Maddox
Someone steps up to the booth.“Mr.Hartley, I’m Grace Buchanan.”
The sound of her name hits first, then the woman.Long blonde hair catches the light, and cornflower blue eyes laser into me with the certainty of someone who came here specifically for me.She doesn’t look like she’s from Winslow Grove, but hell, I’m more than willing to make her feel at home.
“Well, hello, Grace.”My mouth pulls into a smile I’d forgotten I was capable of.
She’s a hell of a sight… all bright edges and quiet confidence.Heat flickers low in my chest, quick and sharp.Until her name slots into place.Grace Buchanan.
Fuck.
Every part of me holds still, the beer bottle halfway to my mouth.I blink once, twice, and the room swirls.
The reporter.
Here.
In Winslow Grove.
“What are you doing here?”It rips out of me, low and rough, before common sense can catch it.
She goes razor-straight, every inch of her red-hot fire under polished control.“Why wouldn’t I be here?We were supposed to meet at the gym this afternoon.I waited almost forty-five minutes before admitting you weren’t coming.So, forgive me if I’m confused why you’re the one who’s pissed.”
Something coils tight in my chest—guilt, irritation, the ache of being caught flat-footed.Forty-five minutes.Shit.
Jaw clenched, shoulders locked, a dozen excuses fight for room on the tip of my tongue, and none a grown man would own.
“The interview was virtual.”I’m too defensive when I’ve fucked up.But it still doesn’t explain why she’s here, in the flesh, ready to dismantle me.“So, I’ll ask again, what are you doing here?”
Her laugh isn’t a laugh at all, more a blade cutting through the air.“Right.Virtual.And even if it were, something tells me the interview still wouldn’t have happened...even if I’d sent a link.”
I freeze.At first, I’m not following, and then a sinking sensation spreads through my chest.My mind flashes back to the table, to my voice carrying over the low hum of the diner.I never got a link.That’s on the reporter.
She heard me.
My flinch is small, barely a twitch of the jaw, but her gaze narrows, catching it.Of course she does.
Across from me, Oliver and Wren wear the same wide-eyedholy hellexpression.
The reporter gives them a blunt, polite half-smile.“Sorry to interrupt your evening.”Then her attention jumps back to me, the heat of it nearly physical.“This isn’t an interview.”
She measures out each word as if laying down charges in a courtroom.“I’m doing an in-depth profile.A double-truck in theLos Angeles Daily Journal, plus an extended online feature that’ll run across our partner publications worldwide.It requires more than a five-minute phone call or you deciding whether you feel like remembering I exist.”
My stomach drops.
A double—what?
Bile burns its way up my throat.All at once, the noise of the restaurant dulls, the surrounding conversation fading to static as she stands there, chin high, eyes lit with something sharp enough to carve through bone.
“A double what?”It’s all I’ve got.
She rolls her eyes, looking crisp, annoyed, and somehow… beautiful, doing it.
Where the hell did that come from?
“A two-page spread.Prime real estate.”Her fingers tick the items off with clinical speed.“An online magazine feature, a lifestyle angle, several shorter pieces banked for later, plus videos, photos…”
Every word lands with the force of a shove.This woman walks into my town, my night, my booth and detonates the illusion I can keep any part of my old life buried.