The Inheritance Clause

He came back four days later — the bell jangling just minutes after opening. 

I looked up from the register, expecting a curious tourist or a romance-loving woman hunting for her next book boyfriend. Instead, it was the man with the dinosaur backpack. The "too-good-looking to be real" guy.

He hesitated in the doorway. Same dark jacket with scrubs underneath. Same tired eyes. Same disheveled hair. Either he never made it home or he's on his way to a hospital somewhere.

“Back already? Where's your dinosaur backpack?” I asked.

Ignoring my question, he glanced around She-Side Books like he was confirming he was inside a real bookstore.

“I was hoping you’d be here.”

“Lucky me.”

His jaw tightened. “I have a question.”

I gestured toward the counter."This is a romance bookstore — if it's about love, you've come to the right place."

He didn’t smile.

“Do you know anything about the clause?” he asked.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The clause,” he repeated. “In your aunt’s will.”

The air shifted.

“What clause? And how do you know my aunt? And why do you care about her will?”

He studied my face like he was trying to catch me lying. “The one that says I’m legally tied to this place for ninety days.”

My stomach dropped.

“You mean 'I'm' like referring to you? And you still haven't told me how you know my aunt."

He exhaled slowly. “So you really didn’t know.”

“Know what?” I snapped. I was getting irritated, no matter how ridiculously handsome he was.

“Do I look like someone who orchestrates legal traps?” I demanded. “Because if I had that skill set, I wouldn’t be standing behind a cash register in Laguna Beach."

"And I have no idea what you think I was supposed to know." I continued.

His eyes flicked to the romance shelves. “You run a romance bookstore.”

“I just inherited it a few days ago.”

“And you believe in this stuff?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at a shirtless man in a kilt. “Fate. Pairings. Grand gestures?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

I felt something inside me go cold and sharp.

“Are you suggesting,” I said carefully, “that I convinced my aunt to legally bind me to you because I wanted to—what—bag a rich doctor?”

He didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because if I didn’t, I might throw a paperback at his head.

“First, don't flatter yourself. Secondly, for your information,” I said, leaning across the counter, “I was in a long-term relationship until recently. And even if I weren’t, I don’t recruit men through probate.”

He flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“You absolutely did.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and unpleasant.

“I didn’t ask for this either,” he said finally.

"Well, I don't even know what 'this' is that you are referring to."

“To answer your question, I got to know June after my wife died. Sarah used to buy books here. One day, June left a message saying the books Sarah had ordered had come in.”

He paused. “I came in to tell her Sarah wouldn’t be picking them up.”

The words settled heavily between us.

“Once June knew I was raising my daughter alone, she decided to take me under her wing. She was… persistent.”

“That was her love language,” I said.

His mouth twitched. “Lately, she’d decided my daughter needed a female presence in her life. She started trying to fix me up with customers she thought might be ‘good for me.’”’

I opened my mouth to ask how that had gone—but the bell jingled, and a couple wandered in, breaking the moment.

Peter waited until they drifted toward the back shelves.

“I got a call this morning,” he said. “From her attorney. He asked me to come in. I assumed you’d already been there.”

I shook my head. “I admit I skimmed the will when I read it. Rookie mistake, I guess.”

"Okay. Again. Not my doing. And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop acting like I was in cahoots with my aunt. Trust me — if I were going to scheme my way into a relationship, I'd pick a method that didn't involve a dead relative and a legal clause."

He was already pulling out his phone. "I'll call the attorney. Can you be there at two?"

I could.

***

The attorney’s office smelled like lemon cleaner and consequences.

Peter and I sat across from each other at a long table, united only by mutual irritation and a woman who never met a situation she couldn’t quietly rearrange.

The attorney slid the papers toward me. “If you’ll review the highlighted section.”

I did.

And this time, I didn’t skim.

Inside were copies of the will. June’s tidy handwriting. Her signature—bold and unapologetic even in death.

And the clause.

The clause I’d ignored the first time because grief makes you stupid and paperwork makes you reckless.

The inheritance of She-Side Books is contingent upon shared stewardship between my niece and Peter Hale for a minimum of ninety days.

Shared.

Stewardship.

Ninety days.

I looked up slowly. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I said that too,” Peter replied. “Several times. Loudly.”

“You’re telling me she tied us together.” I waved the papers. “Legally.”

“Yes.”

“On purpose.”

“Yes.”

I laughed. It surprised both of us.

“She was unbelievable,” I said. 

“That’s not the word I’d use,” he muttered.

The attorney folded her hands. “If either party fails to fulfill the stewardship requirement, the bookstore will be placed in trust and sold.”

“Sold,” I repeated faintly.

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course June had done this. Of course she’d looked at my somewhat drifting life and thought, You know what would help? Forced proximity.

Outside the office, Peter stopped.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t think you’re trying to trap me.”

“High praise.”

“And I’m not here to judge your store.”

“You already did.”

He winced. “Fair.”

We stood there, bound by ink and bad decisions.

“Ninety days,” I said.

“Ninety days,” he agreed.

I glanced at his backpack. “How old is your kid?”

His hand stilled on the strap, like I’d crossed a line.

I waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

So this:

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Together?”

“Don’t get sentimental,” I said. “This is a business arrangement.”

“Of course,” he replied.

But something in his expression didn’t quite relax.

What I couldn’t figure out was Peter himself — why he was staying.

He didn’t know me. He didn’t owe me anything. Walking away would cost him nothing — except, apparently, his word to a woman who was no longer alive to collect on it.

That said something about him.

I just wasn’t sure what yet.

Somewhere, I was certain June was very pleased with herself.

.Up next: Turns out the business isn’t the complicated part.