Page 29 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“That’s fair,” he said finally. “You’re right. I don’t stay in one place. I haven’t for years. But there’s a difference between moving on from a completed project and abandoning something half-finished. Every sanctuary I’ve funded is still operating. Still thriving. I build teams, I establish endowments, I make sure the infrastructure is there for the long term.”

“With other people running them,” Grace pointed out.

Zach peered up, looking at his mother with an expression she couldn’t interpret: respect…or embarrassment?

“Yes, with other people running it,” Reese replied. “With people who are better suited to the day-to-day operations than I am.” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he observed Grace. “In fact, maybe that person can be you?”

They held each other’s gazes, and Grace felt her pulse thrumming in her throat. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, her voice steady despite the heat in her chest. “But I want to be the one hiring people, not the person being hired.”

Reese’s smile was slight, almost admiring. But then it turned wolfish. “That’s the real question, though, isn’t it? Can someone who’s spent their whole career taking orders suddenly start giving them? Management isn’t just hospitality with a different title. And just because someone has fond memories of a place doesn’t mean they have the resources to make it work.”

The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

“Oh damn,” Caleb breathed.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should—”

“No, let’s hear it.” Grace leaned across the table. “Please, Mr. Spencer. Tell us all about how caring isn’t enough without money to back it up. I’m sure that’s very comforting to the community that has lived here, that has invested their entire lives in this place while you were off saving whales or whatever it is billionaires do between projects.”

Tressa smiled to herself as she passed with a tray.

Reese held Grace’s gaze for a beat or two, fire in his green eyes like he was enjoying the exchange, then he turned to Abe and Margaret. “The truth is, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, I can’t promise I’ll be here every day for the next twenty years. What I can promise is, if you hand me this island, I’ll protect it. Long haul. With funding that won’t run out when one bad season hits or when the bank decides the risk isn’t worth it anymore.”

The jab was subtle, but Grace caught it. The implication that her financial backing was fragile.

Because it was.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Abe said into the tense silence, clearly trying to move things along. “Any more questions?”

Everyone shook their heads.

Right. Her turn.

She opened her laptop, which held her notes, then reached for her folder, retrieving the soggy print-outs of her financial projections.

Suddenly, faced with Reese’s effortless confidence, it all felt very, very small.

But she’d come this far. And unlike some people, she needed this to work.

Eleven

Reese

Reese watched Grace Sullivan open her laptop and take out a folder that had clearly taken a beating from the boat ride over. Water had seeped through the edges, leaving dark stains across the print-outs inside. As she set it down, he caught the flash of frustration in her eyes before she smoothed it away.

She’d dressed for this. Black blazer that looked new or at least carefully preserved for occasions that mattered. A damp, cream blouse underneath that she kept trying to adjust. There was a small stain near the collar, coffee maybe, that she’d attempted to hide by repositioning the blazer. The pink tips of her hair had been wrestled into a neat bun, though pieces were already escaping, softening the professional image she was clearly working hard to project.

She looked like someone who’d gotten up early to iron her clothes, who’d checked her reflection three times before leaving, who’d stressed over every detail because she knew she was walking into a room where she’d be compared to someone with exponentially more resources.

She looked up, meeting the eyes of everyone around the table. Sure, that blazer was trying hard to say professional but her whole energy screamed fighter.

Then the line that he’d rattled her with came back to him, sharp and clear in his own voice.

Can someone who’s spent their whole career taking orders suddenly start giving them?

That’s how you talk to a woman, Reese Alexander Spencer? You think that makes you big? He could hear his mom’s voice in his head. You think that makes you strong?

His mother had spent forty years taking orders: being a care home worker, working double shifts so he could have school supplies and hockey equipment. She’d done it all with more dignity and grace than most CEOs Reese had met.