19. Graham
19
GRAHAM
The bell above the door chimes, and I don’t hesitate.
“Francesca.”
I say her name like a greeting, like a prayer, like an inevitability. Because that’s what we are: inevitable. I stopped pretending that Tuesdays aren’t the best part of my week over a month ago.
The bookstore is just as inviting as always. The scent of fresh paper and sugared lemons drifts through the air. But something is off. The usual spark, the quiet hum of energy that Francesca always carries, it’s dimmer today.
She’s behind the counter, rearranging a stack of receipts that don’t need arranging. When she looks up, her lips part, but the smile that usually greets me is absent. Her shoulders are tight, expression guarded in a way I haven’t seen before.
Something’s wrong.
She’s not my sunshine today.
And I don’t fucking like it.
I cross the store in a few long strides, setting the drink carrier and pastry bag on the counter. “What happened?”
Her brow furrows for a fleeting second before smoothing out again. “What? No, I’m fine.” It’s too quick, too bright to be genuine. Her gaze bounces around, never settling on me like it usually does.
I lean a hip against the counter, studying her face. She’s my weekly dose of warmth, of color. And right now, she’s muted, color leeched from her aura. I glance at the ball of fur pressed against her legs behind the counter with a raised brow. Usually, Romeo trots out to greet me, and not just because I started bringing treats for him too.
But not today. Further proof that something happened.
I push off from the counter, straightening up. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
Is it me, or is there a spike of panic in her voice?
I rap my knuckles on the counter twice. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way around the store slowly, methodically. My gaze sweeps over the rows of bookshelves, the cozy reading nooks tucked into corners, the vibrant displays of new releases and staff picks.
Everything looks the same as always. The books are neatly organized, spines facing out in orderly rows. The plush armchairs are free of discarded jackets or forgotten coffee cups. The warm glow of the vintage-inspired light fixtures casts a soft, inviting ambiance over the entire store.
There aren’t any customers, but that’s expected since she closes in twenty minutes. I make one final sweep of the store, glancing into the back room, even poking my head into the restroom. Everything is in its place, undisturbed.
With a growing sense of unease, I head back to the front counter where I left Francesca. She’s still there, one hand braced on the worn wood, the other carding absentmindedly through Romeo’s fur as he leans against her legs. Her shoulders are hunched, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she stares unseeingly at the tablet screen.
“What happened, sunshine?”
She startles at the sound of my voice, even though I kept it low and even. She hesitates, a slow, genuine smile blooming. “Did you just call me sunshine?”
A flush of heat crawls up my neck as I realize the endearment slipped out without thought. I clear my throat, shifting on my feet. “It’s just you and me here. You’re safe.”
“Oh—I wasn’t—it’s not.” She pauses, sighs. “Yeah. I wasn’t feeling unsafe.” The corner of her mouth curls up on one side. “But thank you for checking.”
I study her face, trying to decipher the emotions flickering behind her eyes. “Of course.”
She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping as she reaches for her latte. “I really needed this today. Thank you, Graham.” She looks at me when she says my name, all honeyed whiskey eyes underneath impossibly dark lashes.
And it still feels like a bat to the sternum. Second only to the way she tastes.
If I was a superhero, she’d be my kryptonite. My absolute undoing. And ending I’d welcome with open arms, just to feel her against me.
I nod, watching as she takes a long sip. “You’re welcome, Francesca.” Her name rolls off my tongue, the syllables already familiar and cherished. “But you don’t have to thank me every time.”
She sets the cup down, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of caramel. My eyes track the movement before I can stop myself. Memories of last week’s kiss flood my mind unbidden. The taste of her kiss, the soft gasp she made when I pulled her close, the way her body melted into mine.
I clench my jaw, forcing my gaze back to her face. Focus, Carter . Now is not the time to start thinking of every inch of her I want to taste.
She’s looking at me now, really looking, like she’s trying to see past the surface. Like she wants to know what’s going on inside my head. If only she knew the depths of my obsession, my need to unravel every mystery, to possess every secret.
Starting with whoever or whatever upset her today.
“Francesca.” Her name is a gentle prod, a quiet demand. “Talk to me.”
She huffs a low laugh, her fingers flexing around the coffee cup. “I’m sorry. Maybe we should, I don’t know, reschedule or something. I don’t want to be bad company.”
I exhale sharply, leveling her with a look. She blinks up at me. I step closer, bracing a hand on the counter, my body angled toward hers. Close enough that I catch the citrus-sweet scent of her shampoo, that I see the way her breath hitches when I move into her space.
