The bell over the door rang while I was counting receipts—and I knew, without looking, that it was Peter.
Not because he had a distinctive step.
Because my body reacted before my brain did.
Shoulders straightened. Pulse shifted. Focus sharpened like he’d flipped a switch I didn’t remember installing.
“This isn't your day,” I said.
“I wanted to check something,” he replied.
He always did.
I didn’t look up right away. I made a point of finishing my count, tapping the receipts into a tidy stack—like order was something I could control on principle.
Behind me, the store breathed. The late-afternoon lull had started—those minutes after the lunch crowd and before the dinner wanderers.
Outside, the sun did that Laguna thing where everything looked expensive and effortless.
Inside, the air smelled like paper, vanilla, and birthday cake — courtesy of a wax warmer Bea from next door had shown up with one afternoon after overhearing Lucy declare that Kids' Corner needed to smell "more like a party".
The store wasn’t just thriving.
It was holding steady. Better than steady.
And the numbers confirmed we were sustainable. Not a fluke. Not seasonal.
Peter stepped fully inside now, pausing the way he always did—one foot over the threshold, eyes scanning the room, cataloging changes like his mind couldn’t settle until the environment had been assessed.
His gaze landed on the front display table.
GRUMPY MEN WHO LEARN FEELINGS.
I watched him read it.
His mouth tightened — absolutely not a smile.
"Are you intentionally trying to provoke me?" he said.
I opened my mouth to say no.
Then reconsidered.
"It's a curated experience," I replied. "Very now."
He exhaled and set his binder on the counter. Same binder. Same color-coded tabs. The quiet menace of a man who believed paper could prevent catastrophe.
“Did you misplace a spreadsheet?” I asked drily.
Peter didn’t take the bait. His eyes flicked past me instead—toward Kids’ Corner, where Lucy’s crooked sign still hung by one heroic strip of tape, and a scattering of picture books sat in a donated basket that looked suspiciously like it had once held wine at someone’s bachelorette party.
Before he could answer, the bell rang again.
A woman walked in with a little boy who looked like he could be trouble.
He made a beeline for the display table.
I came around the counter fast. “Hi! Welcome in.”
The boy pointed his chubby little finger at the sign. “Why are they grumpy?”
“Because they have feelings,” I said solemnly, surprised he knew the word.
The mother gave me a tired smile. “He’s supposed to pick one book for reading time.”
The boy squinted at Peter. “Are you grumpy?”
Peter blinked like he’d been asked to solve a riddle while naked.
“No,” he said.
The boy leaned closer. “But you look grumpy.”
Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. Then, somehow, he managed: “I’m… thinking.”
The boy nodded as if that explained everything. “My dad thinks a lot too. It makes him mad.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The mother murmured, “Sorry. We just need a dinosaur book. If you have anything about dinosaurs…”
Peter’s gaze dropped to the dinosaur backpack hanging off the kid’s shoulder. For a split second, something softened in his expression—so brief it could’ve been my imagination.
“We’re technically a romance bookstore,” I said. “But we do have a small kids’ section. As it happens, we have quite a few — organized by 'ones that bite' and 'ones that don't.'"
I nodded toward Peter. "Actually that's his daughter Lucy's doing. She's six and a visionary."
“That’s… helpful,” the mother said, amused.
While the mother and child wandered toward the back shelves, Peter’s attention returned to me. The momentary softness was gone. He was back in his usual controlled mode, eyes alert like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
“Kids’ Corner is holding up,” he said, almost grudgingly.
“Lucy has a cult following,” I replied. “They like her because she tells them the truth. Which is apparently rare. Hopefully she'll be here on Saturday.”
Peter’s phone buzzed.
He silenced it without looking.
That was not the Peter I knew.
“You’re not leaving?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you… off?”
“No.”
“So you’re just ignoring your phone.”
“It’s not an emergency.”
I blinked. “That sentence feels illegal coming from you.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“I’m not excited,” I said. “I’m irritated. Different emotion.”
His mouth did the almost-smile thing and immediately crushed it.
“Good,” I said, gesturing to the binder. “So what’s the emergency you chose?”
Peter’s fingers rested on the binder cover, but he didn’t open it. He looked past me again—toward the window where Graham’s flyer hung neatly, advertising next week’s meeting.
UNCORKED CHAPTERS — Thursdays — 7 PM
Bring a book. Bring a drink. Bring opinions.
Graham had insisted on the last line. He claimed it made us sound “dangerously social.”
Peter stared at it a beat too long.
Then he said, “We should talk.”
My stomach tightened. Every time he said we should talk, it came with paperwork. An addendum. Some new clause June had managed to slip into our lives from beyond the grave.
I capped my marker. “Okay.”
Before he could continue, the kid returned from the back holding a book with a T-Rex on the cover and a second book that looked… suspiciously like a romance novel with a shirtless man on it.
“Mom,” the boy announced, “this one is about dinosaurs.”
His mother nodded. “Great.”
“And this one,” he said proudly, holding up the romance, “is about feelings.”
His mother froze.
I froze.
Peter went so still I thought he might crack.
The boy read the title slowly. “‘The Rancher’s Secret Baby.’”
The mother made a noise that sounded like a laugh and a prayer. “Okay, sweetheart, we’re going to put the rancher back.”
The kid frowned. “But I like secrets.”
“You can have secrets,” she said, gently taking the book, “just… not that kind.”
I cleared my throat. “We also have dinosaur mysteries,” I offered.
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Mysteries!”
