After moving back to my hometown to embrace the slow life, I opened a small convenience store right across from the elementary school—and one Tuesday afternoon, an eight-year-old walked through my door already thinking about breaking both my legs.
Chapter 1
After moving back to my hometown to embrace the slow life, I opened a small convenience store right across from the elementary school—and one Tuesday afternoon, an eight-year-old walked through my door already thinking about breaking both my legs.
I had no earthly reason to know that. One second, the boy was standing beside the candy rack in a navy school polo, staring at me with suspicious brown eyes. The next, a small, panicked voice spoke inside my head as clearly as if someone had turned on a radio.
*So that’s her. The woman Dad might marry. She’s not even that pretty. The people online said if she becomes my stepmom, she’ll ruin my life. Maybe when I’m bigger I can break her legs. But then I’d be a bad kid. Also, those hot dogs smell amazing.*
I nearly dropped my coffee.
The boy kept staring at the roller grill behind the counter, where four hot dogs turned slowly beneath the heat lamp. His stomach growled loudly enough for both of us to hear.
Then he looked me dead in the eye. “Did you know my dad doesn’t wipe after he goes to the bathroom?”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“My dad is disgusting,” he announced. “He never washes his hands. He barely showers. His breath smells terrible, too. You wouldn’t like him.”
His mouth delivered the accusations with solemn conviction, while the voice in my head shrieked, *Good. Make him sound awful. She can’t marry somebody gross.*
I had moved back to Maple Creek, Ohio, because at forty-two I was tired of corporate deadlines, traffic, and people who said “circle back” without irony. I bought the corner store I’d loved as a child, put an apartment above it, and imagined peaceful afternoons reading novels behind the register.
Instead, apparently, I had become telepathic.
And targeted by a second-grader.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Graham.”
“Well, Graham, your father sounds horrifying.”
Relief flashed across his face.
I leaned closer. “Unfortunately, I have terrible taste in men.”
His eyes filled with horror.
*Why would anybody like gross men? What kind of woman is this?*
Before I could enjoy myself, the door burst open and half a dozen children rushed inside. Graham instantly pressed himself against the wall.
“There he is,” a heavyset boy called. “Hey, Graham, looking for food on the floor again?”
Another child laughed. “He ate my dropped taquito yesterday.”
Graham’s face burned red. He slipped toward the door and ran.
My amusement vanished.
The bell rang across the street, and the other children hurried back to class with their purchases. Through my front window, I watched Graham enter the school and take a seat in the front row. His desk faced my store.
At lunchtime he returned, but he remained outside.
*I have to watch her. If Dad comes here, I’ll say she hit me. Then he won’t marry her. I don’t want to hurt anybody when I grow up. I just don’t want the evil stepmom to hurt me first.*
His gaze drifted toward the hot dogs.
*They smell so good.*
I grabbed one, slid it onto a paper tray, and stepped outside.
“Here.”
He stared at it. “I don’t have money.”
“It’s free.”
“I can’t—”
His teeth were already in it.
He chewed with his eyes closed, and the voice in my head practically sang.
*This is better than the beef Wellington Chef Marcel made Sunday.*
I stared at him.
Chef Marcel?
*Way better than that stupid truffle sauce, too.*
I slowly looked at his scuffed sneakers, his plain backpack, and the school uniform I’d assumed came from some struggling household.
“Your family has a chef?”
Graham froze.
Then he ran.
For the next month, he came back every afternoon. I gave him leftover hot dogs, chips from open bags, orange soda, crackers, and anything else that would otherwise be thrown away. He devoured convenience-store food as if each bag had been delivered from heaven.
At the same time, he conducted a one-child smear campaign against his father.
“My dad forgets birthdays.”
“Sounds bad.”
“He works during dinner.”
“Very bad.”
“He scares lawyers.”
“Actually, that one’s interesting.”
“And he’s mean.”
Inside his head came the constant refrain: *Don’t let her like Dad. Don’t let Dad like her. The comments said stepmothers always hate the first kid.*
Eventually Graham stopped calling me “lady” and started calling me Tegan. I started calling him Little Man.
One Friday evening he arrived late.
“Tegan,” he called from outside. “I brought my dad.”
I walked toward the door carrying two hot dogs covered in chili sauce.
Then I stopped.
The man beside Graham was six-foot-two at least, broad-shouldered and immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit. His dark hair was neatly cut, his shoes looked more expensive than my refrigerator, and he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to rooms going silent when he entered.
Graham’s thoughts went berserk.
*Please be ugly. Please smell bad. Why did he wear the good suit? Dad, stop looking handsome. This is an emergency.*
I looked at the stranger.
Then at Graham.
Then back at the stranger.
“So,” I said, raising one hot dog, “you’re the man who doesn’t wipe.”
The man’s expression went completely blank.
Graham made a sound of pure despair.
And that was how I met Adrian Hale—the billionaire attorney whose son I’d mistaken for a hungry, broke little boy.
