22. Francesca
22
FRANCESCA
Romeo’s nails click against the hardwood floors as he pads over to me, his tail swishing gently. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, my mind still churning with thoughts of Graham. The weight of my phone in my back pocket feels heavier than usual, like it’s a tether connecting me to him even when we’re apart.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a phone number. Just a way to contact him outside of our weekly coffee walks. But it feels momentous somehow, like a tipping point. A before and after.
Before, when Tuesdays were the only time I got to see him, to talk to him, to be in his orbit. And after, when the possibility of more stretches out before me, vast and thrilling and a little terrifying.
I exhale slowly, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. It’s just a text. A simple, casual check-in. But my fingers tremble slightly as I pull out my phone and open up a new message.
Me: I think Romeo misses you.
I attach a photo of Romeo I took a couple days ago. He’s sitting perfectly by the front door with his leash next to him, his big dark brown eyes reminding me of the cutest little cartoon character.
I hit send before I can second-guess it. I stare at the screen for a long moment, waiting for the little typing bubbles to appear. Waiting for some kind of response, even though I know I just sent it and he’s probably busy. Or asleep. Or just not staring at his phone like I am.
Ugh. Why am I so nervous? This is silly— I’m being silly.
With a sigh, I lock my phone and toss it on my bed. I have other things to focus on. More important things than obsessively checking for a text back from a man I’ve only known for two months.
Like the profit margins for the bookstore. I force myself to sit down at my desk and open up the spreadsheet I’ve been working on. The numbers blur together as I try to concentrate, but my mind keeps drifting back to Graham. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. The deep, warm sound of his laugh. The easy way we can talk about anything and everything.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts. I need to focus. The bookstore is my dream, my baby. I can’t let myself get distracted by a man, no matter how charming and handsome he may be.
But even as I try to concentrate on the spreadsheet, my mind keeps wandering back to Graham. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing right now, if he’s thinking about me too.
The ping of my phone startles me out of my reverie. My heart leaps into my throat as I scramble to grab it, nearly knocking over my cup of tea in the process. It’s a text from Graham.
Graham: And you? Do you miss me too?
I stare at the words, a giddy smile spreading across my face.
Me: And if I do?
Graham: Then I would say that I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the day I walked into your bookstore.
My face flushes hot as I read his message again, butterflies erupting in my stomach. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Graham Carter, the stoic, mysterious, devastatingly handsome man who’s been starring in my dreams for weeks now, is flirting with me. Over text.
Part of me wants to play it cool, to keep things light and breezy. But a bigger part of me, the part that’s been craving his presence ever since our kiss, wants to dive in headfirst. To match his boldness with my own.
So I do.
Me: Maybe I miss you a little. Just a tiny bit. Barely even noticeable, really.
I hit send with a grin, my heart pounding as I wait for his response. The little typing bubble pops up almost immediately.
Graham: I guess I’ll have to try harder then. Wouldn’t want you forgetting about me between Tuesdays.
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. Who is this man and what has he done with the serious, intense Graham I’ve come to know? Not that I’m complaining.
Me: You know I’m free Mondays too. And most Wednesday through Saturdays as well.
Graham: Not Sundays?
Me: Sundays are self-care days for me, Romeo, and my kindle.
Graham: Should I be jealous of a kindle?
I huff a small laugh. Romeo watches me from his spot at the foot of my bed, his head resting on his paws, eyes heavy-lidded but alert. The room is dimly lit, my only companion the soft glow of my bedside lamp and the weight of my phone in my hand.
I reread Graham’s last message, biting my lip. The way he phrases it. Direct, dry, but somehow teasing. It sends another ridiculous flutter through my chest.
Me: Absolutely. My Kindle takes care of all my needs.
I hit send, smirking to myself. Maybe I’ll make him blush for once. His response is immediate.
Graham: All of them?
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Oh.
Oh .
I blink at the screen, caught between mortification and . . . something else. Something dangerous and thrilling and very, very new.
Romeo lets out a long sigh, like even he knows I’m in trouble.
I start typing, delete it. Type again. Delete again. Ugh. When did I become this person? This person who agonizes over a stupid text message?
Screw it. I’ll match his energy.
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know?
The second I send it, my stomach tightens. But I don’t get to overthink for long, because his response is instant.
Graham: I would, actually.
Graham: Maybe you’ll tell me. Eventually.
A shiver rolls down my spine. I don’t know how he manages to make plain, factual statements sound like promises. Like inevitabilities.
I stare at the screen, at his name, and realize I’m smiling. Full, ridiculous, grinning-at-my-phone-like-an-idiot smiling.
And maybe that should scare me. Maybe tomorrow it will. But right now? I don’t care.
I’m still staring at the message when another text comes through.
Graham: Go to sleep, Francesca.
I huff a laugh.
Me: You first.
I don’t get a reply right away, and for some reason, that makes me grin harder. I set my phone down on my nightstand, flipping onto my stomach, cheeks warm.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrates.
