Chapter Fourteen Grace
Fourteen
Grace
Grace reached for her knife, breathing in the scents of fresh herbs, good butter…and the chance to show Reese Spencer what it took to create a great meal.
This was her territory. Not boardrooms or pitches or financial projections that could be picked apart by corporate robots with more money than heart. This—the alchemy of turning raw ingredients into something that made people feel cared for—this she knew how to do.
She watched Reese as he moved around the kitchen.
She had to admit, there was a confidence to the way he cooked, the way he reached for ingredients without hesitation, like he actually knew what he was doing.
A smudge of flour had somehow appeared on his jaw and his dark blond hair was even more disheveled than before, pushed back carelessly with what were probably the same hands that had just been flouring meat.
He looked…competent. Annoyingly, unfairly competent. And attractive in that way that happened when you watched someone be good at something they weren’t supposed to be good at.
Reese caught her staring and she quickly looked back down at her butternut squash.
Stop it. Focus. This is a competition, not a dating show.
“Your presentation was good,” he said. “The sketches, the vision. You made them see what this place could be.”
She looked up again, surprised. But then maybe this was all part of the act, the Ted Bundy of the business world. All charm until he put the knife in. “That’s because I do have a vision for this place, have done for years.”
“I’m sorry for going after you the way I did,” he went on. “With the budget questions, the capacity issues. I know it felt like I was trying to tear you down.”
Definitely Ted Bundy of the business world.
“But you were trying to tear me down, right?” she asked, giving him a cynical look.
“Maybe, a little.” A slight smile. “But I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t respect what you were trying to do. I only go hard on people I think are worth the fight.”
Grace stared at him, trying to figure out if this was some kind of strategy. Soften her up before the cook-off, throw her off her game with unexpected compliments.
“Well, your presentation was…professional,” she managed, turning back to her squash. “The conservation angle was smart.” She sighed, putting down her knife. “Though I have to ask, how were you so chill with your presentation? Is it a billionaire thing?”
Reese laughed. “A billionaire thing?”
“I mean—” Grace gestured around the kitchen, then at him.
“You showed up here with no notes, no laptop, just…talking. Like buying an inn on an island is an everyday occurrence for you. And now we’re stuck overnight in a storm and you’re just,” she waved her hand at his general demeanor, “fine with it. Meanwhile, I’m over here having a small internal crisis about my entire life. ”
Reese paused in his prep work, his knife stilling on the cutting board. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s strategy. People see someone who looks uncertain, they smell blood in the water. So I walk in like I’ve already won, like the outcome’s inevitable, and half the time they believe me before I even open my mouth.”
“Easy for you to say when you probably do win everything.”
His expression hardened. “Hasn’t always been that way.
You think I got where I am by showing people when I’m stressed or uncertain?
Fake it long enough to look like you’ve got it handled.
Worked for me since I was a gangly kid in Thunder Bay bluffing my way through parent-teacher interviews.
It buys you time to figure shit out while everyone else assumes you know what you’re doing. ”
There was a bitterness in his voice that surprised her. This felt more real than anything else he’d said that day.
“So right now?” Grace asked. “The laid-back vibe when it comes to being stuck here overnight. That fake too?”
“You kidding me? Not fake at all. I’m loving the excuse to stop.
To meet new people, sit in an old inn that actually has character instead of another sterile hotel room.
Cook something with my hands instead of ordering room service.
” He went back to his prep, but his voice stayed open.
“Most of my life lately is airports and conference calls and places that seem identical whether you’re in Toronto or Tokyo.
This?” He looked around the kitchen, at the old copper pots hanging from hooks, the worn butcher’s block counters.
“This is real. I don’t really get a lot of real anymore. ”
Grace felt warmth bloom in her chest then shoved it down.
Ted Bundy of the business world, remember.
She focused on her squash, cutting it into precise cubes. The kitchen fell into a companionable silence, just the sound of knives on cutting boards and the storm howling outside.
