Chapter Sixteen Grace
Sixteen
Grace
Well, hell.
Grace had been so busy trying not to look at Reese, she’d somehow forgotten the whole point of this exercise: someone had to lose. And historically speaking, that someone was usually her.
She glanced at Reese. He was gripping the table edge like it was keeping him afloat. His jaw was tight. His eyes sharp. His whole body had that coiled quality of a predator waiting to pounce. It actually looked like he cared about the outcome of this little stormy cook-off.
That shouldn’t have surprised her. Billionaires didn’t get to be billionaires by being chill about competition.
Competitiveness isn’t a character flaw, WildTrailGuide had told her once. It’s a resource. The people at the top? They didn’t get there by playing nice. They got there by being hungrier than everyone else in the room. Your job is to be hungrier than them.
“Show of hands for the venison,” Margaret said. Several hands raised. Six. Seven. Eight.
Eight out of twenty.
A smile began to spread across Grace’s face.
“And for the ravioli?” Margaret asked.
Hands shot up like the room was full of eager school kids. Ella’s went up so fast she nearly took out her wine glass. Tressa was grinning like Christmas had come early. Caleb and Mikkel shot their hands up too. An anniversary couple who were staying at the hotel both voted for the ravioli, too.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Twelve out of twenty.
Holy shit. She’d won.
“Well then,” Abe said. “Looks like the ravioli takes the cook-off.”
“Hell yeah!” Grace shouted, pumping her fist in the air before she could stop herself.
The entire table turned to look at her.
Abe’s eyebrows rose. “I presume that means the ravioli was yours, Grace?”
“It was.” She was grinning so hard her face hurt, unable to contain the surge of triumph flooding through her.
The table exploded. Applause, congratulations, Zach actually smiling at her like she’d done something cool instead of just being his embarrassing mother. She looked at Reese, bracing for the corporate mask or maybe some passive-aggressive comment about how ravioli was obviously easier than venison.
But instead, he raised both hands in surrender. “Hey,” he said, “I can’t deny the ravioli was superb.”
Well. At least he wasn’t a sore loser.
“Your venison wasn’t bad either,” she heard herself say. “The juniper was a nice touch.”
His eyes met hers across the candlelight. “High praise from the winner.”
The way he said it—low, rough, like they were having an entirely different conversation—made her stomach flip.
“Time for bed, I’d say,” Abe said, standing with his wife.
People started filtering out, all goodnights and thank-yous, Caleb even giving an exaggerated bow that nearly took out a candle. Grace fell into autopilot, stacking plates, because that’s what you did. You cooked, you fed people, you cleaned up after them. Story of her goddamn life.
Except Reese was still there too, gathering wine glasses like he’d done this before. Like he actually knew what a bus tub was.
Their eyes met over a stack of dirty plates. That crackle again. The one that had nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with the way his hands moved, the way he’d been looking at her throughout dinner and the way he was looking at her now like—
“Goodnight, Grace,” he said abruptly, pulling his eyes away.
“Oh yeah. Night,” she managed.
She watched him walk away, all that controlled power. She told herself very firmly that she was not thinking about what he looked like under that shirt of his.
Narrator: She was absolutely thinking about it.
“Mom? You coming?”
Zach was hovering in the doorway.
“Yep. Coming.”
They walked down the hallway together, the inn creaking around them like it was settling in for the night. Or possibly collapsing. Hard to tell.
“That was pretty cool,” Zach said. “You beating the billionaire.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, the guy probably has like, personal chefs and stuff. And you just—” He made a gesture that was probably meant to convey culinary dominance. “Boom.”
Grace laughed. “Boom indeed. Right, let me do the mom inspection of your room.”
“God, Mom, it’s just a hotel room.”
“Yeah, but I still need to check it so I can sleep properly.”
The room was simple but charming, with an iron bed, patchwork quilt, window overlooking the dark lake. Grace had managed to score Zach a spare T-shirt and sweater from the inn’s lost property, both vintage 1990s and approximately the right size if you squinted.
She sat on his bed while he changed in the bathroom, that familiar routine they’d been doing since he was small. The talks that happened in these moments, when defenses were down and honesty slipped through.
“So,” she asked when he came out. “You want to tell me what really happened with Tyler today?”
Zach flopped onto the bed like gravity had personally betrayed him, his blond curls flopping over his forehead. “He was still being a dick about you.”
“Language.”
“He was being a jerk about you.” Zach’s jaw tightened. “Said stuff about the café. About us living above it like we’re too poor for anything better.”
