Her name tag readsPatsy, and her smile could probably thaw the Arctic.“Well, hi there.You must be Grace.”
I stiffen, taken aback by the familiarity, like we’re old friends, and I haven’t even checked in yet.
I swallow past the sudden lump of uneasiness in my throat.“That’s me.”
My bag slides off my shoulder, the weight hitting the floor with a dull thud, and I set my now lukewarm coffee and takeout bag on the wooden countertop.
“Wonderful.Meri told me you were coming.”
“Sorry… Meri?”
“Meredith Hartley.”Patsy beams, the expression so bright I’m surprised it doesn’t leave a glare.She has no idea she just ignited a landmine under my feet.“Maddox’s mama.We’ve been best friends since middle school.”
She nudges a registration card across the counter.“She said her son’s assistant needed a place to tuck away a reporter for a few weeks.I figured that had to be you.”
Of course.Because why wouldn’t the universe plant me directly under the Hartley family tree?
I force a professional smile, though it feels brittle.“Small world.”
“Smalltown.”Her laugh is breezy, and I try to find a reason to dislike the sound and fail.“One grocery store, five stoplights, and more gossip than we know what to do with.”
“I can imagine.”
“Room four.”She hands me a brass key attached to a wooden tag worn smooth from use.“Up the stairs, second door on the left.The bathroom is small, but you’ve got it all to yourself.I’m putting out dinner around seven—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, nothing fancy.Unless inspiration hits, then you might get a salad, too.”
“That sounds lovely, but I’m good.”I point to the bag of food.“Thank you.”
Her smile softens into something motherly.“Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie, but you look like you could use about twelve hours of sleep.”
If she only knew.
The BLT is exactly what I need—salty, crunchy comfort that makes me feel human again.I polish off the last of the fries and the dregs of my coffee, then discard the wrappers and bag.
I head back downstairs, on a mission for something hot to drink, something to settle the restless hum still buzzing under my skin.
Patsy takes my order for a chamomile tea and chats with me as if we’ve been neighbors for decades.She’s more than happy to fill the silence, detailing the town’s Christmas festival plans (as if I’ll be here for that), the century-old history of the inn, and which neighbor’s teenager eloped last month.
She mentions Meredith Hartley twice, fondly, but she never once says Maddox’s name.It’s a tiny mercy, one I didn’t realize I needed until the tension in my neck finally ebbs.
When I head outside, the steam from my tea ghosts into the cold air, a pale shroud against the November night, and the veranda greets me with a sharp, pine-scented chill and the faint perfume of woodsmoke.Down the street, a few porch lights glow like anchored fireflies, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once before settling into the silence.
My boots thud softly against the hollow boards as I reach the railing and lean into the quiet, closing my eyes.For a second—just one—it feels like I can breathe.
Then my mind, the traitorous thing, slides right back to Maddox Hartley.I keep replaying his expression when I confronted him—the way his irritation flashed surprise, then sharpened into something darker.I was annoyed, sure, but I was also...aware.Far too aware of the space he occupied.
I blow across the rim of my mug, the heat stinging my lips.This assignment is supposed to be easy-peasy.A routine fluff-piece, a detour before I head back to the real world—back to Los Angeles to finish the Vitale investigation.
That’s the goal.Smooth sailing, a bunch of interviews, a few sound bites, some videos, grip and grin photos, and a plane ticket out of this postcard town.
But this assignment already sits like a stone in my throat.I have to get through this without losing my temper, my patience, or my common sense.Preferably in that order.
Maddox radiates arrogance like a biological function—steady, effortless, impossible to ignore.It tracks for men who rule their sport.They wear confidence like a second skin, and yet tonight, something else lived under that swagger.Something quieter.
I think of the way his friends flanked him with a loyalty you can’t fake.The way the waitress, Percy, lit up like she’d worshipped him since she was in diapers.The entire diner reacted to his outburst with curiosity, not fear.He wasn’t a spectacle to them.He wastheirs.
He belongs here.
For reasons I don’t want to poke at, my realization tempers the sharp edge of my anger.It also picks at a dark, lonely place inside me—a place that doesn’t know what that feels like.An effortless sense of belonging, that simply...is.