She took a chance to sneak a glance at Reese and the concentration on his face as he seasoned the meat. It was doing things to her ability to maintain professional distance.
“So,” Reese said, breaking the silence as he reached for the juniper berries, “Zach seems like a good kid.”
“He is, most of the time. The fighting stuff, though…” She sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Always is at that age.” Reese started crushing the berries with the flat of his knife, the sharp piney scent filling the air. “Presume he’s got beef with some kid?”
“Yep. Some rich kid who keeps picking at him. Stupid stuff about me working at the café, about not having a dad around. Real spineless playground bullshit, you know?”
Grace noticed Reese’s hands curl into fists.
“Yep,” he said grimly, “I know. I was a lot like Zach when I was his age. Once because some asshole made fun of my mom’s job.
Second time because the same asshole decided to double down on being an asshole.
” He looked up, catching her eye. “Some things are worth getting suspended for.”
“That’s…actually exactly what Zach said. That some things matter enough to fight for.”
“Smart kid. Got that from somewhere.” The compliment was casual, but Grace felt it land anyway.
“Thing is, kids like that live for the reaction,” she continued, “and they know Zach’ll give it to them.
I keep telling him to ignore them, just walk away, but…
” She shrugged helplessly. “He’s got too much of his mother’s pride, I guess.
Won’t back down when someone’s pushing him around, even when he should.
So he goes and gets himself into trouble defending himself.
” She frowned. “I sometimes wonder if having his dad around would’ve helped, you know?
Even if his dad is a jerk.” She peered up at Reese.
“I heard your dad died when you were young?”
Reese met her gaze. “Yeah. When I was ten.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been so tough for you.”
“I dealt with it.”
Grace moved to the stove, heating butter in a pan until it started to turn golden and smell nutty.
Sage leaves went in next, crisping immediately, filling the kitchen with that perfect autumn scent.
Behind her, she could hear Reese working on his potato gratin, the smell of cream and garlic joining the symphony of cooking aromas.
“What about Zach’s father?” Reese asked, his tone carefully neutral. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Grace felt her shoulders tense automatically, but something about the rhythm of cooking, the wine Tressa had poured for them before leaving, made her honest. “Anthony Ramone. Used to be a regular at the café when he’d come back from college to town.
I thought he was one of the good ones, you know?
College boy, nice family who lived in one of those fancy lake houses on the north shore, seemed to have his shit together. ”
She started layering her ravioli, the butternut squash filling rich with brown sugar and nutmeg. The pasta was homemade. She’d found fresh dough in the fridge, probably made that morning.
“I got pregnant by accident just before I turned eighteen,” she continued.
“He stuck around, to be fair to him. We were together for three years, had all these plans.” Grace pressed the ravioli edges carefully, sealing them.
“Then I found out he’d been gambling. Online poker, sports betting, whatever got his adrenaline going.
Blew through our savings, money I’d been putting away since I was sixteen. ”
“Jesus.”
“We had this massive fight when I confronted him about it. I mean, a proper screaming match, neighbors-calling-the-cops level drama. Thank God Zach was staying at my mom’s—it was supposed to be a date night.
” Grace laughed bitterly. “Next morning, Anthony was gone. Left a note saying he needed ‘space to figure things out.’ That was twelve years ago. Zach was just two at the time.”
“Shit. Two.”
“Yeah. Now Zach just gets a Christmas card and birthday card with money stuffed into it each year. No contact, not even from Anthony’s family who moved away years back anyway. Turns out the good boys from the nice families can let you down just as hard as the bad ones.”
“Sounds like an asshole,” Reese said quietly. “Leaving his kid that age. Not having a dad around when he was young.”
Grace sighed. “Age-old story. You still managed to achieve something, though, despite not having your dad around?”
“Thanks to my mom,” Reese said. “She worked herself half to death to keep us afloat after my dad died. Multiple jobs, never complaining. Not exactly the billionaire origin story people expect, hey?” He heated oil in a cast-iron pan, the sizzle mixing with the pop and crackle of the fire.
