Page 106 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

Not anymore.

I had to do something. It was time for me to act, to make this choice once and for all.

I wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing.

One second, I was standing in the bookstore, drowning in doubt. The next, I was marching across town, my boots scuffing against the sidewalk as I made my way to Beatrice Callahan’s house.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was pointless. But I needed answers.

And for some reason, I had a feeling she’d give them to me now.

The last time I’d talked to Beatrice, she’d made it clear she had no interest in helping a woman who was just passing through.

And back then, she’d been right. I hadn't cared about Medford, not really.

I’d seen the bookstore as an obligation, a burden.

But things were different now. I wasn’t just here to tie up loose ends. I wasn’t just here for myself anymore.

Beatrice’s house was exactly what I expected—a tidy little blue Craftsman with perfectly trimmed hedges, like she’d personally inspected every single leaf before allowing it to stay.

I hesitated only a second before knocking.

Footsteps.

Then the door opened, and there she was.

Beatrice Callahan, still as poised as ever, though this time, her expression wasn’t quite as sharp.

“Miss Bennett.” She eyed me like I was a surprise package on her doorstep. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I swallowed my pride. “I need your help.”

Her brows lifted just slightly, like she hadn't expected that. “Do you?”

I nodded. “I know I didn’t make the best first impression.”

“That's an understatement.”

Fair enough.

I exhaled. “Look, I came into this town thinking I’d be in and out. That this store was just something to deal with. But I was wrong.”

My throat felt tight, but I pushed through it.

“My uncle left me more than just a failing business. He left me a piece of himself. A piece of this town. And I’m not ready to let Lawson take it.”

Beatrice didn’t say anything right away. She just studied me, like she was peeling back my words, searching for the truth underneath.

And then, something shifted. She stepped back, holding the door open.

“Well,” she said, “you’d better come inside.”

I let out a slow breath and walked in.

Her house was as put together as she was. Bookshelves lined the walls, everything in perfect order.

A pot of tea sat on a tray in the living room, two cups beside it.

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