Page 4 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

This place was going to take work. A lot of work.

And even then, I didn’t know if it would be enough to make it worth selling.

I rubbed my temples. This wasn’t supposed to be my problem.

Running my fingers along the edge of the counter, I felt the rough wood beneath my touch. A small notebook sat open beside the register, its pages filled with tight, slanted handwriting.

My uncle’s?

I hesitated before flipping through it. Inventory lists. Notes. A reminder to fix the back door.

As I turned another page, something slipped free and fluttered onto the counter. A sheet of yellowed paper, edges slightly crumpled, like it had been handled more than once.

I frowned and picked it up. The handwriting was uneven, the letters wobbly, like they had been written by a much younger hand.

A strange familiarity tugged at me, and when I saw the title scrawled across the top, my breath caught.

The Adventures of Rosie and the Bookshop Dragon.

My fingers tightened around the paper. I knew this story.

Because I had written it.

I stared at the words, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.

I must have been nine, maybe ten, the last summer I spent in Medford. I remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor of this very bookstore, a composition notebook in my lap, dreaming up a story about a brave girl named Rosie who found a dragon hidden in her uncle’s basement.

I had thought no one had noticed. No one had cared.

But somehow… my uncle had kept this.

A lump rose in my throat as my eyes scanned the familiar, messy scrawl. I remembered how proud I had been of that story, how I had let myself dream—just for a little while—of being a writer.

Before reality set in. Before I convinced myself that dreams like that were foolish.

And yet, all these years later, it was still here.

I exhaled slowly and pressed the page against my chest. Maybe my uncle and I hadn't been as distant as I had thought.

Maybe he had been paying attention, even when I hadn't realized it.

I folded the paper carefully, tucking it back into the book before I could overthink it. My head was a mess of emotions I didn’t have the energy to sort through right now.

The bookstore was still quiet around me, heavy with dust and the weight of time. A part of me wanted to stay, to keep looking, to see what else my uncle had left behind.

But exhaustion was creeping in, and after the absolute disaster of my arrival, I needed a break.

I grabbed my bag, hauled my suitcase along, and locked up before heading for my car… only to be reminded, once again, that it wasn’t there, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

I sighed. Right.

The Medford Inn was only a few blocks away, so I walked. The winter air was crisp, biting at my cheeks as I made my way down Maple Avenue.

Medford was exactly the kind of town that belonged on the front of a postcard—quaint, charming, the kind of place where people still waved at strangers. More than a few glanced my way as I passed, curiosity flickering in their expressions.

I kept my head down and walked on.

By the time I reached the inn, my fingers were numb, and my patience was thinner than I would have liked.

---