30. Francesca
30
FRANCESCA
The smell of books and fresh flowers clings to the air, warm and familiar, wrapping around me like a second skin. Fiction & Folklore has always been my safe place. My sanctuary. But today, it’s different. I’m different.
Or maybe I just can’t stop thinking about Graham.
I haven’t seen him all day. I woke up to an empty house, the smell of coffee lingering in the kitchen, a small note tucked next to a to-go cup on the counter.
Had a call early. Made you a coffee.
See you later, wife.
That’s it. No good morning. No mention of last night. Just a simple, efficient note in his neatly scrawled handwriting.
The logical part of me knows that’s just who Graham is—concise, direct, no wasted words. But another part of me, the one still reeling from the way he touched me last night, the way he rasped tell me what you want against my skin, wanted more.
Maybe I expected some kind of shift between us today. A lingering glance, a brush of fingers in the hallway, some small sign that last night meant something. But the house is too big. Too unfamiliar. And Graham is too good at compartmentalizing.
Maybe I’m not being fair. Maybe he is as affected as I am. Shit, for all I know, he didn’t even enjoy my little performance in the shower last night.
Still. Even if he didn’t tune in, we still shared an orgasm together. I can’t remember the last time I came like that. I honestly don’t know if I ever have.
Who knew dry-humping would be so hot?
Romance novels .
Romance novels told me it would be hot, and I should’ve believed them. Actually . . .
The thought hits me like a freight train, stopping me in my tracks as I shelve the latest shipment of paperbacks. I set down the stack of books, my mind racing.
I’ve read countless romance novels over the years, losing myself in the pages, in the heart-pounding, pulse-racing moments when the enemies finally become lovers. When the omega finally get her alphas. When the mafia heirs burn down a city because his rivals took his woman who he’s been secretly pining for since he broke her heart to keep her save.
I’m a self-insert reader, so I’ve imagined myself in hundreds of scenarios. But for the first time, I might be able to actually have those experiences.
With Graham.
Excitement and nervousness tangle in my stomach. He said this marriage could be whatever I wanted it to be. And last night, I told him I wanted it to be real.
The memory of his hands on me, the heat in his eyes as he growled against my skin, it makes my cheeks flush and my thighs press together. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question me. Just took what I offered with a hunger that left me breathless.
So maybe it’s time I start really exploring what I want from this marriage.
I use the book in my hand to fan myself as a flush crawls over me. It’s probably a good thing I’ve got a full day at the bookstore. A way to anchor myself in something steady, something routine.
The bell above the door jingles, signaling a customer's arrival and pulling me from my thoughts. I straighten up, smoothing my hands over my sundress as I turn to greet them.
“Welcome to Fiction and Folklore! Let me know . . .” My voice trails off as I take in the person standing in the doorway.
Graham.
He’s wearing what I’ve come to think of as his standard outfit: hair pulled back, henley, well-worn jeans, and sneakers. Holding a drink tray with two coffees in one hand and a pastry box in the other.
My gaze trails over him, stopping and snagging on the way his jeans stretch across his thighs. Have his thighs always looked this big? I bet he never skips leg day.
“Francesca.” His voice is deep, casual. A smooth tenor that slides down my sternum and settles low in my stomach. But his eyes—his eyes aren’t casual at all. They roam over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing me all over again.
Romeo's ears perk up at the sound of Graham's voice, his fluffy tail thumping against the floor in recognition. He stands up from his bed behind the counter and trots over to Graham, nails clicking on the hardwood.
“Graham.” I clear my throat, attempting to regain my composure. “It’s Monday?” It comes out as a question. Coffee walks with pastries is our Tuesday tradition.
His lips twitch as he sets the coffees down on a nearby table. He crouches down to pet Romeo as he looks at me. “It’s Tuesday in Australia.”
I try to play it off, but when Graham straightens, his eyes flick to my lips—just for a second. It’s quick, barely there, but I see it. A pulse of heat sparks under my skin.
My smile grows and my stomach flips. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Carter?”
He prowls toward me, all casual control. “Always, wife. ”
His clean, woodsy scent greets me first. I lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Good.”
“I decided I don’t want to wait until Tuesday.”
My stomach flips, and our fingers brush when he hands me my latte. “We live together now,” I remind him, attempting to sound casual. “You can see me every day.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t so much as flicker. “I know.”