“I’ll take any version of you,” I murmur, my voice low and rough. “Good day, bad day. Sunshine, storm. You could never be bad company. Not to me.”
Her lips part, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. Her fingers twitch against the counter, like she wants to reach for me but won’t let herself.
The air shifts between us. Heavy. Charged.
Her throat moves as she swallows, and I track the movement, my grip tightening on the counter’s edge. Then she huffs a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh and shakes her head. “Graham Carter. What am I gonna do with you?”
I smirk, slow and deliberate. “Anything. Everything.”
Something flickers behind her eyes, warm with desire. But she looks away too quickly for me to catch it.
She clears her throat, straightening her spine as she reaches for the pastry bag. “I hope you brought me something extra sweet today. I think I’m gonna need it.” She peeks inside, her smile growing. “Ooh, blueberry muffins are my favorite . How did you know?”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Lucky guess.”
It wasn’t a guess at all. I’ve been cataloging her reactions to every treat I bring, filing away each smile, each appreciative hum for future reference. Blueberry muffins elicited the biggest response.
Her eyes flit back to mine as she plucks a muffin from the bag. “Well, I appreciate your lucky guesses.” She takes a bite, her lashes fluttering closed as she hums in approval. “God, that’s perfect.”
I watch her, transfixed by the simple pleasure on her face, the way the tension seems to melt from her shoulders with each bite. I want to give her this every single fucking day. These small moments of uncomplicated happiness. I want to be the reason her eyes light up, the reason the clouds part.
“Yeah. It is.”
She pauses, scraping a bit of sticky muffin residue from her thumb with her teeth, her eyes still closed. When she opens them again, some of her usual sparkle is back.
“You know, it really is wild what a perfectly baked blueberry muffin can do,” she muses, licking a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth. “I’m feeling better already.”
“Good.”
“Do you still want to walk?”
The corner of my mouth hooks into a smirk when I hear Romeo’s tail thump against the floor. His way of voicing his vote, I’m sure. “With you? Always.”
She smiles at him, warming that dark space between his ribs. “Give me a few minutes to close up.”
I nod, my gaze never leaving her as she bustles around the store, going through her usual closing routine. Romeo trails her, staying close. I lean against the counter, content to wait and watch both of them until she’s ready.
Ten minutes later, drinks in hand and Romeo leashed, we step onto the sidewalk. Francesca locks the door behind us, and we start our usual route.
I wait. Let the silence work for me. Because I know she wants to fill it. I just have to be patient.
Sure enough, after a minute, she says, “My sister visited me today.”
My brows knit together. “The one from that college party?” In all the weeks we’ve spent time together, we haven’t talked too much about our families.
“Huh, yeah. I guess I kind of forgot that you would’ve met her. But yeah, that’s her. She’s my only sister really.”
“It didn’t go well.” It’s not a question. The pinched expression on her face says it all.
She shakes her head, worrying her bottom lip. “It’s just my family. They’re always in control. Always pulling strings. Even now, they have their hands in this bookstore.” She gestures vaguely, then exhales, her voice going softer. “I don’t even technically own it yet.”
A low pulse of awareness thrums through me. I knew something seemed off when I quickly scanned the documents I found with Oracle months ago.
I glance at her, my brow furrowing. “Who owns it?”
Francesca takes a slow sip of her latte, like she’s buying time. Then she exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly. “My Aunt Miriam left me the bookstore in her will. But my parents, they had some stipulations added. Benchmarks I have to hit in my first year, or else . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. Not really. It’s just another way they’re trying to control me and—” She cuts herself off with a loud exhale. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”
I nod like it’s nothing. Like I’m not already planning to dig into every single document attached to this bookstore the second I get home.
Because I knew something was off when I ran Oracle the first time.
And now she’s just confirmed it.
Instead, I hold out my hand, palm up. “Give me your phone.”
She blinks and slips her phone from her pocket, placing it in my hand. “Okay.”
I type my contact information in her phone with a casual shrug and hand it back to her.
Her fingers close around her phone, her lips curving just slightly. Soft, knowing. “What was that for?”
“For when you want to talk about your family. Or anything else. Or nothing too.”
Her thumb flies across her screen before she locks it and slips it back into her jeans. A second later, my own phone vibrates inside my pocket. I glance down at the screen.
“For when you want to talk to me,” she murmurs.
Unknown Number: It’s Francesca
The little sun emoji punches me in the chest.