27. Francesca
27
FRANCESCA
I was prepared for a simple kiss. A brief brush of lips. An obligatory peck to seal the legal contract of marriage.
I wasn’t prepared for Graham Carter kissing me like a man staking a claim.
The heat of his mouth, the way his hands framed my face—steady, possessive—sent a shock straight through me. My fingers curled into his suit jacket, an instinctive reaction, as if I needed to hold on to something. Or maybe keep myself from falling.
It should’ve been a second. Just enough to make it believable. But he lingered. His thumb skimmed my jaw, his lips parted, and for a moment, one impossible, heart-stuttering moment, I forgot where we were.
Thank god his family started cheering, otherwise, I might’ve really embarrassed myself by hiking my leg up and throwing my arms around him.
I barely hear them over the rushing in my ears. Cora whooping, Beau clapping, his mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. It’s all muffled, distant, like I’m underwater.
Graham pulls back slowly, his forehead brushing mine before he straightens. His expression is unreadable, but his breathing is uneven, his jaw tight.
I feel unsteady. Off-kilter. Like something monumental just happened, and I’m the only one who realizes it.
It was just a kiss.
Except it wasn’t. And that’s the problem.
I reach for Romeo’s leash out of sheer necessity, grounding myself in something familiar. He lets out a happy little huff, tail thumping and oblivious to the way my world just tilted on its axis.
Hazel claps her hands together, beaming at me. “Time to celebrate the new couple! Let’s go to that one place in Rosewood. They have that wood-fire grill they use, right, Lucas?”
I blink, still disoriented. “Celebrate?”
“Hickory & Spice,” she continues, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll make a reservation?—”
“We’re going to have to raincheck, Ma,” Graham says smoothly, cutting her off.
I glance at him in surprise, relief weighing my shoulders down.
His mom blinks, her smile twisting a little. “Don’t be ridiculous, Graham. I’m not not going to celebrate with my oldest son on his wedding day.”
Cora frowns. “Wait, what? You’re really not coming to dinner?”
“Maybe another time,” Graham says, his voice even.
I shift my weight, fingers tightening around Romeo’s leash and Graham’s hand. My chest is too tight, my breathing unsteady. I hadn’t realized how much I needed the out until he gave it to me.
I expect his mom to protest, but his dad steps in. “Let them settle in, Hazel.” His voice is calm, sure. He meets Graham’s gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “Francesca’s moving in tonight, remember?”
I watch Graham’s shoulders relax ever so slightly.
Hazel exhales, her smile softening. “Right. I forgot you guys were being traditional.”
Traditional . Is that how he spun it? What a clever man my new husband is.
“C’mon, Ma, you don’t want to spend your son’s wedding night with him, do you?” Beau says, waggling his brows.
“ Oh ,” Hazel says with a little gasp of understanding. “Right, well, we’ll see you at next Sunday dinner.
“Sure thing, Ma,” Graham promises.
We say our goodbyes, and Graham’s hand is warm and steady on the small of my back as he guides me out of the courthouse, Romeo trotting happily beside us. The late afternoon sun is bright, making me squint as we step into the parking lot. It feels surreal, like I’m stepping into a different world. A world where I’m married. To Graham Carter.
My husband.
The word sends a little thrill down my spine, even as my stomach flips with nerves. This is real. We’re really doing this.
“Keys?” Graham asks, holding out his hand.
I blink at him. “To my car?”
He nods. “I rode with Beau so we’d ride home together.”
Home . The word makes my heart do a strange little stutter-step. Because home isn’t just my loft above the bookstore anymore. It’s Graham’s house. Our house. At least for the next year.
I dig into my small clutch and hand over my keys. He takes them, his fingers brushing against mine and sending a tingle up my arm. Then he opens the passenger door for me, waiting patiently as I settle into the seat, arranging my dress around my legs. Romeo hops into the backseat, curling up on the seat behind mine.
I try not to notice the way Graham looks tucked behind the wheel of my car. But it’s impossible. The man commands attention and space without even trying. The engine purrs to life beneath his hands. He glances over at me as he pulls out of the parking lot, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything left unsaid.
I fiddle with the skirt of my dress, smoothing non-existent wrinkles just to give my hands something to do. My wedding ring catches the light, the diamonds sparkling against the gold band. It’s still a shock every time I see it, this tangible reminder that I’m a married woman now.
The courthouse fades in the rearview mirror.
I sneak a glance at him, expecting him to look relaxed, unaffected. Instead, his grip on the steering wheel is just a fraction too tight, the leather creaking under his fingers. His jaw shifts and his throat bobs, like he’s swallowing words he won’t say.
But when the next red light stretches a second too long, his fingers flex before curling back into a fist against the gear shift, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s replaying that kiss in his head as much as I am.
I glance over my shoulder at Romeo, his eyes closed as he catches a nap on the short ride. He’s already settled into this transition better than I am. I stare out the window, watching the trees blur past, wondering for the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing.
Graham doesn’t fill the silence, and I don’t know if I appreciate that or hate it. Because my mind is too loud.
You kissed me like you meant it.
I sneak a glance at him. He’s focused on the road, his expression unreadable.
Did you?
I swallow the questions burning my tongue and look back out the window. The weight of the ring on my finger is heavier than it should be. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, as if testing its reality.
