Page 58 of Stolen Vows

It’s a contract between Francesca and William Ashburn and Catherine Ashburn, dated only three months ago.

I lean in closer, absorbing every word as a cold, heavy dread settles in my stomach. The contract lays out the terms in no uncertain language. If Francesca doesn’t meet an extremely high profit margin by the end of her first year running the bookstore, her parents have the right to take full control of Fiction & Folklore. And given the language, it’s reasonable to assume they’d sell it.

Even if Francesca meets the profit benchmarks, she still won’t technically own the bookstore outright unless she activates the Ashburn clause.

I sit back in my chair, my fingers tapping against the desk as my mind spins out in too many directions.

It’s all there.

I drag a hand over my face, letting out a slow exhale. “Fuck.”

No wonder she was off after a visit from her sister today. I can only imagine what kind of toll that level of strain takes on a person, a relationship.

My jaw tightens. I don’t like this. Not one fucking bit. Fiction & Folklore is her dream, and those assholes are dangling it in front of her like a carrot.

And now, I have a choice to make. Tell her or fix it myself?

I don’t even know how I’d tell her. It’s not like I can stroll into her store next Tuesday and sayHey, I hacked into some confidential legal documents and I might’ve crossed a line, but don’t worry, because I’m going to get you out of it.And by the way, your parents are even bigger assholes than you thought.

Yeah, I don’t see that working in any situation. Regardless of how easy-going she usually is.

I push my chair back, leaning away from the screen like putting physical space will alter anything. I chug the rest of my water bottle, tossing it into the garbage can in the corner.

My body is too tight, my muscles wound like steel cables, tension coiling low in my spine. I need to move. Need to do something physical to work through the swirling thoughts and emotions tangling up inside me. Movement always helps me work through shit when I’m stuck. I can let my mind wander when my hands are busy cleaning the kitchen or working out.

I leave my office, taking the stairs down two flights to the first floor. My footsteps echo in the quiet house as I make my way to the kitchen. It’s late, the inky darkness pressing against the windows. I flick on the light over the island, bathing the room in a warm glow.

The granite countertops gleam, the stainless steel appliances reflecting the light. It's pristine. Too pristine, like no one actually lives here. But it's familiar in a detached sort of way. I grab a rag from under the sink and start wiping down the counters, needing to do something with my hands while my mind works.

Fix it or leave it alone?

My jaw clenches as I scrub at a nonexistent smudge.

If I tell her what I know, she could get embarrassed, angry, hurt. She’d be right to push me away. But I can’t . . . I don’t think I can just leave it alone. Not when there’s a way to help her.

I haven’t found it yet, but it’ll come to me. It always does.

I exhale sharply, tossing the scrubby sponge onto the counter. When I look up, I catch my own reflection in the dark kitchen window.

Tension sits in the cut of my jaw, the tight set of my shoulders. My fists are braced against the counter like I’m trying to hold myself together.

I force myself to straighten, rolling my shoulders back. This isn’t just some puzzle to solve.

It’s Francesca. My ray of sunshine.

And that means Ihaveto get this right.

I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. A distraction. I need another fucking distraction, because cleaning isn’t working.

Movement outside catches my attention, breaking through the storm in my head. A shadow moves past the window, heading toward my front door.

A sharp knock sounds against my door, followed by a lazy, “Yo, you in there?”

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair before pushing off the counter. “It’s open.”

Beau steps inside like he owns the place, the way he always does. He’s got an apple in one hand, his keys in the other, and his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Ooh, you look extra broody tonight.”

I arch a brow. “Did you come all the way over here just to say that?”

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