Page 8 of The Sugar Maple Inn

But if Sophie could do it, damn it, so could she.

Minus the future husband, she quickly told herself. Done that, worn the grubby T-shirt.

A sudden gust of wind whipped across the festival grounds, sending Sophie’s maple leaf garland into a frantic dance.

“Storm’s coming in,” Luke said as he helped steady the booth’s framework with his large hand. “This is just the edge of it.”

“Even more reason to snuggle up with a good book later,” Sophie said. “So, Grace, have you met our mysterious billionaire visitor yet?”

Grace felt her stomach do something uncomfortable. “Briefly. Have you?”

“Not yet, but your mother cornered me twenty minutes ago, telling me all about him,” Sophie said. “Apparently, he’s like ‘thunder in a suit,’ whatever that means. She told me if she was thirty years younger, she’d—and I quote—‘climb him like a tree and never come down.’ ”

Sophie’s impression of Mabel was spot-on, complete with the hand gestures.

“Jesus Christ.” Grace rubbed her temples. “That is disgusting.”

“You’re not going like this then,” Sophie continued. “She said maybe you should try to cozy up to him. That with all his money, all your problems would be solved.”

“That woman!” Grace said. “I don’t need anyone solving my problems, billionaire or otherwise.”

Sophie held up her hands in surrender. “Hey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Grace grabbed her friend’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “Sorry. It’s just—” She ran her hands through her hair, making the pink tips stick up at odd angles. “Mom thinks every problem can be solved by finding me the right man. Like I’m some broken toy that needs fixing. Anyway, my mother’s judgment isn’t exactly reliable when it comes to men. She loved Zach’s dad.”

“Before he gambled away your mortgage down payment,” Luke said, hands curling into fists. “I swear, if I see that jerk again, I’ll have him dishing out a special kind of payment.”

“You and me both,” Grace said.

“Oh! Look who just turned up,” Sophie said.

Grace didn’t need to turn to know exactly who it was. There was a sudden uptick in feminine laughter, the Miller twins pausing mid fish-fry flip and even ninety-one-year-old Beryl Finch turning to stare.

She glanced over her shoulder and there he was.

Reese Spencer.

He’d traded polish for ease tonight: a dark wool sweater pushed up at the sleeves, pants the color of fallen leaves, solid black boots. He accepted a cup from the new girl who worked at the local bar, directing a charming smile toward the girl that made her swoon, literally.

Luke muttered something about “goddamn newcomers” under his breath, and Sophie nudged him in the ribs.

“Great,” Grace whispered, forcing a brittle smile. “The only thing this festival was missing: Captain Capitalism.”

But no amount of sarcasm could stop the fact that her pulse was suddenly thudding in her ears. Because Reese Spencer, billionaire dream-crusher, had just walked into her territory and he looked like sin dressed up in autumn lantern light.

“Grace!”

Mabel’s voice rang out across the crowd like a church bell on Sunday morning. No escaping it. So Grace pasted on her best “helpful daughter” smile, waved goodbye to Sophie and Luke, then headed to the Blossoms & Brew stall, trying her best to ignore Reese Spencer.

“Finally,” Mabel said, shoving a steaming paper cup of spiced cider into Grace’s hand. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me for Sophie’s newfangled bookshop empire. Take over for five minutes while I run to the restroom, will you?”

“Mom, I—”

“Five minutes,” Mabel repeated, already halfway gone.

Grace sighed, set down her warm spiced cider and slipped behind the counter. The apron strings practically tied themselves at this point.

A little girl with pigtails appeared at the counter, eyes wide. “One pumpkin chai, please.”