Page 93 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“Reese.” Sam’s voice softened. “Listen. I almost died in that crash in Yemen. Remember? Engine failure, hard landing. You know what I thought about when I was going down?”

“Ellen.”

“Yeah. Ellen. Hadn’t even asked her out by then. All the time I’d wasted on shit that didn’t matter. I thought: If I survive this, I’m going to stop waiting for the perfect moment and just live.”

Reese was quiet.

“You know what the perfect moment is?” Sam continued. “It doesn’t exist. There’s just now. Either you grab what matters or you don’t.”

“She won’t return my messages.”

“So go there; you’re rich, for God’s sake! Worst case, she tells you to fuck off and you have your answer. Best case…” Sam trailed off. “Best case, you stop running.”

The words landed hard.

You stop running.

Was that what he’d been doing? All these years of projects and properties and places. Building sanctuaries, funding research, moving from mountain to coast to forest. Beautiful strangers. Magazine covers. Lots of money in the bank.

Had he just been running?

Reese looked at his watch. 11:17 PM. He could get his jet ready for tonight. Be in Solace Springs by morning. Crazy. Impulsive. Completely irrational.

“You still there?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” Reese was already moving. Grabbing his laptop. Pulling up his pilot’s number. “I’m here.”

“So?”

Reese was already texting his pilot, his assistant, his security team. Wheels in motion. Machine responding. “I’m going,” Reese said. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Go get her, Golden Wolf.”

Reese hung up. Stood there for a moment. Whiskey in hand. Cuban mountains spreading out below. Then he finished the drink, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.

Thirty-Six

Grace

Blossoms & Brew smelled like cinnamon rolls and freshly ground coffee beans. The espresso machine hissed and gurgled its familiar song. Mabel had added to the autumn aesthetic with new mason jars filled with dried wheat, even more pumpkins on every table, a chalkboard menu advertising new drinks like “Harvest Spice Lattes” and more.

It was beautiful. Perfect. Everything Grace usually loved about this time of year.

And she’d never been more miserable in her entire life.

Truth was, winter had come early for her. Right into her chest. Settled there like frost on a window…and her phone. Well, that was sitting in her apron pocket like a brick of guilt. Three unread messages from Reese. She knew what they said without looking because she’d read them approximately seven hundred times before deciding not to reply.

Made it to Cuba. Hope you’re okay. Call me when you can. x

The sanctuary damage is worse than I thought. Going to be here a few days. x

Grace? Everything okay? x

Yeah. Everything was peachy. Just dandy. She’d slept with a billionaire in a tower during a storm like some kind of budget fairy tale, and now she was giving him the silent treatment because—what? Because she wanted to see if he’d chase her? Because some childish part of her needed proof he wasn’t just bored during a power outage?

Real mature, Grace. Real mature.

Thing was, she knew it was stupid. Reese was in Cuba dealing with an actual crisis. He had real problems. Adult problems. Problems that made her insecurities look like what they were: small-town girl stuff.