11. Graham
11
GRAHAM
“You know what would make this even better?” Francesca flicks her tongue out, a missed attempt to wipe the smudge of cream cheese frosting from the corner of her mouth.
I don’t blink, don’t fucking move. But my pulse slams at the sight of it.
“Hm?” It’s all I can muster, my voice rougher than I intend. Desire coils hot and insistent in my gut, urging me to lean in, to taste the sweetness on her lips myself. But I force myself to remain still, fingers flexing against my thigh.
I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Sitting here, eating cupcakes. Watching her tongue swipe along her lip like it’s not going to be the death of me.
This isn’t normal.
I don’t do this. Lingering. Letting myself get pulled into someone else’s orbit.
Except I am. I’m enjoying her company, probably more than I should. Definitely more than is smart. And absolutely more than is fucking safe.
“Coffee.” She grins, licking the last bit of frosting from her thumb. “An iced latte to be exact.”
I exhale sharply, dragging my attention away from her mouth. “You know, there’s a coffee shop just down the block.”
“I know, but unfortunately, they’re not dog-friendly.”
I glance down at the pet in question, curled up beside her chair, his fluffy ears perked as he watches her every move.
“That’s not a dog,” I say flatly. “That’s an oversized stuffed animal.”
She laughs, bright and full, the kind that curls deep in my chest and lingers there.
“He does look like a stuffed animal, doesn’t he?” She glances down at him, skimming her palms over his long ears. “It’s the velvet ears, I think.”
Romeo lets out a small whine, nudging his snout against her knee, silently begging for his bite of cupcake. She chuckles, shaking her head as she strokes his fur, fingertips gliding absently over his coat.
“Stuffed animal or not, I don’t want to crate Romeo right now. Not when he’s been cooped up behind the counter all day.” Her brows draw together slightly, the corners of her mouth dipping just enough to show that it bothers her. That it matters to her.
I watch her blow an air kiss toward Romeo, who sits patiently at her feet, his tail swishing lightly across the floor.
“He seems okay to me.”
She looks at him with such affection, such quiet devotion, that I surprise myself when the first hot curl of jealousy licks inside my gut.
It’s absolutely ridiculous . Jealous of a fucking dog?
Get a fucking grip , I tell myself.
“No, he is,” she murmurs, running her fingers over his soft fur. “But I need to get him on a walk. It’s not fair to have him inside all day, especially when I’m sure he’s overstimulated from everyone here.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders back, shifting slightly in my chair. “I’ll remember coffee for next time.”
Her head jerks up, our gazes colliding. “Is there going to be a next time?”
It’s a challenge, a test. There’s a spark of something teasing in her voice, but a thread of sincerity underneath it.
“Do you want there to be?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.” She pauses for a beat. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I answer just as quickly.
She leans back in her chair, fingers tracing absent patterns along Romeo’s back, a soft smile curving her lips. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page then.”
I nod, my attention caught on the smudge of frosting still clinging to the corner of her mouth. Before I can think twice, before I can talk myself out of it, my hand moves on instinct. I reach out, my thumb sweeping across her skin, catching the sugary sweetness.
Her breath hitches, lips parting on a quiet inhale.
Realizing what I’ve done, I pull my hand back, fingers curling into my palm.
“Sorry, you had some . . .” I trail off lamely, gesturing vaguely to my own mouth.
Francesca blinks at me, a faint blush staining her cheeks. Then she laughs softly, shaking her head. “I’m a mess, aren’t I? Maybe this is why my mother didn’t let us have baked goods in the house.”
My brows pull together. “Your mom didn’t let you have cakes and cookies in the house?”
Francesca sighs, her smile turning a little wistful. “No, she was always very strict about that kind of thing. Image and appearances were everything to her.” She runs her finger along the edge of her cupcake liner, gathering up a bit of stray frosting. “Cupcakes and cookies didn’t fit into her vision of the perfect family.”
My frown deepens, an unexpected protectiveness surging in my chest. “Francesca, that’s?—”
She pushes to her feet so suddenly that Romeo startles, his head jerking up.
“I don’t know why I told you that.” Her voice is rushed, her movements frenetic as she reaches for the discarded wrappers and napkins. “Anyway, let me clean up. I’m sure you have things to do.”
I watch her hands move too quickly, her fingers tightening around the crumpled napkins like she needs something to hold on to. Like she’s trying to outrun the vulnerability she just let slip. She won’t meet my eyes, her shoulders pulled in tight.
