“Oh no, not on your phone.” Mona laughs and shakes her head like I’m being silly. “I said your calendar. The one on your desk.”

I barely manage to fight back my groan.

This is just one of the problems that come with inheriting a business from your grandma. Mona and Ethel helped me get organized when I officially took over about nine months ago. And by that, I mean they nagged me about how I did everything and tried to force a day planner on me. For some ridiculous reason, I assumed that once the adjustment phase was over, they would step away completely. I should’ve known better.

“Mona, you know that was Gran’s planner, not mine.” And I avoid it like the freaking plague. I made the mistake of opening it once, and seeing her heavily slanted penmanship covering the pages with plans she would no longer be here for broke me.

“Well, she left you the store and that includes everything in it. Besides”—Mona lifts her chin in the air, looking down her nose at me—“if I don’t put it in there, how am I supposed to schedule things for the Book Nook?”

“Ummm . . . I’m not sure?” Sarcasm is heavy in my voice. “Maybe don’t? Or ask me?”

“Nonsense. It’s going to be amazing. You’ll thank us.” She waves me off like I’m the little girl I was when she met me and not a grown woman trying—and fine, whatever, maybe failing—to run a business. “Now, where should we start? I think that little bit by the lake in chapter two was interesting.”

On that note . . .

I stand up, ignoring the way my chair groans beneath my weight, and make my way to my office in the back to cancel the booty call—I mean the date—I had scheduled for Saturday and add Jasper Williams to my calendar.

A Saturday night spent listening to some old guy mansplain what women want?

Can’t freaking wait.

CHAPTER 2

In movies, when a person gets home after work, we watch them visibly deflate right in front of us. All the stress from the outside world melts away. They rip off their bra and crack open a bottle of wine. The luckiest of them all lounge on a gigantic couch with too many throw pillows as they snuggle up with an extra-fluffy puppy thrilled to finally be back with their human.

That’s not me.

I toss my purse onto my entryway table in my too-quiet apartment. The distressed turquoise piece needs to be refinished, but all the equipment I needed was at Gran’s house, and Dad sold the house . . . and everything inside it . . . months ago. I look around for a moment and consider putting my purse back on and getting the heck out of Dodge.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to make my home my sanctuary.

Quite the opposite, actually.