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“Not a thing,” George said. “And I’d better be off. The shop might be closed, but if I don’t go in and dust once a day it’ll be buried by the time the new owner makes an appearance. And Fabio can’t survive on mice alone.”

Pen put the cups down on the counter. “It’s going to be fine,” she said, patting his arm. “The town needs its bookshop and whoever owns it now will see that. If they don’t, well, we’ll just have to persuade them, won’t we? Mended Hearts isn’t going anywhere, it’s a town institution, think of the fits the summer tourists would have.”

“They come for the beach, not the books,” George said.

“Pessimist.”

“You know that being an optimist can be pathological.”

Pen shook her head and laughed. “Get out of here before I trap you in a tupperware and set you free in the alley, go and get your dusting done. And stop by when you’re finished, you can take some of yesterday’s buns home with you.”

He grinned. “If the new owner turns out to be tall, dark and beautiful, I’ll definitely put in a good word for you,” he said.

“Off, out, I’ve got cakes to sell.”

He was still grinning as he left and turned toward next door. Pen sighed. George worried too much, it was bad for someone only in his twenties to worry that much. The new owner was sure to turn out to be just lovely, George really should have more faith.

Mind you, it wouldn’t hurt if the new owner was attractive. She leaned on the counter and stared dreamily into space.

Someone curvy and comfortable, just like herself, she thought. Someone who could laugh on Monday mornings and who didn’t mind taking out the rubbish because every job should be done with a smile. Someone who was friendly and kind and nice to be around. It really shouldn’t be asking that much.

She was sure that her princess would come one day, absolutely convinced of it. But sooner would be better than later at this point. And she didn’t think she was being too picky.

The bell over the door rang again.

“Post,” said Billy the postman.

“Thanks,” Pen said. “Bun?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Billy swapped a pile of letters for a currant bun and left the shop with a smile on his face.

Pen didn’t even notice that he hadn’t paid as she went through the pile of letters. Mostly junk, she thought, as she ditched flyers into the bin under the counter. Except one. She looked at the envelope, tapping her finger on the top of it, then slid it under the till.

There was no point in opening it if she couldn’t do anything about it. At some point a solution would present itself. Until then, well, she’d take the letter upstairs to her little flat when she was done for the day. That way she could put it on the table by the front door. With all the others.

Chapter Three

Somehow, Ash had expected a solicitor’s office to be… different. Piles of papers and files on filing cabinets, dusty horsehair wigs, that sort of thing. So she was slightly put out to find that the offices of Daniel J. Snythe Esq. were sleek and smooth and had plate glass windows overlooking the river.

“We don’t just hand out inheritances willy-nilly, you know,” Snythe said, lifting a bushy eyebrow at her.

“I’m well aware of that,” said Ash who hadn’t been aware of that at all but thought it was pretty much common sense. After all, you couldn’t just go around handing over… things to people.

“So I will need to see your paperwork. A passport will do, a driving license at a pinch.”

Ash handed over a folder of documents. “Can you tell me what exactly the inheritance is?” she asked, curiosity burning hot in her stomach.

Just this morning she’d finished a set of accounts and she’d almost let herself be distracted by the thought of this afternoon’s meeting. Almost. But Ash didn’t daydream, it was a waste of time and she never, ever wasted time.

“Hold your horses,” Snythe said, surveying the paperwork she’d provided. He grunted and closed the file. “This was a rather… unusual case,” he said, glaring down his nose at Ash.

“Really?” Ash said. She didn’t like people glaring at her down their noses. Well, mostly she just didn’t like people. They wasted her time and had penchants for small talk, which annoyed her. She had things to do, work, concerts, books to read. Things that didn’t require talking about the weather or dogs or whatever it was that people thought was interesting.

“Really.”

“Huh. I’d have thought that it was far more unusual for me than for you,” she offered. “I mean, I don’t inherit things everyday, whereas I assume you deal with inheritances all the time.”

He glared harder and she bit her lip. Better not to irritate him too much, she was after his help. On the other hand, she was starting to feel like he might need to be punched. The Germans had a word for that. Backpfeifengesicht. A face in need of a fist. English could do with an equivalent.