“We love mysteries,” the mother said with relief. She glanced at Peter, then at me, then back. “This place is… honestly adorable.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We aim for ‘wholesome chaos.’”
Peter’s gaze flicked to mine. It was the closest thing to amusement I’d seen from him all week.
The mother checked out, her kid clutching a dinosaur mystery and waving at Peter as if they’d bonded over shared suffering.
“Bye, Grumpy Thinker!”
Peter stared at the door after they left, like he’d been personally insulted by a seven-year-old.
He looked at me. “Now, can we talk?”
“Fine,” I said. “But if this is about adding another tab system to your binder, I’m calling the authorities.”
Peter opened the binder at last—and something slid out.
A notecard.
Thick, cream-colored. Familiar handwriting. One of June’s.
My heart did a weird little stumble.
Peter stared at it like it had escaped evidence lockup.
I reached for it before I could stop myself.
“Is that—”
“Yes,” Peter said, tight. “I found it in the back pocket. It must’ve been in there since… before.”
Before she died. Before the clause. Before everything.
June’s handwriting was bold and unapologetic across the top:
TO: PETER. YES, YOU.
Underneath:
Stop hovering like a guilty angel. Either help my girl fly or get out of the doorway.
P.S. If you break her heart, I will haunt your medical license.
I stared.
Then I laughed—once, sharp and surprised.
Peter didn’t laugh. But his ears turned a faint pink, which was honestly better.
“You’ve been carrying around haunting threats,” I said, waving the notecard. “How does it feel to be June’d from beyond the grave?”
“Unpleasant,” he said flatly.
“Join the club.”
I set the notecard down, but the words clung to the air like perfume.
Help my girl fly or get out of the doorway.
Peter’s gaze drifted back to the flyer. Then to me.
“You’re doing well,” he said.
I blinked. “Is this a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Of course it is.”
He glanced down at the binder, then back up. “You’re meeting projections. Foot traffic is up. Repeat customers are consistent. Uncorked Chapters looks profitable. Margins are stable.”
"So are you still thinking this is luck and vibes," I asked, "or would you say I have a strategy?"
He didn’t laugh. He also didn’t deny it.
“You don’t need me for this anymore,” he said—not as an announcement, but as a statement of fact.
There it was.
Professional. Polite. Distant.
“So what does that mean?” I asked.
He looked at me like the conclusion was obvious.
“I’m going to step back.”
The words were calm. Reasonable. The kind people used when they were being mature.
The kind people used when they were leaving.
“Step back from what?”I asked.
“From it all. From being here when it isn’t required.”
"But we are still tied to each other for ninety days. Legally," I reminded him.
"You're ready," he said. "Two weeks more and you'd be on your own anyway." He paused. “You’ve built momentum. You can run with it.”
Run with it.
Like he’d been holding the back of my bike—and had decided to let go.
Without asking if I was ready.
I let the silence stretch.
“So,” I said carefully, “you’re quitting the bookstore.”
“I’m not quitting,” he corrected immediately. “I’m giving you space.”
“How generous.”
“Katie.”
I hated the way he said my name—like concern wrapped in restraint.
“Why now?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to the notecard again. June’s message sitting there between us like a referee with no whistle.
He hesitated.
“You’re making this personal.”
“It is personal,” I said evenly. “You’re not reorganizing shelves. You’re retreating early. If it’s not personal—what is it?”
“This arrangement—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “I will start throwing paperbacks.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“I’m trying to be responsible,” he said. “You don’t need me hovering.”
“Do you want to hover?”
He held my gaze.
Then looked away.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The truth rose too quickly—hot and reckless.
Not ready to admit the ninety-day commitment had turned into an excuse. Not ready to admit I’d started counting the days differently than he had.
“I want you to stop treating me like a project,” I said.
His expression closed. “I’m not.”
“You are,” I said. “You’re congratulating me like I completed your program. And instead of relaxing, you’re retreating.”
“I’m trying to keep boundaries.”
“You love boundaries,” I replied. “You probably have boundaries for your boundaries.”
“You think this is funny.”
“No,” I said quietly. “I think it’s cowardly.”
That landed.
“You don’t understand what it costs,” he said.
“What costs what? Caring? Staying?”
“If I stay…” He swallowed. “I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust… wanting you.”
The words landed somewhere they couldn't be taken back.
Every almost-moment we’d ignored surfaced at once—his hovering hand. The early arrivals. The unnecessary late nights. The way he’d looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching.
I took a step back.
Not retreating.
Just steadying.
The bell sounded as two sunburned women wandered in, still in flip-flops and smelling of tanning lotion from their day at the beach.
“Hi,” I said smoothly, store-owner voice snapping into place. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
Peter took the interruption like an exit sign.
He hesitated—just long enough to suggest there was more—but he chose restraint.
The door shut behind him.
I stayed smiling while the ladies drifted toward the back shelves, debating which genre made for the best beach reads.
When they moved on, I looked down at the display table again.
GRUMPY MEN WHO LEARN FEELINGS.
Then I looked at June’s notecard.
Help my girl fly or get out of the doorway.
The store didn’t need supervision anymore.
June had never been worried about the business.
She’d been worried about what would happen once there was no contract left to blame.
The bookstore had been the excuse.
The clause had been the leash.
Without them, there was nothing holding us in place but choice.
Peter didn’t lack feelings.
He lacked faith in them.
Up next: Nothing exposes a man's feelings quite like a room full of romance readers who are paying attention.