I catch my reflection in the side window.My cheeks are flushed, my hair is a wild mess from the Montana wind, and my eyes still burn with the echo of everything Maddox Hartley made me feel tonight.
Anger.Annoyance.Confusion.
A pull I absolutely don’t have time for.
Shit.
The phone buzzes in my palm, the vibration jarring, and a text from Buffy pops up.
Buf:U alive???Did u meet The Mad One??Tell me EVERYTHING
A weak laugh escapes me.Only Buffy could cram three existential crises and an explosion into one text.I thumb the screen and type out a response.
Me:Yes.Barely.Total disaster.Will call later—need to eat before I turn into a cautionary tale.
Three dots appear, dance, disappear, then start again.
Buf:Fine.But if u die, I get your Birkin.
I huff out a breath and drop the phone onto the passenger seat.She can have it.Mother gifted us those bags to look thoughtful and generous to the Hollywood crowd, but the leather came wrapped in a shit-ton of manipulation.More strings than a marionette.
My lungs tighten, and it isn’t only the thought of my mother’s brand of nasty.It’s him.His voice—low, rough, jagged with annoyance—is lodged somewhere deep in my chest.And the way he looked at me as he realized who I was?
That flash of heat in his eyes before it morphed into something sharp.I can still feel the prick of it.
God help me, I felt that.
The coffee in the cup holder is still scalding, and the steam hits my face as I take a long, cautious sip.I flip open my notebook to a clean page.My pen hits the paper hard, the ink slanted and aggressive as if the lines have personally offended me.
—Assignment will be harder than anticipated
—Subject: Defensive
—Subject: Charming (against my will)
—Subject: Cagey (is he hiding something?)
The nib of the pen stalls, and there it is.That instinct I’ve been trying to smother since the second he opened his mouth.Something is off… more than off—it’s buried.
I snap the notebook shut.Tomorrow is the away game, and I have to be on that bus.I square my shoulders and stare into the rearview mirror.
“You’ve survived worse, Grace.This is just a man.An irritating man.”The air finally flows easier through my lungs.“And tomorrow, you start over.”
The engine hums to life with my jab at the start button, and the vibration travels up through the soles of my shoes.Something inside me shifts, a hard click of resolve pushing out the last of my frustration.He can snarl, he can glare, and he can pretend I’m nothing but a nuisance, but I won’t back down.
Tomorrow, Maddox Hartley talks to me whether he likes it or not.
The Pine Hollow Inn sits tucked behind a row of towering pines, its front porch glowing like a gentle welcome in the dark.By the time I turn into the gravel drive, my shoulders have stopped climbing toward my ears.
The place looks exactly like the kind of inn a stressed-out, emotionally frayed journalist should be staying in, if said journalist actually slept.I cackle in the darkness of the car, far too tired to think straight.
A few lights flicker softly beneath the wraparound veranda, and I smile at the movie set vibe of the rocking chairs lining the front, swaying faintly in the breeze.The place is charming as hell, and I resent it instantly.
Inside, the air is warm with lemon polish, bread, and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe.It’s as if I’ve stepped into a postcard.Or a trap.I don’t trust the homey sensation creeping into my bones.
“Be right with you, hon,” a woman calls from a doorway.
She looks to be in her late fifties, dark curls piled high, wearing a floral blouse that radiates a cheerful, aggressive sort of welcome.