And that strange, unfamiliar ache beneath my breastbone? It settles in deep.
I want to say something, to assure her that she has nothing to be embarrassed about. That I want to know everything about her, even the painful parts. Especially the painful parts. But the words stick in my throat, tangled up with all the things I don’t know how to articulate.
She crosses the room, coming back with her dog’s leash in her hand. “Well, I better get him on his walk. And I still have to clean up from today before I can open back up tomorrow.”
I nod, slipping one hand into my pocket. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
A beat of silence lingers, not exactly awkward but something close to it.
She clears her throat, glancing up at me with a wry twist of her lips. “Gosh, I can’t believe I’ll be open tomorrow too. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve never owned a bookstore before.”
My lips twitch. “I couldn’t tell. You did great today.”
Her smile widens for a second before she shakes her head, like she’s dismissing it. She steps toward the front door, and I follow, my sneakers loud against the hardwood.
She pulls open the inside door, and I step through, stopping just inside the little vestibule. The original tiled floor gleams black and white beneath the golden hour sunlight slanting through the glass.
I turn back to her, content to wait to see how this plays out.
“Thank you for coming, Graham.” Her voice is soft, the quiet warmth of it settling in my chest. She shifts Romeo’s leash to her other hand, fingers flexing slightly. “And thank you for the cupcakes. It was really thoughtful of you.” Her smile is small but sincere.
I take a mental snapshot, forcing myself to imprint this image of her onto my brain. Or the backs of my eyelids. Or—fuck it—even my retinas.
I’m not picky.
But the softness of her, the warmth in her eyes, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the quiet, steady energy she carries. It feels so fucking good that I never want to forget this moment.
This is the moment I realize it wasn’t some bullshit mystery I was unraveling all this time. That there’s something here. And I fucking knew it.
Now all I have to do is convince her.
I exhale, nodding once. “Until next time, Francesca.”
She lingers for a second, her lips parting like she might say something else. Then, softly, “Next time, Graham.”
I step through the door, letting it swing shut behind me. And I don’t look back even though I want to. But knowing there’s something between us doesn’t mean I know what the fuck to do about it.
Ten minutes later, I push through the front door, stepping into the shared apartment between me and Beau. The familiar scent of cleaner and lemon-scented dish soap lingers in the air, and I find him at the kitchen sink, sleeves pushed up as he scrubs the basin with an unnecessary amount of aggression.
“Ah, so you found the cleaning chart, I see,” I mutter, slipping my keys into my front pocket.
Beau glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Figured if I’m stuck cleaning, I might as well give it my all.”
I huff. “You’re stuck cleaning because it’s your turn.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His gaze flicks over me, his smirk widening. “So. How’d it go?”
I arch a brow. “How’d what go?”
Beau snorts. “Your non-girlfriend cake delivery. Did Cora pull through for you or what?”
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t have to think about why. It’s the look on Francesca’s face when she took her first bite. The way her eyes lit up, how she hummed in approval, how she told me I was thoughtful.
Fucking hell.
Beau’s eyes widen, and he jerks upright, pointing at me. “Holy shit. Hold on. Where’s my phone?” He pats his pockets. “I need to document this for history. Graham Carter is smiling.”
I roll my eyes, scoffing as I push off the counter. “Everyone knows I smile.”
“Yeah? When? Name one time.”
I flip him off over my shoulder as I walk toward my apartment. “This morning. When I realized it was your turn to clean.”
Beau groans, muttering curses under his breath as I push open the door to my apartment. I step inside and lock it behind me.
Time to get to work.
I step into my office, the glow of my monitors filling the dark room, and something coils tight in my chest.
I pull up the program, my fingers hovering over the keys.
For years, I’ve been piecing together an impossible puzzle. Searching for a woman I was never supposed to find again. And now?
She’s here. Close enough that if I’m patient, if I play my cards right, I won’t need a fucking algorithm to learn about her.
But I ran the program earlier, and now, the results flicker across the screen. I roll my shoulders back, cracking my neck. My cursor hovers over the folder I saved earlier, Francesca’s name glaring back at me in bold, black text.
I know I shouldn’t look, but the logical part of my brain disagrees.
I don’t need everything. Just the broad strokes. Just enough to make sense of who she is. Simple shit like her last name.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I click the folder open.
Francesca Ashburn.
Her name stares back at me from the screen, bold black letters against the white background. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs as I exhale slowly, the air hissing through my teeth.