“Mom’s still working at the same care home, actually.
Still won’t leave Thunder Bay. Says if she can smell Lake Superior in the morning and hear the plows after a snow dump, she’s right where she belongs.
But she does love the fancy cruises my money lets her take now. ”
The vulnerability in his voice caught Grace off guard.
“That’s sweet.” She found herself smiling. “My mom made me start working at the café when I was eight. Said it would teach me character.”
“Did it?”
“Taught me I hate cleaning up other people’s messes.”
He paused and watched her. “Wouldn’t you still be doing that if you bought the inn?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I’d hire someone to do that. Why, you interested in the job?” she asked.
He laughed and reached for the wine bottle. “More wine?”
“God, yes.”
Over the next hour or so, they continued talking about their pasts as they cooked.
Grace told him about her mom, about growing up in the café, about the complicated dance of loving someone who couldn’t quite see you as anything other than an extension of themselves.
The kitchen smelled incredible now—venison and sage, maple and juniper, butter and garlic and all the best things about autumn cooking.
“My mom means well,” Grace said, plating her dish, the ravioli glistening with butter, crispy sage leaves on top. “She just…she built that café from nothing and I think she assumed I’d want the same thing. That her dream would be my dream.”
“And it’s not?”
“It was never mine to begin with. I love hospitality. I love feeding people, making them feel welcome. But I want to do it my way, you know? Build something that’s mine, not just manage something that’s hers.”
“And that’s what the inn represents?” Reese asked, his shoulder against hers as he plated his own dish.
“Yeah.” Grace looked up at him. “What about you? What’s your mom think about you wandering the globe buying properties and starting conservation projects?”
“She worries…a lot. Calls me every day, doesn’t matter what time zone I’m in. Seven AM Montreal time, my phone buzzes. ‘Did you eat breakfast?’ ”
Grace laughed. “I’d be exactly the same with Zach.”
He smiled, full and genuine. “In her mind, I’m still the scrawny kid who’d forget to eat if she didn’t remind me.” A pause then: “She’d like you.”
Grace felt heat creep up her neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She has a thing about people who work hard. Who don’t take shortcuts. Who build things with their own hands instead of just throwing money at problems.”
Grace found herself softening despite her better judgment. Their eyes met. Held. The air between them felt thick, charged with possibility and wine and something Grace absolutely could not afford to name. The kitchen suddenly felt very small, very warm, very—
“How’s it going in here?” Margaret’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.
They sprang apart. Grace nearly knocked over her maple syrup. Reese turned back to his venison with sudden intense focus.
“Great!” Grace said, her voice too bright. “Just finishing up the last dishes.”
Margaret surveyed the kitchen—the organized chaos of their cooking, the plates already prepared, the flush on Grace’s face that definitely had nothing to do with the heat from the stove. Her expression suggested she’d seen exactly what she’d interrupted, but she was too polite to comment.
“Wonderful. We’re ready when you are. Everyone’s getting hungry.”
“We’ll bring it out in five minutes,” Reese said, not looking up from his plating.
“We should get this out there,” Grace said after Margaret left. “Before Margaret sends a search party.”
“Right. Yeah.”
They finished loading up the plates, Grace very deliberately making sure not to look back at Reese. Had that been a moment just now? That had felt like a moment. The way he’d looked at her, the way the air had felt thick enough to cut—
Stop it, she told herself firmly. He’s your competition. Your very rich, very temporary competition, who’s going to disappear the second this project stops being interesting. This is not a moment. This is you being an idiot. Get your head in the game, Grace.
What was it WildTrailGuide said? It’s not simple. It’s hard as hell. But you’re harder.
“Ready?” Reese asked, picking up his first plates.
“Yeah,” Grace said, grabbing hers. “Let’s do this.”
As she followed him out of the kitchen, she caught her reflection in the window. Flushed, strands of her hair falling down from her bun, eyes too bright.
Yep, she looked like someone who’d just had a moment.
Damn it.