Grace’s stomach sank.
“And then he said—” Zach stopped, clearly debating whether to continue.
“What?”
“He said no one will give you a loan for the inn because you’re a bad investment.”
Grace felt something cold settle in her chest. She could deal with this. But knowing her son had to?
“So yeah,” Zach continued, “I hit him. And I’m not sorry.”
There it was. The fierce loyalty that made him her protector when that was supposed to be her job. The same loyalty that got him suspended, that made his teachers worry, that broke her heart and made it swell all at the same time.
“I appreciate you wanting to defend me,” Grace said carefully. “Really. But that’s not the way to do it. Fighting Tyler just proves him right as it makes us look like we can’t handle things properly.”
“Then how else do I handle it?” Zach said, frustration burning in his amber eyes. “What am I supposed to do, just let him say whatever?”
“You show them what you’re made of,” Grace said firmly. “Head down, work hard. Do well at school, at soccer. Prove we don’t need their approval.”
“Approval for what? To get rich. That doesn’t happen for people like us, Mom. Tyler’s dad’s family owns half the town. We serve them coffee. It’ll always be easier for people like him to make a success of themselves.”
“Actually,” Grace said, “Reese’s mom was a care home worker.”
That stopped Zach. “Serious?”
“Dead serious. She raised him alone.”
Zach processed this, his expression shifting. “Huh.” A slow smile spread across his face. The mischievous one that usually meant trouble. “Yeah, well. He also got into fights. So I guess that worked out for him, too.”
“Nope.” Grace pointed at him. “Nope, nope, nope. I’m not falling for that. No more fights, Zachary Sullivan. I don’t care if Reese Spencer punched his way to a fortune, that’s not happening for you.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, but he was laughing. “No more fights.”
“Promise?” She held out her pinkie.
Zach hooked hers with his. “Promise.”
“Good. Because I need you in one piece when we get this inn and you have to help renovate.”
“If we get it.”
“When. And look,” she said with a sigh, smoothing down his sheet, “if you don’t want to live here, really don’t want to, I’ll pull out. I mean it.”
And she did.
He thought about it then shook his head. “Nah. I actually kinda like it here and we’d own the island, right? Tyler can suck it!”
“Well, in theory we wouldn’t own the island…”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’ll tell people.”
Grace smiled. “You do that.”
“Izzy thinks the place is pretty cool too,” Zach added quietly.
“Izzy?”
“The girl from Germany.”
“Ah yes, she’s very pretty. Did you talk to her?”
“A bit. She wants to be an actress. And she likes the same music as me. She writes too. Scripts and stuff.”
Grace’s heart did that expansion thing where it hurt and felt good at the same time. Her boy, opening up about a girl. Letting her see past the surly exterior to the sweet kid who still got nervous around pretty girls and thought writing was cool.
“She sounds nice,” Grace said carefully. One wrong word and the shutters would slam down.
“Yeah. She is.” Then, like he’d just realized he’d been vulnerable: “Whatever. Not like I’ll see her again anyway.”
“You could get her number. Or ChatSnap her.”
“It’s Snapchat, Mom. Oh my God.” Pure teenage mortification. He settled back, that drowsy look creeping in, then he rolled to face the wall. Conversation over. “Night.”
Grace stood, smiling despite the brush-off. “Night, sweetheart. Love you.”
“Love you too,” came the muffled response.
She closed the door and stood in the hallway a moment, listening to the storm and the inn creaking as she felt a sense of contentment.
This could be their life soon. And Zach said he was happy with that idea.
She looked toward the room across from hers.
If only that goddamn billionaire wasn’t standing in her way.
She slipped into her room and changed into the white nightdress Margaret had left on the bed for her.
When she climbed into bed, sleep was impossible.
The storm was too loud, her thoughts too restless, her body too aware Reese was just across the hall.
She thought of the way he’d looked at her during dinner like he wanted to—
Stop. It.
She needed air or a distraction or something that wasn’t lying here obsessing.
The tower came to mind. She’d only been up there once in her life, when her mom had celebrated her fortieth at the inn.
Grace had snuck away from the noise of the party with a few of the other kids, racing up the spiral stairs until they spilled out onto the top floor.
The view had stolen her breath. Moonlight rippling across the lake, the whole town tucked close and small beneath her feet.
For one dizzying moment she’d felt like anything was possible.
Now, years later, she wanted that feeling back.
She threw off the covers, pulled on a thin cardigan from among the day clothes Margaret had left for her and slipped into the hall, heading for the tower.