Or maybe it’s not the laughter itself.Maybe it’s everything else.The bathroom the other night.In the moment, I told myself it didn’t mean anything.Chemistry, proximity, a moment.Then what happened in the kitchen proved me a liar.
The kiss.His mouth on mine wasn’t careful—it was brief, yes, but devastatingly sure, claiming me in a way that made my knees weaken and my thoughts scatter.The heat of him seeped into me, quick and drugging, like my body recognized something dangerous and leaned in anyway.
My pulse hasn’t slowed since.I can still feel the phantom press of his hand at my hip, the way he kissed me like stopping himself cost him something.
That should terrify me.Maybe part of meisterrified.
Love always comes with a bill.I learned that early.My parents taught me that marriage was cold and transactional, sharp-edged and hollow—respect optional, affection conditional.Buffy and Palmer are the exception, and I’m genuinely glad for them, but I’ve never believed love was built for someone like me.
Gripping the railing, I head downstairs, and when I step into the kitchen, Meredith glances up from the stove.“There you are, sweetheart.”
Before I can answer, the back door swings open, and cold air sweeps through.A woman steps inside—dark hair in a loose braid, cheeks flushed from the wind, and Maddox’s eyes.That same stormy gray, sharp but warm.The resemblance hits before anything else.
Her gaze finds me instantly.“You must be Grace.I’m Katie Rae, but everyone calls me Katie.”No hesitation, just a warm smile that softens her whole face.She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and frost.“We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Hopefully nothing terrifying.”
“Only that you single-handedly saved the inn from burning down.”Her wink is pure tease.
Behind her, a tall, broad-shouldered man steps in with an easy grin and a six-pack in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.“Grace Buchanan in the flesh.Maddox didn’t undersell you.”
My pulse stumbles.“All lies, I’m sure.”
Katie elbows him.“Behave.This is my husband, Raf.”
Blane materializes behind me, camera already out, lens cap dangling.“Blane Ross.Photos, video, occasional chaos.”
Raf snorts.“Chaos is Katie’s job.”
She lifts her chin, unapologetic.“Someone has to keep this household interesting.”
Introductions blur into laughter and shuffling coats, Katie already stealing a spoon to taste whatever’s simmering on the stove.Then Patsy barges in—cheeks pink, curls frizzed, carrying a pie dish like it’s her pride and joy.
“Meri, darling, I brought dessert.”She beams at the room, breathless.“And don’t you dare argue.I know you said no one needed to bring anything, but this crowd”—she waves a hand at all of us—“doesn’t understand moderation.”
Meredith squeezes her arm.“Wouldn’t dream of arguing.”
Patsy’s attention swings to me.“Grace, honey.You got your things okay?”
I nod, smiling at how this woman beams even with everything she’s juggling.“Hon, you’re practically glowing.Is it the Montana air?”
“Might be the near-death experience.”The corner of my mouth lifts.
She cackles.“Nothing says welcome to Winslow Grove like almost burning down the most historic inn.”
Blane zooms in with his camera.“Or a certain race car driver.”
I tense—the reaction is visceral and immediate—and I want to throttle him.I’ve told him twice now.Clearly, words aren’t working.I need to find another way to shut this down before it becomes everyone’s problem, not just mine.
Patsy swats him away.“Put that thing down and grab plates.”
Maddox is in the corner, sleeves rolled up, helping Meri twist open a stubborn jar.His biceps flex with the effort, and a sound escapes Patsy that’s half gasp, half laugh.“Honey, if the coaching thing ever falls apart, you could always jar tomatoes for a living.”
He shoots her a look, and she fans herself, making everyone laugh.And there it is again—that small, disloyal sting of longing.For the man.For all of it.
I’ve never been part of something like this.My childhood home was chandeliers and private chefs and carefully staged photo ops.My mother treated dinner like a performance.My father treated it like an inconvenience.Cary, Buffy, and I clung together in the cracks between the two of them—a world within a world, small but solid.Until we weren’t.
I swallow hard and take a seat at the table.