Page 58 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Like it was counting down every mortifying second since she’d climbed off his lap. Or been gently shoved off it.

Grace stared at the ceiling beams, cataloging all the ways she was an idiot.

She’d kissed Reese Spencer. Had been grinding on him in a way that made her want to bury her face in this silk pillow and never come out.

And then he’d stopped.

Just…stopped.

Pulled away like she’d suddenly grown a second head or started speaking in tongues or done something equally horrifying.

Well. Obviously he’d stopped. What had she expected?

She was a small-town waitress. A single mom. She served coffee to people who left five-cent tips and thought they were being generous. He was a billionaire who’d dated actresses and models and—oh yeah—Megan fucking Cooper, the director. Long dark hair and talent heaped so high it could be seen from space. The woman made art films that won at Cannes. The woman also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a skincare routine that cost more than Grace’s monthly rent.

Of course Reese Spencer had stopped kissing Grace.

Grace bunched her pillow, punching it harder than strictly necessary.

She tried not to look at his form in the darkness. Failed at that too, apparently, because her traitorous eyes kept drifting to the chaise longue where he’d settled like some martyr. He’d taken off his sweats, she’d heard the rustle of fabric and was presumably lying there in his underwear like this was totally normal and fine and not driving her absolutely insane.

Stupid, stupid Grace.

And look at him, sleeping peacefully. Easy for him, wasn’t it? Just turn off the billionaire brain, close the wolf-green eyes and drift off like he hadn’t just kissed her senseless and then acted like it was a mistake.

She heard a whimper then.

Soft. Pained. A sound that punched straight through her anger and embarrassment and hit something deeper.

She sat up, squinting through the darkness.

Reese was moving. His head turning side to side. Hands clenching. His breathing getting faster, more desperate.

A nightmare.

Grace’s heart clenched despite herself.

She should stay in bed. Should let him deal with his own demons. Should absolutely not get involved because getting involved with Reese Spencer had already proven to be a spectacularly bad idea.

But then he cried out—sharp and broken—and the words cut through the darkness:

“No, Dad!”

Reese jolted awake, gasping, his whole body rigid.

Grace was out of bed before she’d made a conscious decision, crossing the room on bare feet, kneeling by the chaise longue. Her hand found his arm and she squeezed. “Hey. You’re okay.”

Reese’s head whipped toward her, eyes wild, disorientated. His chest heaved and, in the moonlight, she could see the sheen of sweat on his face, the coiled tension in every muscle like he was ready to fight or run.

He blinked, coming back to reality.

“Grace?” His voice was rough.

“Yeah. You had a nightmare. I think it was about your dad?”

He ran a hand over his face, jaw tight. For a moment she thought he’d tell her to leave. Put the walls back up. Become untouchable again.

Then, flat: “My dad. You know the reason he died? He took his own life.”