I turned thirty on a Tuesday, which felt rude.

I’d always fantasized I'd turn 30 somewhere glamorous—like Paris with champagne and a rich, handsome celebrity husband who adored me.

I'd start my thirties off with a glowing sense of purpose, or at minimum, an interesting crisis.

Instead, I got an email with the subject line “Following up…” and the kind of humiliation that sticks with you.

The message was from a woman named Tessa, who, according to her signature, identified as “Head of People + Culture.” Which, great. Congratulations on being in charge of vibes.

Hi, it began. I just wanted to check in regarding last night. I’m sure emotions were running high, but we do have a workplace policy about…

I didn’t read the rest. I wasn't in the mood to read that I was being fired.

Because I remembered last night perfectly.

I remembered the crowded restaurant. The birthday candles. The way my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—Logan had smiled at me like I was an inconvenient expense he’d been forced to approve. I remembered him leaning in and saying, in a tone meant to sound “kind,” that he’d been thinking about our future.

Which is the sentence people use when they plan to remove you from it. But who breaks up with someone on their 30th birthday? 

Apparently, he does. He whispered in my ear that he was sorry, but he couldn’t keep pretending this was working. That he needed a woman who “fit his trajectory.” That he needed someone… more aligned.

I’d stared at him, surrounded by his coworkers and their matching teeth, and I’d felt something inside me click into place like a lock. Aligned. Aligned to what? His giant ego?

Then I’d smiled—beautifully, calmly—and in a polite voice, albeit loud enough for all to hear - asked him if his trajectory included dating the woman he’d been texting at 1:12 a.m. from the bathroom.

The silence had been absolute.

Logan had gone pale. The woman next to him had choked on her drink. Someone’s fork had clinked against a plate like a gunshot.

I’d kept smiling. “Just curious,” I’d said. “Because she uses a lot of heart emojis for someone who’s ‘just a colleague.’”

That’s when he called me dramatic.

Which is what men say when you ruin their plans with facts.

Dramatic? I'll give you dramatic, I thought as I tossed my drink all over his expensive cashmere sweater.

I left. I went home. I took off my makeup. I stared at myself in the mirror and realized I didn’t even recognize the woman looking back.

I also realized that my life, as currently constructed, was a joke I didn’t find funny. 

So when the letter arrived a few days later, I took it as a sign from the universe.

Either way, the envelope was not to be ignored.

It was thick. Official. It smelled faintly like lavender and old paper.

Inside was a notice from a law office in Pasadena informing me that my aunt, my father’s older sister, had died.

My Aunt June.

The one who sent weird birthday cards stuffed with pressed flowers and a five-dollar bill.

She was a woman with strong opinions and impeccable timing—always ready to save me whenever I seemed to need saving.

And ever since my parents died in a car crash when I was eighteen, she’d been trying to influence my life decisions.

So, true to form, she decided my life needed one more nudge and left me something.

Not money.
Not jewelry.
Not pressed flowers.

A bookstore.

Presumably with books.

I stared at the words until they stopped looking like gibberish. Then I read them again, because surely I’d hallucinated the part where I now owned a business. In Laguna Beach.

I lived an hour and a half south in San Diego, where everything cost more than my dignity, and my landlord was named “Craig” and texted me things like “Heyyyy.” 

I called the attorney. A woman with a voice like iced coffee answered and confirmed it was real.

“It’s called She-Side,” she said. “It’s been in your aunt’s possession for twenty-two years. You’re the sole beneficiary.”

“Why me?” I asked because I couldn’t picture Aunt June thinking I was competent enough to keep a cactus alive.

There was a pause. “She included a note,” the attorney said. “Would you like me to read it?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

She cleared her throat.

My dear girl, she read. You’ve been trying to become someone you think you’re supposed to be. I’m leaving you a place where you can be who you actually are. Also: do not let men in suits talk you out of your instincts. They’ll try. Tell them June says to kiss your ass.

I blinked hard. “Did she really write ‘kiss your ass’?”

“She did,” the attorney confirmed, as if this was the least surprising detail.

I hung up and looked around my apartment. What was actually keeping me here now that Logan was just an unpleasant memory? It wasn’t my job. And it definitely wasn’t the glorified closet I called an apartment—one I could barely afford.

So I did something wildly out of character.

I started packing.

Two days later, I stood in front of a narrow storefront with an old-fashioned sign that read:

SHE-SIDE
New & Used

The windows were full of carefully arranged displays—handwritten cards, flowers pressed between pages, a gold-framed quote that said “Just One More Chapter.” 

