Page 5 of The Sugar Maple Inn

His husband looked like he wanted to disappear into the flower arrangements behind them. “Caleb, darling,” he said quietly in a Scandinavian accent, “calm down.”

“What? I’m just being friendly!” Caleb protested.

“Reese is looking to buy your folks’ inn, Caleb,” Mabel said.

Caleb’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. “The Maple Inn? Oh honey, good luck with that money pit. I keep telling my folks they should burn it down for the insurance money before it slides into the lake on its own.”

“Caleb,” Mikkel protested.

“What? I’m being realistic. It’s like staying in a museum dedicated to structural decay.”

“Maybe Mr. Spencer can change that?” Mikkel turned to Reese, putting a slim hand out. “Mikkel Hansen. A pleasure to meet you. Are you moving to the area as well?”

Reese shook his head. “That’s not the plan right now.”

“Oh, I read Mr. Spencer doesn’t have a fixed home,” Caleb said. “He’s the kind of man who never stays still—one week in a luxury hotel, the next in some remote Airbnb or safari tent, then a cave in Tibet for good measure. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He wasn’t. Reese had tried to own a place once. Had a house built from the ground up when he made his first million years back. A place meant for him and his ex-wife. But that all ended in ways he still didn’t like to think about. Taught him staying in one place and putting down roots only led to bad stuff happening. Also taught him letting himself love again would be…inadvisable.

The nomadic lone-wolf lifestyle suited him now. Set something up, hand it over, move on. That was the pattern. And as soon as he got the new inn up and running, this place would be no different.

“Ah, look who’s just walked in!” Mabel said, looking toward an elderly couple. “The owners of the inn.”

Reese took the couple in. He’d studied their photos from the inn brochure Erika had shown him. The older man had the kind of military bearing Reese recognized from base commanders he’d dealt with in northern territories. Had to be mid-seventies, white beard trimmed to regulation standards, shoulders that hadn’t forgotten how to stand to attention. The woman beside him had her silver hair up in a matronly bun, wearing a floral dress, a walking stick by her side.

Mabel beckoned the couple over.

“This is Reese Spencer,” she said when they stopped before her, “the Canadian billionaire who’s going to buy your inn!”

Reese flinched at her use of the billionaire label again, as if his bank balance was the only thing worth knowing about him.

“Abraham Blackwell,” Abe said, extending his hand to Reese. “This is my wife, Margaret. Understand you’re sniffing around our property.”

“Yes, I’m interested,” Reese said, shaking his hand. “It’s good land.”

“Been in my family for generations,” Abe said. “My great-great-grandfather built that inn with his own hands.”

“That’s solid history. A history I plan to honor if my bid is successful.”

History. Honor. The kinds of words he’d brainstormed with Erika that would appeal to these people.

Abe’s expression soured. “Unlikely it will be. Don’t want no billionaire taking over. You people show up, wave money around, ruin everything for the folks who actually live here.”

“Father,” Caleb hissed as Mikkel grimaced.

Reese had heard variations of this speech before. “I get the concern,” he said. “But I’m not here to build up a resort that drives out the neighbors.”

“Sure you’re not,” Abe said as his wife smiled awkwardly. “They all say that. Six months later it’s helicopter pads and fifty-dollar hamburgers. You rich kids have no idea.”

“I didn’t grow up with money,” Reese said. “I was born in Thunder Bay in Canada with a single mom who worked extra hours just to keep food on the table. I know what happens when outsiders move in and decide the locals don’t matter.”

“Then why be one of those outsiders?” Abe shot back.

Caleb cringed and turned away.

“Because sometimes the best way to protect a place is to make it pay for itself. Conservation funding, local hiring, supporting what’s already here instead of replacing it.”

“Hmmm,” Abe said, face unreadable. “How’s your fancy development team gonna handle it when the power goes out for three days straight? When there’s no way on or off that island because the lake’s throwing up eight-foot swells?”