Page 4 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Of course he was the type who’d find poltergeists charming instead of problematic.

As she thought that, she noticed a familiar face across the courtyard.

It was her son Zach, looking like he’d been through a blender: muddy soccer kit, grass stains down his top, one shin guard hanging loose…and sporting a black eye that would make a prizefighter proud.

Goddamnit.

Two

Reese

Reese Spencer had been in boardrooms from Vancouver to Cape Town, had negotiated deals while dodging charging elephants in Botswana, and once closed a seven-figure acquisition via satellite phone from a research station in Antarctica. But he’d never had someone try to convince him a property was haunted while picking butternut squash out of his shirt pocket.

It was, without question, the most entertaining anti-sales pitch he’d encountered in years.

Not to mention the person delivering that pitch was captivating in a way that caught him off guard. Blond hair with rebellious pink tips framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a stubborn chin. Her fingernails were bitten short, the remnants of pink polish chipped and half-gone like she’d been too busy or too distracted to care about upkeep. Long legs stretched beneath a café apron decorated with cartoon pumpkins, and her blue eyes held a sharpness that suggested she saw through most people’s bullshit on first meeting.

She was magnetic. And now she’d just cut him off mid-sentence and was shoving past his guests, crossing the patio in quick strides to reach a bloodied-up teenage kid in soccer kit rocking an expression Reese recognized. He’d worn it himself often enough growing up, showing up at the care home his mother worked at after another encounter with the Belanger brothers, who thought poor kids needed regular reminders of their place in the world.

The waitress caught the kid by the shoulders, examining the damage to his face before steering him toward the café’s interior, her arm protectively around him. Reese had the urge to follow them. Become a fly on a wall and maybe glimpse at the memories of his own childhood. But before he could figure out what was happening with the pink-haired server and the kid, another woman appeared. Early sixties, well-put-together in that small-town way—silver hair styled just so, deep purple cardigan that she’d probably knitted herself.

“Oh my stars!” She pressed a hand to her chest, taking in the butternut squash decorating his shirt. “Mr. Spencer, I am so terribly sorry! My daughter Grace is usually the most coordinated person I know. She won Best Server in Washington State, you know. I have no idea what got into her today.”

So the waitress hadn’t been joking around about the Best Server win. And her name. Grace. Not that graceful considering what just happened. Still, it suited her.

“It happens,” he said.

“Well, we’ll cover the dry-cleaning bill.” She put her hand out. “Mabel Sullivan, owner of Blossoms & Brew.”

He knew who she was. Had done his research on Solace Springs, always did before making an investment. “How long you been running the place?” he asked Mabel now, pretending he didn’t know already.

“Nearly forty years!”

“That’s no small thing,” he said, peering behind her, trying to see if her daughter had wandered back out.

“Sure is,” Mabel said. “Bought it with my husband when I was just twenty-five. Grace is going to take it over. Now,” she said, green eyes curious, “enough about me. Why the interest in Solace Springs?”

Reese peered across at Maple Island. “Looking to buy the old inn over there.”

“The Maple Inn?” Mabel asked incredulously.

“Very same one.”

“Well…that’s a surprise. Why the inn?”

His gaze lingered on the treeline where the old stone tower of the inn was barely visible. Truth was, there was something on that island he needed. But he didn’t tell Mabel that; couldn’t risk anyone finding out right now. “Never did like being predictable,” he said.

“That we have in common.” Mabel linked her arm through his like they were old acquaintances. “Well then, let me introduce you to the current owners’ son. He’s just walked in with his husband.”

Reese let Mabel guide him through the crowd like a diplomatic escort at a trade summit, ignoring the way his PA Erika raised her dark eyebrow as he passed her.

“Caleb, Mikkel, meet your host,” Mabel announced as she stopped before two men. “Reese Spencer, the billionaire.”

One of the men—an excitable-looking guy with wavy caramel hair—put his hand to his chest as he looked Reese up and down. “Oh my.”

“Close your mouth, darling,” the blond man with him said.

“I have so many questions,” the excitable guy continued, ignoring his husband. “Is it true you once bought a private jet just to fly your ex-girlfriend’s dog to a specialized vet in Switzerland? And did you really buy an entire island just because you liked the view? And how do you feel about the nickname the New York Times gave you: the Golden Wolf? Because now I see you up close, I totally get it.”