“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”
Her lips part, readying to push, to pry, to pull something real out of me, and I step toward the doorway before she can.“Get some rest, Inkslinger.”
The nickname is deliberate.A distance-maker.A small, necessary barrier dropped between us like a stone wall.
She doesn’t like it.Good.
I pull the door shut behind me, enough to put literal space between us, and move down the hall.At my bedroom door, I stop, grip the knob, and hold on.My heartbeat is too loud.Too fast.
I should’ve stayed downstairs and left the damn pipes alone.I should’ve remembered she’s a reporter—a good one—and carelessness around her comes at a cost I can’t afford.She’s asking questions I’ve spent months outrunning.If I’m not careful, she’ll find the answers.
But that’s not what has my pulse stuttering.
What terrifies me is I know all of that, every word of it, and I still can’t stop wanting her.
Chapter16
Grace
We stride down Division Street, the main artery through town, a comfortable silence settling between us.I met Maddox after school let out for the weekend so he could point out some of the people and places he’s mentioned during interviews.
Like my first week, this one has flown by, even with my new living situation under the Hartleys’ roof.The bathroom close call aside, there hasn’t been time for awkward moments, which is both a relief and a testament to how little breathing room I’ve built into my days.I spend them researching, drafting, shooting when I’m out, interviewing, and in the evenings, I’m holed up in my room, planning for the next day.
I feel more like myself today, finally back in my own clothes.My things arrived from the inn earlier today—suitcase soggy around the edges, a few clothes and toiletries damp, but nothing ruined.
Maddox nudges my elbow and stops.His attention shifts to an older woman standing outside Bloom & Brew.Emmy Thatcher, I’m pretty sure.A stack of soil bags is piled on the sidewalk beside her, and she’s assessing the situation.
I can guess he’s thinking the same thing I am.The woman may be strong, but she’s bird-like in stature, and those bags aren’t moving themselves anytime soon.
He glances at me.“You mind?”
“No.I can help, too.”
He waves me off.“Stay put and work.I’ve got this.”
I glance down at my open notebook, pen poised like the professional I absolutely am.He doesn’t need an audience.
I don’t look up.I last about thirty seconds.
He’s got a bag over each shoulder, moving like the weight is an afterthought.But it’s not the physical ease of it that snags my attention.It’s the way he checks on Emmy before he touches a single bag, making sure she’s all right, listening to where she wants things before assuming he already knows.
Even when he could get away with it, this man doesn’t perform.He isn’t waiting to be noticed.Just Maddox, being exactly who he is when no one’s asking anything of him.
Emmy says something, and he laughs freely.
My pen stops moving.
This is the problem.It’s not that he’s easy to look at—it’s that he’s even easier to admire, and that is so much more dangerous.Because I am Grace Buchanan, and I have never once given Toby reason to question me.Not my instincts, not my integrity, not my professionalism.I’m here on this assignment because of Vitale, and the Vitale story exists because I am careful and I am good and I do not let things bleed where they shouldn’t.
I know what it costs when you do.I’ve watched good reporters lose everything over less—not because the work suffered, but because the appearance of conflict, of something quietly clouding judgment, was enough.
I look back down at my notes, needing to focus.But still, the words blur.
“Hey, Grace.”
I glance up to see Percy crossing the street in black combat boots, dark jeans, and a wool coat, long red hair whipping around in the wind like it has somewhere more important to be.
“Hi, Percy, how are you?”