Chapter Twenty-Five Reese
Twenty-Five
Reese
The fog rolled in thick while they lay tangled in the sheets a few hours later, the world beyond the tower windows disappearing completely.
Gray and white erasing everything—the island, the lake, even the sense of where they were.
Could’ve been floating in clouds, for all Reese could tell.
At some point in the few hours they’d been in bed, his hands and mouth on hers, hers on him, Abe had called up with an update, saying the fog wasn’t letting go and they might need to spend another night up there.
“We’re properly stranded now,” Grace said, propped up on one elbow, hair wild around her face. “Even if the storm’s over, no one’s crossing in this.”
“Guess we’ll have to entertain ourselves, discover more ‘everything buts.’ ” Reese ran a hand down her bare back, enjoying the way she shivered at his touch.
She swatted him away. “Down, boy. Some of us need recovery time.”
“Fair.” He grinned. “Though for the record, you were the one who—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Reese laughed, sitting up and stretching as he looked around the tower room. The place was a wreck, sheets pulled half off the bed, candles burned down to stubs. Then he noticed something in the ceiling above them—
“There’s a hatch,” he said.
Grace followed his gaze. “Probably just goes to the roof.”
“Or an attic.” Reese was already getting up, pulling on his sweats. “Let’s check it out.”
“You want to explore a creepy attic? In a tower? During fog? Have you never seen a horror movie?”
“Seen plenty. The folks who stay in bed are always the ones who die first.”
“Pretty sure it’s the ones who investigate strange noises who die first.”
“Guess we’ll find out.” Reese dragged a chair under the hatch. “You coming or staying?”
Grace sighed, wrapping the sheet around herself. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal.”
The hatch opened with a groan and dust cascaded down, making Grace sneeze.
Adorable. Reese pulled himself up into darkness, using his core strength to lever his body through the opening.
Then he found a light switch and turned it on.
It illuminated a drop-down ladder, so he unfolded it for Grace and helped her up.
The attic was massive, the entire footprint of the tower, peaked ceiling giving it cathedral-like height in the center.
Trunks with tarnished brass corners sat beneath the eaves, their leather straps cracked and curling.
There were rolled-up fishing nets stiff with salt, an old cedar chest half-buried under moth-eaten quilts, and a rocking horse missing one glass eye.
In the far corner, a stack of mismatched picture frames leaned against a beam, their portraits long removed, leaving only warped backing boards and brittle nails.
Reese also spotted boxes labeled “Blackwell Family—1920s” against the far wall. They could be useful. Maybe featured some information about the space beneath these foundations. That was where he needed to be. That was what he’d come for.
Grace moved toward the nearest trunk, curiosity overriding caution. “Reese. Reese. Look at this.”
He turned to see Grace holding up a dress. Deep navy-blue velvet with intricate beading. Very Great Gatsby.
“There’s a whole trunk of them,” Grace said, already diving back in like she’d found treasure. “Look! Suits, dresses, even shoes. The Blackwells kept everything.”
She pulled out a man’s suit. Three-piece. Pinstriped. The kind gangsters wore in old photos. Or bootleggers, more likely, given this was a lakeside inn during Prohibition.
“You have to try this on.” She held it up against him, checking the fit.
He should say no. Should be going through those boxes. Finding answers.
But Grace was looking at him like that—all lit up and excited—and something in him just…gave.
“All right,” he said. “But you’re wearing the dress.”
Her grin was worth it.
“Obviously.” She dropped the sheet she had around her and was already wriggling into the green dress in a way that made him want to rip it off her again.
Reese stripped off his sweats and pulled on the dress pants. They fit better than they had any right to.
Grace finished pulling on the dress and did a spin, the beading catching the light. She looked incredible. The velvet hugged her slight curves, the dropped waist emphasizing her hips, the whole thing making her look like she’d stepped out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
“How do I look?” she asked.
Reese’s mouth had gone dry. “Like you walked out of a speakeasy.”
“Good speakeasy or tragic speakeasy?”
“Good. More than good. And definitely the kind I’d want to be at.”
She found a headband with feathers, positioned it on her head at a jaunty angle. “Now you. Vest and jacket.”
Reese pulled on the rest of the suit, and Grace smiled.
“Okay, you look hot. Very dapper gangster.”
“Gangster, eh?” He adjusted the vest. “Guess that tracks.”
She was rummaging in another trunk now, pulling out God knew what. “Oh! There’s a camera!”
It was an old Polaroid, the kind that had been retro even before it became vintage again. Grace loaded film she found in the same trunk, aimed it at Reese and clicked before he could protest.
The camera whirred. A photo slid out and Grace shook it. Slowly, an image appeared: Reese in the pinstriped suit, standing in shadow, looking like he belonged in a different era.
“My turn,” he said, taking the camera from her.
Grace posed, hand on hip, giving him that sass he was starting to crave. He captured her mid-laugh, the feathers in her headband slightly askew, joy written across her face.
