Page 56 of The Sugar Maple Inn

A sharp crack. Glass shattering.

The vase on the side table, knocked by his elbow when he’d slammed down his glass, hit the floor and exploded into pieces.

The sound cut through everything.

Reese froze.

Grace pulled back slightly, breathing hard. “What—”

But Reese wasn’t looking at the broken vase on the floor.

He was seeing a different vase. Different glass. Different room.

Megan’s face, streaked with mascara, red and furious and broken. The vase she’d thrown, exploding into shards that he’d still been finding weeks later embedded in the carpet.

You break things, Reese. Her voice raw and shaking. Everything you touch breaks eventually. You broke me.

A month later, that call from her sister, voice tight with anger, grief and…blame. Yeah, blame and why not? Hadn’t Megan said it herself? That he’d broken her?

Reese’s hands stilled on Grace’s hips.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t lose himself in another person and forget his purpose. Couldn’t break someone else just because he was too focused on getting what he wanted to see the damage he was causing.

Grace wasn’t a distraction. Wasn’t entertainment. She was a person with a kid and a dream and a life that would continue after he inevitably became restless and moved on to the next acquisition. Because that was what he did. That was what he always did. And that was fine with him because what happened to Megan couldn’t ever happen to anyone else.

He pulled back. Removed his hands from Grace’s body. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said in a gruff voice.

Grace’s expression shifted immediately. Confusion. Then disappointment. Then something worse: embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed darker and she scrambled off his lap, wrapping her arms around herself.

Reese stood, putting distance between them. Raked his hands through his hair. Tried not to look at her nipples still hard against that nightgown. At the flush spreading down her neck. At the way her lips were swollen from his mouth.

“We probably shouldn’t—” he started, voice rough.

“You’re right.” Grace grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around herself. “We definitely, definitely shouldn’t.”

The silence stretched. Awkward. Painful.

“It’s late anyway,” Reese said, forcing the words out. He peered at the old wooden clock on the wall. “Or early. Nearly one. Should probably try to sleep.”

“Yeah.” Grace wouldn’t look at him. “Sleep. Good idea.”

“I’ll take the chaise longue.”

“Fine.”

Reese moved away, finished his whiskey in one burning swallow. He was angry. At himself. At the vase. At Megan for still being in his head all these years later. At Grace for making him want things he didn’t deserve.

He turned his back on her, crouching to pick up the broken vase. Each piece felt like an accusation.

Behind him, he could hear Grace breathing, uneven and shaky.

He’d done that. Put that sound in her breathing.

You break things, Reese.

His jaw tightened as he gathered the shards, careful not to cut himself. Careful not to look at Grace. Careful not to think about how she’d felt in his arms or how much he’d wanted to keep her there.

He couldn’t be picking up the broken pieces of another woman he’d destroyed.