Page 3 of One Steamy Pucking Meet Cute

So I wake up early every morning, just like she did. I start the day with homemade breakfast for my guests, schedule fun games and events for the bed and breakfast and the town, and make sure I’m always doing it all with a smile. I do it all because that’s what my mom did and what she would still be doing here if life was fair and hadn’t taken her away from us before it was her time.

“You don’t need to worry, Mom. I’ve got this. And now I’ve got Walker, just like you had me.” I look sadly toward his crib, feeling the fresh sting of wishing my mom could meet him so much it physically hurts. But I know I will love him enough to cover for both of us, and I will make every moment count because I know sometimes parents don’t get to choose how much time they have with their kids.

I kiss my fingertips, press them to the picture, smile softly, and then head back to the lobby. Maybe my life isn’t perfect. And maybe one particular mistake in recent memory looms above everything else. But I’m doing my best, and that’s what I’ll keep doing as long as I’m breathing. If nothing else, I can be proud as hell of that.

My smile fades when I see a man in a suit waiting by the front door.

I don’t have any check-ins left for today, but it’s not completely unheard of for someone to walk in and ask for a room. I put my fist on my hip. “Hey there. You’re in luck. We’ve got one vacant room, assuming you’re okay with mountain views and the most powerfully flushing toilet in the whole building.”

“Bullshit,” Edgar coughs. “I clogged that toilet last week. It was barely even a turd, too. I’d suggest you get yourself a good poop knife if you plan to use that john.”

I know I shouldn’t engage, but I turn toward Edgar. “What the hell is a ‘poop knife’?”

Edgar shrugs. “It’s what it sounds like. Look it up if you want. I ain’t gonna explain the birds and the bees or poop knives to you. I ain’t your daddy.”

I give him a hard glare, then smile back at the man in the suit. “Sorry about him. The toilet is fine. I promise.”

“I’m actually here to talk with Caroline Prince.” The man is a little taller than me, but so is just about everybody on the planet. His dark hair is slicked back with too much product, and he has a somewhat weak chin. There’s a badger-like quality to his eyes, which I have to admit I don’t like.

And then it hits me.

I know him. At least I did.

I lift a finger; eyebrows furrowed in remembrance. “Peter Ralmadue, right? We had an English class together, I think.” I’m smiling now, even though there’s an uneasiness about him I can’t quite shake.

His smile is one-sided and a little bit slimy. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“You wanted to talk? What’s up?”

“You may want to sit down for this.”

I arch an eyebrow but lead him to my mini office in the kitchen. I give Cade the money when we enter. He thanks me, gives Peter a suspicious look, and then leaves the two of us alone.

Peter follows me and sets down a thick folder on the table between us, waiting for me to sit and settle before he continues.

I sit at my little kitchen desk, where I sometimes check in guests, and motion for Peter to sit across from me.

“What’s this about?” I ask once he’s seated.

Peter opens his folder, pulls out a very old-looking document, and turns it toward me so I can see. It looks like some kind of deed of sale from the Middle Ages. “Recognize this?” he asks.

“Should I?” I’m halfway scanning the document and not understanding why Peter would have a deed with the bed and breakfast’s address on it. I recognize my great-great grandmother’s signature on it, though. There’s another signature with the last name “Ralmadue.”

Peter is grinning, and it’s not a friendly grin. “I can let you read if you’d like, or I can cut to the chase.”

My smile is tight. I’m already pretty certain I don’t like this man or where this is going. “Why don’t you summarize for me? Then I’ll read,” I say in an overly sweet voice.

“You turn thirty-five in six months. Section B, article 12 here,” Peter says, pointing. “Clearly states that I’m obligated to inform you six months before the execution of this document. Today is six months, and this is your notice.”

“Inform me of what?” I ask through my teeth.

“In short, you have six months to get married, or you violate our dearly deceased ancestor’s contract regarding this building. If you’re not married in six months, the property reverts back to my family’s possession, and I’ll be within my rights to sell it, demolish it, or whatever else I may please.”

I take a few seconds to compose myself, blink, and then plaster a bewildered smile on my face. “I’m sorry. What? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’d be happy to fill you in on the history. If you’d like.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s do that.” Mostly, I’m just stalling because my head is spinning.

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