Then they set up the timer and took one together, racing to get in the frame. Grace ended up pressed against him, his arm around her waist, both of them grinning like idiots.
“We look ridiculous,” Grace said, studying the developing photo.
“We look good.”
“We look like we’re about to commit crimes.”
“I can think of some crimes to commit.” Reese pulled her closer, kissed the spot behind her ear that he was learning made her shiver. “Very ‘everything but’ kind of crimes.”
She laughed and pushed him away. “Focus. We’re exploring, remember?”
Right. Exploring. Which meant he needed to actually look at what was up there instead of just looking at Grace.
They split up, Grace gravitating toward some furniture. Arts and Crafts dresser that would be worth serious money once restored. The joinery alone was museum-quality. A writing desk with secret compartments that still functioned smoothly after a century. Chairs that just needed reupholstering.
“Look at this craftsmanship,” Grace said, running her hand over a wardrobe door. “The detail work. They really built things to last.”
“Could use this in the honeymoon suite,” Reese said, already planning. “Once the tower’s properly renovated.”
“Yes! And this dresser in one of the lakeside rooms.” Grace was mentally decorating already, he could tell. “Keep the vintage character but make it functional. What about those chairs?”
“Dining room. Reupholster in something rich: burgundy or forest green. Mix them with the existing table for that eclectic look people pay premium for.”
They caught each other’s eyes and Reese saw the realization hit them both simultaneously. They were planning together. Making decisions like they’d both be there to implement them. Like this wasn’t a competition with only one winner.
“Great minds,” Grace said quietly, a quick sadness in her eyes.
They kept exploring, finding guest books dating back decades, reading entries from long-dead visitors about fishing trips and honeymoons and family vacations.
As Grace was delighting over old menus—“Seventy-five cents for a full dinner!”—Reese casually made his way toward some official-looking boxes while she was distracted.
The first box held nothing of note, just business ledgers, receipts, the mundane paperwork of running an inn.
But the second box featured what looked like architectural drawings, rolled up and tied with twine. Reese unrolled them to reveal floorplans of the tower. Original construction drawings from the 1800s, something marked “storage cellar; tower foundation.”
And then a signature of the man who came up with these drawings: Harald Berg. Berg had been the surname of his Norwegian ancestors; the family name that had later changed to Spencer somewhere between Norway and Canada, for reasons Reese had never quite known.
So there it was. Confirmation. His ancestors had built this tower…and there was a possibility they’d hidden something important under it too.
Reese leaned back, looking around him. All his life, he’d only known about his mom’s roots, Canadian through and through. But this…this was his father’s side. This was why it felt like home here, because maybe it had been home for his people once.
“Find something interesting?” Grace asked from across the attic.
Reese rolled up the plans smoothly, keeping his expression neutral. “Just old construction drawings. Boring infrastructure stuff.”
“Nothing about this place is boring.” She’d found a trunk of children’s toys now and was examining a wooden rocking horse. “Imagine all the families who stayed here. All the kids who played with these.”
Reese carefully slid the plans into the inside pocket of the suit jacket. He’d study them more thoroughly later, when Grace was asleep. Figure out exactly what was down there and how to access it without anyone knowing what he was really after.
This was why he’d come here. This was what mattered.
So why did he feel guilty about hiding it from her?
“Reese, when’s your birthday?” she asked. He turned to see her standing over his discarded sweats, his driving license in her hands. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he was changing.
He grimaced. “Today.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open. “You mean to tell me it’s your birthday and you didn’t say anything?”
“It’s not a big deal—”
“Not a big deal? Reese, it’s your birthday.” Her voice had gone soft with something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy. “You’re spending it trapped in a tower with me instead of…I don’t know, having caviar delivered or—”
“I don’t celebrate it. Haven’t in years. It’s just another day.”
She frowned. “That’s really sad.”
“It is what it is.”
“No. It’s sad.” She stepped closer, still wearing that flapper dress, looking at him like she could see through all his carefully constructed defenses. “Everyone should celebrate their birthday. Even wolfish billionaires who pretend they’re too cool for cake.”
“I’m not wolfish.”
“You are.” She kissed him softly and Reese felt something in his chest crack. “Well, you’re celebrating today. Whether you like it or not.”
“Grace—”
“Nope. No arguments. It’s happening.” She was already heading for the hatch. “Keep exploring. Look at your boring construction drawings or whatever. I’ll get it set up.”
She disappeared down the ladder before he could respond, leaving him alone in the attic. He groaned. Grace deserved to know why he really wanted this inn. She deserved honesty.
But if he told her now, she’d think he only wanted the inn for some sort of treasure beneath.
How could he explain this went deeper than just a business opportunity?
And how could he explain to himself that somewhere between butternut squash and cook-offs, the goal had shifted and whatever was buried beneath this tower mattered less than the woman currently humming off-key one floor below him?
He could have that, couldn’t he? One night before reality crashed back in?