Chapter Ten Grace
Ten
Grace
The last hundred yards to the dock were pure hell.
Grace’s stomach had staged a full-scale rebellion somewhere around the halfway point, and now she was just concentrating on keeping her lunch where it belonged while Luke’s boat bounced over waves that felt way too aggressive for October.
“You doing okay back there?” Luke called from the helm, one hand steady on the wheel.
“Great!” Grace lied, knuckles white on the bench seat. “Just practicing my meditation breathing.”
“Z-dog?” Luke asked Zach.
“Yeah, cool,” Zach said without looking up from his phone, somehow completely unbothered by the fact they were being tossed around like a cork.
Grace watched him, her mind still replaying the scene in Principal Sergeant’s office. The sterile room with its motivational posters that felt like accusations. The way Zach had sat slumped in the chair, arms crossed as he refused to meet her eyes.
A particularly vicious wave caught them broadside then, sending Grace sliding across the bench seat. Luke managed to grab her arm before she went flying overboard, but her carefully prepared folder of documents went sailing into the bilge water at the bottom of the boat.
“Perfect,” she muttered, fishing out soggy papers. “Nothing says ‘serious business owner’ like waterlogged financials and bad hair,” she added as she caught sight of her wild hair in the bell’s reflection.
The distinctive whup-whup-whup of rotor blades cut through the air above them. Grace looked up to see a sleek black helicopter passing overhead, heading away from the island.
“Whoa, nice!” Zach put down his phone, craning his neck to watch. “Looks like a real high-tech one, too. Probably costs more than our apartment. Actually,” he corrected himself with a frown, “probably costs more than the whole building our apartment’s in.”
“That’ll be our new friend,” Luke said sarcastically, wrestling the wheel as another wave tried to push them off course. “Playing with his fancy toys.”
“Right?” Grace said, pleased he wasn’t as impressed as her son. “I mean, who needs a helicopter to visit an inn? What’s wrong with taking a perfectly good boat like the rest of us mere mortals?”
As if on cue, the boat lurched violently, sending a sheet of icy lake water over her lap. Grace shrieked, clutching her papers to her chest as Zach looked down at his drenched jeans.
“Still think the boat’s better, Mom?” he said.
Grace spat lake water from her mouth and glared at him. “Absolutely. Mild hypothermia is character building.”
Through the spray, Maple Island materialized ahead of them, its autumnal trees dancing wildly in the wind, offering glimpses of the old stone inn’s tower.
My inn, Grace thought, then immediately corrected herself. Hopefully my inn. If I can survive this presentation without vomiting on my competitor.
Luke executed an impressive sweeping turn as they approached the dock, bringing the boat around in a smooth arc that had Grace wondering if he was showing off just a little.
The man did love an audience for his maritime skills, even if the audience was currently green around the gills and holding soggy loan documents.
“Nice one, Luke,” Zach said.
“Many years of practice, bud,” he said with obvious pride, then grabbed the dock cleat to hold them steady. “Jesus, look at that sky. It’s really getting bad up there.”
Grace followed his gaze upward, to where the clouds had turned an ominous shade of purple-black that promised serious weather ahead. The wind was picking up too, sending maple leaves swirling around them like confetti at the world’s most chaotic celebration.
Luke hopped out first, tying up the boat, then turned to help Grace onto the dock. Her legs wobbled slightly—whether from the boat ride or from nerves, she couldn’t tell.
“Thanks for the ride, Luke.”
“Anytime.” He handed over her folder and laptop case. “Good luck in there. For what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks.” She managed a smile. “That means a lot.”
“I’ll aim to get back here for four.”
“Sounds good.”
She started walking up the dock toward the forest and the path that led to the inn, Zach dragging his feet behind her. “Come on, Zach! And please, please try to look semi-interested. First impressions matter.”
“First impressions? Mom, I’ve met Abe and Margaret about, like, a million times,” Zach grumbled. “Plus I’m literally only here because I got in a fight and you didn’t trust me to be alone.”
“And whose fault is that?”
He didn’t answer, just kicked at the crisp leaves below.
They were quiet as they walked the fifteen minutes to the inn, Grace’s nerves making her mute and Zach…
well, Zach was just being Zach. Anyway, it was a good chance to breathe in the stunning surroundings.
The island in autumn was absolutely spectacular, the maples that gave the island its name arching overhead, creating a tunnel of red and gold.
