Page 45 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“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.”