I unlocked the door with the key the attorney had given me.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of paper, a hint of faded vanilla, and whatever perfume my aunt had worn. The place was smaller than I expected but charming in a way that felt deliberate—warm wood shelves, a checkered rug, a velvet armchair in the brick-lined corner that screamed reading nook. A couple of earthy throw blankets to cuddle up with.

I walked behind the counter and found a notebook.

It was labeled "June’s Rules."

Rule one: Never apologize for liking what you like.
Rule two: If a man calls you “too much,” tell him to go find less.
Rule three: Keep the good chocolate behind the counter.

I flipped the pages and stopped.

Because the rest of the notebook wasn’t rules.

It was inventory.

And every single title listed was… romance.

I looked up, suddenly aware of the covers facing out on the shelves.

A shirtless man with a kilt. A woman in a corset staring dramatically into the distance. A cowboy on a horse holding a baby. A nurse clinging to a doctor who looked like he’d never once lost a fight in his life.

My aunt hadn’t left me a bookstore.

She’d left me a romance bookstore.

I made a noise that sounded like a laugh and a small scream at the same time. All Romance? Really? The irony of it all.

“Okay,” I said to the empty shop. “Okay. Sure. Fine.” 

I spent the morning dusting shelves and trying not to imagine what Logan the Loser would say if he knew I’d inherited a “smut store". Probably wouldn't fit his "trajectory" since it wasn't a socially acceptable shrine to the literary greats. 

I found a stash of bookmarks with the store logo. I found tea in a tin labeled Plot Tea. I found a jar of peppermints labeled Fresh Starts.

I found, behind the counter, a framed photo of my aunt smiling beside the sign. She looked mischievous. Like she’d known I’d show up exactly like this—panicked, heartbroken, and teetering on the edge of a life change.

“Fine,” I told her photo. “I’m here. At your mercy.”

The bell above the door jingled right then—hopefully my very first customer.

I looked up, ready to give my best independent-business-owner smile, and stopped mid-breath.

A man stood in the doorway, looking like what romance novels are built around.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing scrubs under a dark jacket, as if he’d come straight from a hospital. His hair was a mess in a way that suggested he had not slept in days. His face was the kind of handsome that made you annoyed at the concept of genetics. My breath caught, and my legs were suddenly shaky. Best to stay seated.

He took one step inside, the bell jingled again, and he glanced around at the shelves of romance novels like he’d accidentally wandered into an adult store.

His ears turned faintly pink.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. “Sorry—um. Is this still a bookstore?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “It is.”

His gaze landed on a cover with a shirtless pirate. He swallowed.

“Okay,” he said, like he was bracing himself. “Great. I’m looking for… a book.”

I waited.

I noticed he was carrying a dinosaur backpack. Odd, I thought. Not what I’d expect someone like him to be carrying. But hey. Whatever.

“I’m Peter Hale.”

I was impressed he didn’t feel the need to add Doctor. Maybe he assumed I was bright enough to figure it out based on the scrubs.

“Hi, Peter Hale,” I said. “I’m… the person who works here.”

His eyes flicked to the counter, then to me, then back again.

“Owner?” he asked.

“New owner,” I admitted.

His mouth twitched. “Congratulations. I heard the store was reopening and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

That struck me as strange. Why would a man like him care?

“Thanks,” I said, then lowered my voice. “Just so you know, this is a romance bookstore.”

He paused.

Then he nodded once, like a man accepting his fate. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You’re handling this better than most men,” I told him.

“I’ve been peed on twice today,” he said. “Nothing phases me anymore.”

I surprised myself by laughing. A real laugh. The kind I hadn’t managed since—well, since before my birthday dinner imploded. Who gets peed on?

His shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Well, don’t worry,” I said. “No one here is going to judge you.”

He ventured further into the store, gaze flicking over the romance covers, and I caught him pausing at one titled The Nanny’s Secret.

My brain offered an image: this man as the hero of a romance novel. Protective. Competent. A little haunted.

Stop it, I told myself. He was probably here to buy a book for his wife.

Without saying anything more, Peter continued to walk through the store, his gaze moving shelf to shelf with a focus that felt… deliberate.

Like he wasn’t browsing.

Like he was checking something.

What the heck was that about?

I heard the bell jingle as he left, and couldn't help but notice the shop felt different after he was gone, like the air had shifted.

I looked at my aunt’s photo behind the counter.

“Okay,” I told her quietly. “I see what you’re doing.”

Because somehow, on the week I turned thirty and my life fell apart, I’d inherited a romance bookstore.

Which either meant the universe had a sense of humor…

Or my aunt was still meddling from the afterlife.

Either way?

I'm not complaining.

Up next:   By morning, the bookstore was no longer the problem. The paperwork was.