The wind off the Atlantic was sharp, cutting through the thin black fabric of Claire’s dress like a reprimand.

She stood alone before the fresh mound of earth. The lilies were already wilting, their edges curling brown, mirroring the hollow ache in her chest. Grandma Helen. The name caught in her throat, a jagged shard of glass she couldn't swallow. After her parents died in that wreck on the I-95, Helen had been the only solid ground in a world that had turned to quicksand. Now, the ground was just dirt, and Claire was drifting.

She touched the cold granite of the headstone. "You promised you wouldn't leave me alone," she whispered, the words snatched away by the coastal breeze.

"Mrs. Bennett? Or... Ms. Bennett, I should say."

Claire stiffened. She didn't turn immediately, wiping a rogue tear from her cheek with the back of her gloved hand. She composed her face—the mask she had perfected over the last three years of solitude—and turned.

Mr. Thorne, her grandmother's attorney, stood a respectable distance away, clutching a leather briefcase to his chest as if it contained nuclear codes. He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight on the gravel.

"The service is over, Mr. Thorne," Claire said, her voice raspy but steady. "If this is about the fees—"

"It is about the estate, Claire," Thorne interrupted, his tone grave. "We need to talk. Now."

He gestured to a stone bench beneath an ancient oak tree, far enough from the mourners lingering by the cars. Claire followed, her heels sinking slightly into the soft turf. She knew the contents of the will, or thought she did. The seaside house—the sprawling Victorian lady of a building with its creaky floorboards and smell of lavender—was practically hers already. Helen had said it a thousand times: *It's your sanctuary, Claire. Always.*

Thorne didn't sit. He opened the briefcase, the snap of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the quiet cemetery. He pulled out a thick document, bypassing the legalese to flip to the final page.

"The house," Thorne began, not meeting her eyes, "is indeed bequeathed to you. However, Helen added a codicil two months ago. A conditional clause."

Claire frowned, a cold prickle of unease crawling up her spine. "Conditional? Like... maintenance costs? I can handle the upkeep."

"No. Not financial." Thorne cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "To inherit full title of the property located at 44 Oceanview Drive, the beneficiary, Claire Bennett, must reside within the premises for a continuous period of thirty days."

"That's it?" Claire let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I was planning to move in anyway. My lease is up in the city. That's easy."

"There is a second party named in the clause," Thorne said.

The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

"What second party?"

Thorne read from the paper, his voice devoid of emotion. "Current residence must be maintained alongside Mr. Ryan Carter. Both parties must cohabit the premises for the full thirty-day duration. Should either party vacate the property for more than twenty-four hours, or refuse the arrangement, the estate—entirety—will be liquidated and proceeds donated to the feline rescue foundation."

The world tilted.

"Ryan?" The name tasted like ash. "My... ex-husband Ryan?"

"The very same."

"This is a joke," Claire snapped, her grief momentarily incinerated by a flash of pure, white-hot anger. "Grandma knew... she knew how it ended. She saw me when I signed the papers. She saw me when I couldn't get out of bed for a week. She wouldn't do this."

"She did, Claire. It is ironclad."

"I refuse." Claire stood up, her hands trembling. "I don't need the house that badly. I won't do it. I won't see him."

"Then the house is gone. Tomorrow."

"Let it go!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "I'd rather sleep in my car than spend thirty seconds with that man, let alone thirty days."

"I agree."

The voice came from behind her. Low. resonant. A baritone that vibrated right through the soles of her feet.

Claire froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs—a traitorous, violent thud. She knew that voice. She had heard it whisper love in the dark, and she had heard it shatter her life over a breakfast table three years ago.

She turned slowly.

Ryan Carter stood on the path, framed by the grey sky and the twisted branches of the oak.

Three years hadn't been kind to him; they had been magnificent. He was broader now, filling out his charcoal suit in a way that should be illegal at a funeral. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing the hollow of his throat, the skin tanned against the stark white starch. His hair was slightly longer, wind-blown, giving him a dangerous, untamed look that clashed with the somber setting.

But it was his eyes that pinned her. Dark, impenetrable, locked onto her face with a terrifying intensity.

He walked toward them. His stride was long, eating up the distance, the crunch of gravel under his polished shoes rhythmic and menacing. He stopped three feet away—too close. Much too close.

The scent of him hit her—rainwater, expensive tobacco, and something sharp and musky that was just *Ryan*. It triggered a dizzying rush of memories: his hands on her waist, his heavy weight pressing her into a mattress, the rough scrape of his jaw.

Claire took a step back, her heel catching on a root, but she regained her balance before he could reach out. She saw his hand twitch at his side—a reflex to catch her?—before he jammed it into his pocket.

"You agree?" Claire managed to choke out, hating how breathless she sounded. "Good. Then it's settled. We both say no."

Ryan looked down at her. His gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth, lingering there for a second too long, before dragging down to the pulse fluttering visibly in her neck. Her skin heated under his inspection, a flush rising from her chest despite the cold wind.

"I didn't say I agreed to say no," Ryan said softly.

He took another step. He was looming now, blocking out the light. He was a wall of heat and suppressed energy.

"Then what?" she demanded, crossing her arms to create a barrier, though she knew it was flimsy.

"I agree to the terms," Ryan said. His voice dropped an octave, scraping against her nerves. "I agree to the thirty days."

Claire stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Why? You left me, Ryan. You walked out. You don't want to be around me."

"It's true," he said. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes were burning. "I have no desire to relive the past."

"Then why?"

Ryan leaned in. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, see the faint tension in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He lowered his head, his mouth inches from her ear. His breath was warm, ghosting over her sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

"Because Helen asked me to," he murmured, the words intimate, heavy. "And because... thirty days isn't so long, Claire."

He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eye again. His gaze dropped to her lips once more, hungry and unreadable.

"Unless you're afraid?" he taunted, his voice velvety smooth. "Afraid you can't handle being in the same house as me without... remembering?"

Claire’s breath hitched. *Remembering what? The fighting? Or the way you used to look at me like I was the only water in a desert?*

"I'm not afraid of you," she lied.

"Good," Ryan said. He didn't smile. He looked like a predator who had just realized the cage door was open. "Then I'll see you at the house. Tonight."

30 Days with My Ex-Husband — Chapter 8

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