Mr. Whitfield read the clause twice, like he thought Elena might have misheard it the first time.

She hadn't.

"'The Lantern Bookshop, along with the building and all its contents, passes to my granddaughter, Elena Brooks, on one condition,'" he read. "'She must present a fiancé to my lawyer within ten days of this reading. If she does not, the shop passes to my grandson, Victor Brooks.'"

The office went quiet. Somewhere behind the wall, a printer hummed.

"A fiancé," Elena said.

"That is what it says."

"He knew I wasn't seeing anyone. He asked me every Sunday for two years whether I was seeing anyone." Her voice cracked, and she hated it. "Why would he do that?"

Mr. Whitfield took off his glasses. "Your grandfather didn't explain his reasons, Ms. Brooks. He only asked that the terms be followed exactly."

Across the desk, Victor crossed one ankle over his knee. His suit looked expensive on purpose. He hadn't even pretended to be sad since the funeral.

"Ten days," he said, almost kindly. "That's tight. Good luck, cousin."

"You knew."

"I know a lot of things." He smiled. "For example, I know a developer who'd pay very well for that corner lot. He's already drawn up the papers. He's just waiting on a signature. Mine or yours, it's all the same to him."

Her nails dug into her palms. Ten years she had spent behind that counter, after school, after work, on weekends. She knew which floorboard creaked and which shelf leaned. Her grandfather had taught her to read there, on a stool that still sat beside the register. The shop wasn't a building. It was the only place that had ever felt like hers.

She stood up before she could say something she couldn't take back. "I'll be back in ten days."

"With a ring?" Victor asked.

She didn't answer.

It rained the whole way to the bus stop, the fine, sneaky kind that soaks you before you notice. Elena sat down on the wet bench anyway. She didn't have the energy to care.

She started a list in her head. Coworkers were out. Her friends were either married or so single they'd laugh her out of the room. Her last boyfriend had walked out two years ago and taken her good umbrella with him, which she still hadn't forgiven.

Nine days and twenty-three hours, if she counted right. And no one.

"You're allowed to cry, you know," a voice said. "The bus takes forever."

She turned. A man sat at the other end of the bench, hood up, a paper cup in his hand. Late twenties, maybe thirty. Gray hoodie, plain jeans, worn sneakers. Nothing about him stood out except his eyes, which were sharp and steady, like he was actually listening.

"I'm not crying," Elena said.

"Okay."

"It's the rain."

"Sure."

He said it so lightly that she almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she heard herself say, "Do you want a job?"

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"It's ten days. It pays three thousand dollars." She was talking fast now, the way you do when you've already jumped off something. "You'd have to pretend to be my fiancé. Meet a lawyer. Maybe have dinner with some relatives. That's it. And no, not that. I mean, nothing like that. Just pretending."

She waited for him to get up and walk away. Honestly, she would have.

He looked at her for a long moment. Not at her wet hair or her ruined shoes. At her.

"Why?"

"Because my grandfather died and left me a bookshop with a very stupid condition attached." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "If I don't show up with a fiancé in ten days, my cousin gets it. He'll sell it to a developer, and it'll be a parking lot by spring."

"And you can't just find a real one."

"In ten days?" She laughed, and it came out wet. "I can't find a real umbrella."

Something moved in his face. Not quite a smile. "What's your name?"

"Elena. Elena Brooks."

"Jay."

"Jay what?"

"Just Jay." He said it easily, no hesitation, no apology. "Is that a problem?"

It should have been. Any sensible person would have said yes. But he was looking at her the way you look at someone who's dropped something and needs help picking it up, and she was so tired.

"No," she said. "It's not a problem."

"Then I'll do it."

She stared at him. "You haven't asked what you're getting into. Or what happens if we get caught."

"Should I?"

"Most people would ask about the money."

"Most people aren't offering me a dry ride out of the rain." He tipped his cup toward her. "I said I'll do it."

Relief hit her so hard her eyes stung again. They swapped numbers, and she tried not to look like a woman who had just hired a stranger off a bus stop. Which she had.

"One more thing," she said. "I work at Halden Group, downtown. If anyone from the office sees us, I'd rather they didn't—"

She stopped. He had gone completely still, the cup halfway to his mouth.

It lasted maybe a second. Then he lowered it and smiled, easy again. "Then I'll try not to embarrass you at Halden Group."

"Do you know it?"

"Everyone knows it."

The 42 pulled up in a spray of gray water. Elena stood, then turned back. "Nine tomorrow. I'll text you the address."

"I'll be there."

She climbed on and found a seat by the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, she watched him stay on the bench. He took out his phone, read something, and his whole face changed. The easy stranger was gone. The man who replaced him looked like he was used to people jumping when he spoke.

He lifted the phone to his ear. His lips moved, just a few words.

The bus lurched forward before she could read them.

Elena sat back, heart pounding, and only then realized what had been bothering her. He had never asked what the shop was worth. He had never asked why she trusted him with any of it.

And he'd agreed to pretend to be engaged to a stranger as though the three thousand dollars didn't matter to him at all.

So who exactly had she just hired?