Page 66 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“You’re allowed.”

Grace wanted to believe him. Wanted to let herself have this without the guilt. But fourteen years of putting everyone else first didn’t just evaporate because one man told her she deserved better.

Still. Maybe he had a point.

“In fact,” he continued, “you deserve more than one night. Where else have you traveled other than Disneyland?”

Grace shook her head, picking her plate back up and taking a bite of bacon while licking her lips, Reese watching her like he was remembering how those lips had felt wrapped around him the night before. “Nowhere outside the States,” she said, trying to dampen down the heat rising inside.

Anne Boleyn; remember, Grace. Anne bloody Boleyn.

“Never had the money or the time,” she said. He looked shocked and she laughed. “Not everyone is so well traveled, Mr. Moneybags.”

He smiled. “Okay, then where would you go, money and time no object?”

“Why, you offering to fund my grand tour?”

“Maybe I’m just curious. Humor me.”

Grace smiled. “That’s easy. The UK. I’m a total anglophile. My friend Sophie comes from there and she said it’s amazing in autumn, all golden fields and misty mornings, little pubs with fires going. Oh my God, I’d love to eat Yorkshire puddings in a British pub!”

“Yorkshire puddings, eh? That’s pretty specific.” Reese propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. “Nothing like a British pub in autumn.”

“You’ve been to the UK?”

“A few times,” he said, tracing his thumb along her collarbone. “Best place I stayed was the Cotswolds. Stone cottages, crooked lanes, beer that could knock you flat. You’d fit right in.”

Grace laughed. “Me? I’m more coffee-and-chaos than country charm.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning closer from his chair. “But I can picture you in a British pub. Wool sweater, messy hair, rain on the windows.” He kissed her, slow and deep. “It’d suit you. Oh and you’d love the sticky toffee puddings. I’ll make sure you try one out when I take you there one day.”

Grace felt something warm unfurl in her chest.

Another kiss, longer this time. “Then I’d take you to Paris,” he continued, “and this little place in the Marais. No tourists, just locals. Best coffee in the city and pastries that’ll ruin you for anything else. We’d go to Iceland next. See the Northern Lights, hot springs in the middle of nowhere, landscapes that don’t look real.”

“Sounds cold.”

“That’s what the hot springs are for.” His hand slid up her ribs, thumb brushing her nipples. “And anyway, I’d keep you warm.”

“Oh, you would?” Grace’s breath hitched as he kissed down her neck.

“Mm. Then Scotland for the whisky.” Kiss. “Croatia for the coast. New Zealand next. South Island. Mountains and lakes that make Solace Springs look like a puddle.” Kiss. “Japan in spring for the cherry blossoms.” Kiss.

His hand moved lower and Grace felt her body responding despite having been thoroughly satisfied just hours ago.

“You’ve got this all planned out,” she managed.

“I’m a planner.” His voice was muffled against her skin now, hands sliding lower. “I’d show you everything. Every place I’ve been that made me think ‘this is what the world can be.’ ”

“Reese—”

“Every morning waking up somewhere new.” His long fingers settled between her thighs. “Every night falling asleep somewhere beautiful.”

Grace reached up, cupped his face. “That’s a nice fantasy.”

“Doesn’t have to be fantasy.” He kissed her palm. “Could be real.”

She wanted to argue, to point out all the reasons why a single mom from Solace Springs couldn’t just jet off around the world with a man so far from her reality. But then he was kissing her properly, and his fingers were doing things that made thinking impossible.