice steady. “If we’re proving who deserves that inn, then I want to prove it too.” She turned to Abe and Margaret. “I–I want to buy the Maple Inn, and I’m not letting some rich outsider take it without a fight.”
Abe’s weathered face split into something that might have been a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a real competition.”