Ancient oaks and birches filled in the spaces between, their branches creating a canopy overhead that filtered the wind into a constant, gentle rushing sound.
Leaves spiraled down around them as they walked, carpeting the stone path in color. The air smelled of woodsmoke and rain and that particular scent unique to fall.
The trees opened up and there it was.
The Maple Inn.
Grace stopped walking, breath catching despite herself. She’d seen it a thousand times but standing here, about to pitch for it, was different.
The building was Victorian elegance gone slightly wild: three stories of weathered stone and dark wood, gables and turrets that spoke of a time when people built things to last. Wraparound porch with intricate railings, some of the spindles missing or broken.
Windows that gleamed in the afternoon light, some with wavy original glass that distorted the reflections.
Ivy climbed one side of the building like it was trying to reclaim the whole structure for nature.
It was beautiful. It was imperfect. It was perfect.
“It looks so…old,” Zach said.
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” Grace’s voice came out slightly choked. This was it. This was the dream she’d been working toward, saving for, losing sleep over. Right here, real and solid and—
—and probably about to be bought by someone else, her anxiety helpfully supplied.
She looked down at her modest black blazer and the nice blouse she’d dug out from the bottom of her wardrobe. It suddenly felt too small-town. Too “try hard” when she compared it to that helicopter-wielding billionaire. Plus it was damp in places thanks to the choppy boat ride.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You belong here. You have just as much right to pitch for this inn as him.
“You okay?” Zach asked, giving her a sideways look.
“Yep. Absolutely.” She smoothed down her damp blazer, winding her hair back into a bun. “Okay. Professional face on. Let’s do this.”
They climbed the porch steps, boards creaking under their feet in a way that was either charming or concerning depending on your perspective. Grace was going with charming. The heavy oak door had a brass knocker shaped like a maple leaf.
Before she could reach for it, the door swung open.
“Grace! You made it!” Margaret Blackwell stood in the doorway, her silver hair in a perfect twist, walking stick in her hand. She frowned when she caught sight of Zach. “Why aren’t you at school, Zachary?”
“Fight,” he said at the same time Grace said, “Ill.”
“Fighting a cold,” Grace quickly said.
Margaret took in Zach’s black eye and bruised knuckles, then frowned. “I see. Well,” she said as she ushered them inside, “the more the merrier. We’ve got quite the group assembled. Abe’s idea. He wanted to make this a classic panel interview. Get everyone’s perspective.”
Grace’s stomach dropped. “Panel interview?”
“Oh yes! Always good to get different views, don’t you think?” Margaret was already leading them down a hallway lined with fading wallpaper and photos of the inn over the decades.
Panel interview. Other people. This is fine. Everything is fine.
They emerged into what had probably once been the main parlor but now served as a combination living room, bar, and apparently impromptu conference space.
Stormy autumn light streamed through tall windows, illuminating a room that managed to be both shabby and grand.
Leather furniture that had seen better decades, a bar made of oak that belonged in a museum, built-in bookshelves crammed with books that had well-worn spines.
A fire crackled in a massive stone fireplace, and the whole space smelled like woodsmoke and old books and coffee.
And it was full of people.
Abe stood by the fireplace with Caleb and Mikkel. There were some guests in the restaurant, including a pretty, dark-haired teenage girl who was making Zach do the universal teen boy “puff up his wavy hair and check her out under his fringe” look.
And there, leaning against the bar with a mug of coffee in hand, wearing dark pants and a gray shirt, was Reese Spencer, broad shoulders filling out the shirt’s fabric like it had been cut for him, sleeves shoved back as if even clothes had to give him room.
The faint scars on his face only sharpened the effect.
Reminders he wasn’t some polished suit, but someone who’d fought and won.
Her competition. The powerful man who stood between her and everything she wanted. She should’ve looked at him and seen nothing but an obstacle.
Except his eyes found hers across the room—icy green, steady, wolfish—and her stomach flipped. Damn it. He wasn’t just an obstacle. He was dangerous, magnetic, the type of man who made you feel like the fight might be worth losing just to see what he’d do when he won.
She tore her gaze away, annoyed at herself, reminding herself of one important fact: this was war.
“Grace Sullivan,” Abe boomed, breaking the moment. “Is Zach your assistant for the day?”
Grace found her professional smile from somewhere. “Hi, Abe. I hope you don’t mind, Zach is…not feeling one hundred percent.”