I’m married.
Legally bound to Graham Carter. By choice. And tonight, I’m moving into his house. By choice. Everything feels surreal. Like I’m walking through a scene I never could’ve imagined for myself.
My husband.
The words feel strange, too big for my mouth, too heavy for my chest. Like a dress I haven’t quite grown into.
Not Giovanni.
That’s the difference, isn’t it? The title had always felt like shackles when it was tied to him. But Graham . . .
I roll the words around in my head again, trying to see if it fits.
My husband Graham.
I exhale quietly, shaking my head slightly. I can’t tell if it thrills me or terrifies me. The thought of Giovanni makes my stomach twist with trepidation, but I push it away. I need to focus on what’s ahead of me, not what I left behind.
The car slows as we turn onto his quiet street, the headlights illuminating the red brick facade of Graham’s house. It’s the first time I’m really seeing it. Last time, I wasn’t paying enough attention. I should’ve asked to come over in the last three months, but something always held me back.
And now here I am, really seeing the details of my new home for the first time. The dark shutters. The sprawling windows. The soft glow of light from inside, spilling onto the porch. It’s inviting and charming.
Home.
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
Graham pulls into the garage, cutting the engine and closing the garage door. And for a second, neither of us move.
I look over my shoulder at him to find his gaze already on me. “Ready, Francesca?”
I inhale slowly, my fingers tightening around the strap of an overnight bag at my feet. “As I’ll ever be.”
He nods once, then opens his door and steps out. I follow suit, my legs feeling slightly unsteady as my feet touch the concrete. Romeo hops out after me, his tail wagging in excitement at the new surroundings.
He rounds the car and opens the trunk, pulling out a few boxes and two suitcases of my belongings that I’d packed earlier.
I open my mouth to tell him I can take care of my stuff myself, but the words get lost somewhere between my ribs. Instead, I let him help me and follow him inside.
He sets down my belongings and turns to face me, his hands sliding into his pockets. The simple, casual movement draws my attention to the breadth of his shoulders, the way his suit jacket stretches across his chest. My breath catches in my throat, something hot and tight coiling low in my belly.
“Welcome home,” he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through my bones.
Home. The word feels foreign on my tongue, unfamiliar in this context. But as I look around the entryway, taking in the gleaming hardwood floors, the bookshelves, and the colorful area rugs, I think I’m going to love it here.
Awkwardness floats around us, and I don’t know what to do to fix it. “Bet this isn’t what you expected for your wedding night, hm?”
He doesn’t smirk, and his lips don’t even twitch. He just holds my gaze as he destroys me a little bit. “I never thought I’d get married.”
I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended. I think I’m a little bit of both, if I’m being honest.
“Right.” I rock forward on my toes a little.
He drags his hand along the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like?—”
“No, no. It’s fine. Really,” I assure him, waving my hand in the air like I can waft my emotion away. I clear my throat and glance to the left. “I’m kind of tired. Long day and all.”
“Of course. I’ll show you your room.”
I nod, trying to ignore the strange little pang in my chest at his words. Your room. Not our room. But that’s how it should be. So I don’t know why I thought any differently.
This marriage is just an arrangement. A partnership. Nothing more.
I think it’s just the dress. I got caught up in the fantasy of it. That’s all.
I follow Graham up the two flights of stairs, my hand gliding along the smooth wooden banister. The stairs creak slightly beneath our feet, a comforting sound that makes the house feel lived-in. Homey.
The third floor is quiet, the air softer somehow. Graham stops outside the last door. “This is you,” he says, pushing it open. “I’m next door, and my office is across the hall.”
I nod absently in his direction, my new bedroom stealing all my attention. It’s beautiful. A large window overlooks the backyard with an incredible view of the landscape in the distance. The bed is plush, layered with soft linens in neutral tones. A small reading chair sits in the corner, a throw blanket draped over the armrest. Two bookcases and a TV above the long dresser.
I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t expecting any of this. I turn to Graham, my throat tight.
He doesn’t hover. Doesn’t ask for anything. Just watches me for a beat before nodding. “I’ll go get the rest of your things. And then I’ll let you get some rest. I’m right next door if you need anything.”
The words sink deep, pressing into something fragile inside of me. I swallow and murmur, “Thank you.”
He lingers for a second longer, like he wants to say something else. Then he nods once more and steps back into the hall.
I follow, intending to close the door behind him. But as I step toward the threshold, Graham turns at the same time.
Our bodies brush—his chest against my shoulder, the heat of him bleeding through the delicate fabric of my dress.
My breath catches.
It’s nothing. Just a second too close, a half-step miscalculated. But it lingers, awareness crackling between us like a lit fuse.
Graham doesn’t move away immediately. His head dips slightly, just enough that I swear I feel his breath against my hair.
I stay frozen, the moment stretching, thickening. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s considering something.
Then, as if snapping back to reality, he exhales and steps away. “Goodnight, Francesca.”
I nod, but when the door clicks shut behind him, I press my palm against the wood, my skin still buzzing where we touched.
I glance around the room again, my fingers brushing over the edge of the bed. My bed. In my husband’s house.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.
Then, before I can think too much about it, I whisper the words out loud, “Welcome home.”
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a lie.