Graham: Goodnight, sunshine.
I bite my lip so hard it hurts.
Who knew such a random nickname would make my heart squeeze so hard?
The door chimes on Tuesday at 4:30 p.m., and my head snaps up from the
counter.
Graham.
It’s stupid, how much relief washes over me at the sight of him, but I don’t let myself dwell on it.
My heart does a little stutter-step in my chest as I take him in. He looks the same as always. Dark henley stretched across his broad shoulders, faded jeans hugging his muscular thighs, a few errant strands of hair escaping the knot at the back of his head. But there’s something different in the way he’s looking at me, something heated and intent that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Hi,” I breathe out, suddenly feeling a little unsteady on my feet. I grip the edge of the counter for support, hoping he can’t hear the way my heart is pounding in my chest.
“Francesca,” he replies, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through my bones. He takes a step closer to the counter, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’ve missed you.”
“You have?” The words come out breathier than I intend, but I can’t help it. Not with the way he’s looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole.
“I have.” Another step, and now he’s right in front of me, close enough to touch. “Thought about you all day too.”
My breath hitches in my throat as Graham leans in closer, his hands coming to rest on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. I can feel the heat of his body, the electric charge of his proximity sending tiny sparks skittering across my skin.
“In fact, I haven’t stopped thinking about you in months.”
“This is unexpected.” I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “C’mon, Sunshine. You can’t be all that surprised. I’m here every Tuesday.”
I grin. “Oh, I know that. I meant this directness .”
His nose skims along my jaw, his breath fanning my skin and making me shiver. “Do you want me to stop?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“No,” I whisper, tipping my chin up. “I like it.”
“Good,” he murmurs against my skin before stepping back.
A pout forms before I can talk myself out of it. I roll my lips inward to smother the choice words trying to burst free. If he wants to edge me a little bit, fine, I can handle it. I read dark romance for fun, I can handle a little delayed gratification.
Even if it’s only a kiss.
Graham reaches for the drink carrier, plucking one of the cups from its slot. My eyes track the movement, my heart rate kicking up a notch at the simple domesticity of it. He hands me the cup, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that I’m almost certain is deliberate.
“Iced caramel latte, extra whip,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my chest.
“Thank you.” I curl my fingers around the cup, the condensation cool against my overheated skin. I take a slow sip and look at him, letting my gaze crawl over every inch I can see.
He looks good. Annoyingly good. Dark jeans, a fitted black T-shirt that stretches over broad shoulders, his ever-present sharp gaze scanning the store before landing on me.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
I swear his lips twitch, like he knows exactly how many times I checked the clock today.
He lifts a brown paper bag by the handles and says, “It’s Tuesday, Sunshine.” Like that’s the answer to everything.
And shit, maybe it is. Maybe it’s that simple.
“So it is,” I muse.
Romeo trots over to Graham, tail wagging in eager anticipation. He sits patiently at Graham’s feet, dark eyes fixed on the paper bag in his hand, nose twitching like he catches the scent of whatever is inside.
Graham chuckles, a warm, rich sound that fills the space between us. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small box, the same fancy bakery logo emblazoned on the lid. “I didn’t forget about you, buddy.”
He opens the box to reveal a neat pile of gourmet dog biscuits, each one frosted to look like a real cookie.
“You’re spoiling him again,” I murmur with a smile.
“He deserves it.” He holds out the treat, letting Romeo gently take it from him before giving him a quick scratch behind the ears.
“He does,” I agree.
Romeo happily munches on the treat, his tail thumping contentedly against the floor. I watch the exchange with a soft smile, warmth blooming in my chest at the easy affection between them.
Graham straightens and turns to me, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with something that I can’t quite place. “I got you something too.”
He’s spoiling me too. “You’re too good to me, Graham.”
He pauses, his gaze sliding to mine. “This is just the beginning.”
Something shifts in the air between us. It’s subtle, but it’s there. A different kind of weight, something unspoken pressing at the edges of our usual banter.
And I feel it. I see it in the way his eyes darken, the way his body angles toward mine like he’s drawn to me by some invisible force. My breath catches in my throat as anticipation sings through my veins.
“What do you mean, just the beginning?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates for half a second before pushing off the counter. “Come sit with me.”
My stomach flips. That’s not what we do. We have a Tuesday routine. Lattes, pastries, a walk through town with Romeo. But sit down and talk? That’s new.
Graham takes my hand and leads me over to one of the cozy armchairs tucked into the front window of the bookstore. I follow willingly, my skin buzzing at his touch. He sits, gently tugging me down in the chair across to him.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he laces our fingers together, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that feels both soothing and electric. I swallow hard, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he studies me for a long moment, like he’s assessing something. Weighing his words.
“Francesca,” he starts, his voice low.
“Graham,” I mimic his low tone, a wry smirk twisting my lips.
His fingers drum once against the table. A sharp inhale, exhale. “Let’s get married.”