Page 59 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Grace’s stomach dropped. “Reese—”

“I found him.” Still that matter-of-fact tone, like he was reciting facts that had nothing to do with him. “It was the garage. Quick, they said. Doesn’t stop him showing up in my dreams most nights.”

Jesus Christ.

“And then my ex-wife, Megan, tried to kill herself too.” He took a breath. “That’s on me, both times. Missed the signs. Too wrapped up in my own crap to notice what was happening around me.”

“You were ten when your dad—”

“Still should’ve seen it.”

“You were just a kid.”

“What’s my excuse for Megan, then?” He finally looked at her and the cold certainty in his eyes made her chest hurt. “I wreck things, Grace. It’s what I do.”

For a second, Grace wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that he couldn’t possibly blame himself for things that weren’t his fault. But she knew that look. The bone-deep conviction that you were fundamentally damaged. She’d seen it in her own mirror often enough, usually at around 2 AM when the bills were overdue and Zach needed new clothes and the bank had sent another rejection letter.

So instead of arguing, realization dawned. “That’s why you stopped earlier. You don’t want to wreck me.”

He didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes said everything she needed to know.

“Stop that.” Grace’s hand tightened on his arm. “I’m not fragile. I’m not going to shatter because of whatever bullshit story you’re telling yourself. I’ve survived way worse than you. You’re not special, Reese Spencer.”

He gave her a bemused look. “Harsh.”

“You want coddling, go back to your actresses.” Grace shifted, sitting back on her heels. “I’m just saying, you’re not the disaster you think you are. You’re just a guy who’s had some shit happen. Welcome to the club. We meet Fridays.”

Now he did smile, enough to reveal those dimples. “Fridays, eh?”

“Bring your own wine. We’re not fancy.”

They stared at each other and Grace was acutely aware that she was kneeling next to a man she barely knew having a feelings conversation.

Her life was absurd.

Then Reese’s hand came up, cupped the back of her head and pulled her in.

This time, the kiss was different. Not the desperate intensity from before. Not the alcohol-fueled want that had ended in broken glass and regret. This was slow and deliberate, like he was making a decision instead of losing control. His mouth moved against hers with intent and Grace felt it in her bones. This wasn’t apology or comfort or anything soft. There was still that edge of dominance, that alpha certainty that made her want to either punch him or climb him again.

She was leaning toward climb.

The hand in her hair tightened as Reese kissed her deeper, harder.

Then he was moving, standing in one fluid motion and Grace found herself being lifted off the floor like she weighed nothing.

“Reese, what—”

“Bed,” he said against her mouth. Not a question. A statement of fact.

Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically and Grace was acutely aware of several things at once: the hardness of him pressed against her through his boxer briefs, the strength in his arms as he carried her across the room, the way his mouth never left hers.

Also, being carried to bed by a half-naked billionaire was doing things to her that probably said terrible things about her feminist credentials.

She’d examine that later. Much much later.

Reese laid her on the bed with surprising gentleness considering the intensity burning in his eyes. The moonlight drifting through the windows gave Grace about half a second to appreciate how attractive he looked—all muscle and focused intent—before he was crawling over her.

The weight of him settled between her legs and Grace’s brain went pleasantly blank.