Ashburn. The name rings bells I can’t place yet, but that’s secondary. After all this time, all the searching and wondering, I finally have a full name to put to the face that’s lingered for ten long years.
It’s such a simple thing, really. Two words. Sixteen letters. Five syllables. And yet, seeing them there, knowing they belong to her, feels bigger than just a name on a screen.
A flood of information populates my monitor, neatly categorized. Financial records, property ownership, legal documents, linked accounts, addresses.
My fingers hover over the touchpad. One click, and I could open any of these files. I could know everything.
“You don’t need everything,” I remind myself. Just a few details. Simple shit.
I scan the highlights. Her name isn’t on any property records. No legal ties to Fiction & Folklore. So she’s not tied to the shell company that owns it?
I lean back, flexing my fingers against the desk at that information. That’s usually a red flag.
I don’t like not knowing things.
The cursor flickers over the document. My hand moves on instinct, the cursor hovering over another document, but something holds me immobile.
Something that feels . . . wrong. Like peeling back a layer I’m not supposed to see yet.
The logical part of me understands this is what I do. Information gathering, assessing risks, protecting assets.
But she’s not an asset. And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to solve the puzzle. Not yet.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders back before clicking out of the folder. Not tonight.
Instead, I save the files just in case. A failsafe. I zip the folder, stash it on one of my encrypted drives. Close enough that it’s there if I need it. But not in my face, tempting me every day.
An email pops up with a ping. I scan the contents, my brows lifting as the words register. It’s a request from a prospective new client, a mid-sized school district on the East Coast. They’re looking for a full security audit, a possible system overhaul, and advice on how to handle a data breach due to ransomware attack.
I sit back in my chair, drumming my fingers along the edge of my desk as I read over the email once more. A preliminary search shows the school district is legit. It’s a small district, but they have a solid reputation. Good test scores, seemingly dedicated teachers, a focus on STEM education and the arts. They have robotics clubs and coding classes starting in elementary school. Smart.
A deeper but still rough search shows their budget is fairly modest as far as school districts go. Enough to keep things running smoothly, to pay their staff a living wage, to provide resources for the students. But not enough to weather a major crisis like a ransomware attack. Those can easily cost hundreds of thousands, if not millions, to resolve. Most school districts don’t have that kind of petty cash lying around.
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers as I consider the school district’s request. A slow smile spreads across my face. This is exactly the kind of challenge I enjoy. The chance to outsmart some wannabe hacker, a keyboard warrior living in his mama’s basement. To turn the tables on them and make them regret ever targeting anyone, let alone an innocent school district.
My mind races with the possibilities, strategies and countermeasures already forming. I’ll need to do a deep-dive into their systems first, map out every vulnerability, every backdoor and weak point. Then I can craft a multi-pronged attack. Smoke out the ransomware hackers and get the school district their programs back.
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type out a response to the school district, adrenaline already pumping through my veins at the prospect of a new challenge. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of going head-to-head with an adversary, pitting my skills and intellect against theirs in a high-stakes game of digital chess.
I hit send on the email, including a secure link for them to schedule a time to discuss the details of the attack and share any pertinent information. Then I push back from my desk and stride over to the large whiteboard that takes up most of one wall.
I stare at the whiteboard for a long moment, the blank expanse beckoning me. Then I uncap a black marker and start writing, my mind already whirring with possibilities.
Potential attack vectors. Likely vulnerabilities based on the typical school district IT infrastructure. Strategies to isolate and contain the ransomware. Countermeasures to prevent future attacks. The flow of information and ideas pours out of me in a steady stream, filling the whiteboard in minutes.
This is what I live for. The rush of the hunt, the high-stakes game of outwitting my opponent. It’s a puzzle, a challenge, a test of skill. And there’s nothing more satisfying than cracking a system wide open, exposing every flaw, every weakness, every overlooked vulnerability.
I cap the marker and step back, scanning the whiteboard. The initial framework is there, but the real work begins when I get my hands on their data. When I start peeling back layers, combing through the digital wreckage for breadcrumbs left behind by the attacker.
I flex my fingers, the anticipation buzzing through me like static electricity.
A job like this isn’t about patching up security holes or rebuilding firewalls. It’s about taking control. About proving that no matter how clever someone thinks they are, I’m always one step ahead.
A notification pings on my monitor. The school district has already scheduled a call. Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.
Perfect.
A slow grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I cross the room, shutting off the whiteboard lights.
They picked the wrong school to mess with.
And I can’t wait to show them why.