And then, just as quickly as he arrived, he turns toward the counter, moving through the store like he’s always belonged here. Like it’s just another Tuesday.
Except it’s Monday. And nothing about this feels routine.
We fall into our usual closing routine, an unspoken rhythm we’ve somehow built over the past several months. I lock up the register. He restocks the impulse-buy bookmarks by the register. At one point, I catch him scanning the shelves, rearranging a few titles until the spines align just right.
“What are you doing?” I ask, amused.
He barely glances up. “Your depth is inconsistent.”
I gape at him. “What?”
His mouth twitches. “I fixed it.”
“You fixed what?”
“Your spines weren’t level on the top shelf.”
I cross my arms, shaking my head even as a smile tugs at my lips. “Of course you’d notice that.”
Graham straightens up. “It’s the details that matter, Francesca.” His voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent of intensity that makes my breath catch.
Like last night. When he touched me with such focused attention, such single-minded purpose. Like he was cataloging every hitch of my breath, every shiver and moan, committing them to memory.
Heat climbs up my neck and I glance away from him, willing the memory to fade quickly.
“The top shelf might be out of your eyeline. It’s not your fault.” His eyes glint with something dangerously close to amusement.
I stare at him, locking my expression down. “Are you calling me short, husband?”
It feels like a magic word, something I can pull out and use against him whenever I want. I don’t know how long it’ll last before the magic wears off, so I need to get in some time now.
“You’re perfect exactly as you are, Francesca. And it’s a good thing these shelves aren’t any taller,” he replies smoothly, leaning a shoulder against the bookcase. “Wouldn’t want my wife to need a step stool.”
I narrow my eyes at him playfully. “I can reach the top shelf just fine, thank you very much.”
Graham’s lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Sure you can, sunshine. That’s why I had to fix the inconsistent depths for you.”
I scoff, but a smile tugs at my mouth. There’s something so easy about this banter with him, a playfulness that feels natural, unforced. Like we’ve been doing this dance for years instead of months.
“You’re lucky you’re so hot,” I mutter, shaking my head.
His eyebrows lift, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his face. “You think I’m hot?”
Heat floods my cheeks and I look away, suddenly fascinated by the bookshelf in front of me. “I mean, we are married.”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around me like an embrace. “Right. About that.” He pushes off the bookshelf and saunters toward me, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
My heart trips in my chest as he nears, his large frame taking up more and more space until he’s right in front of me, crowding me back against the bookshelf. His hands come to rest on either side of my head, caging me in. His warmth bleeds into me, his clean scent filling my head until I’m dizzy with it.
“I didn’t properly greet my wife, did I?”
I let my head fall back onto one of the shelves behind me. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, tasting the sweetness of anticipation. “Must’ve slipped your mind.”
He hums, closing the distance between us. “A mistake I won’t make again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine with every word.
“Prove it,” I whisper against his mouth, a challenge and an invitation all at once.
He captures my lips in a searing kiss. It’s deep and possessive, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to stake his claim. I moan into his mouth, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders, anchoring myself to him.
He presses me further into the bookshelf, the hard planes of his body molding to my softer curves. Desire licks through me, hot and urgent, pooling low in my belly.
It’s over as quickly as it begins. He breaks the kiss, pulling back a step. “How’s that for a proper greeting?”
“Much better,” I manage, still a little dazed from the intensity of his kiss.
He smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he takes in my kiss-swollen mouth. “Ready for our coffee walk?”
“Oh, shoot. I’m not dressed for that long of a walk. If I would’ve known, I would have worn different shoes. But I have a couple things I was going to bring to your house?—”
“Our house.”
I smirk and nod. “Our house.” I don’t think of it as my house yet, not really. But I think I could get there one day.
I repeat the words in my head. Our house . It still feels like I’m a guest, like I’m playing house instead of actually living there. I’m sure it’s because it’s only been a day. But when he says it so easily, like it’s a given, something inside me warms. I think I could get there one day.
He studies me for a beat. “What shoes?”
I frown. “What?”
“What shoes do you need?”
“Oh, just my sneakers.”
He nods once. “Keys?”
I blink at him, confused. “What?”
“Your car keys, sunshine.”
My brows furrow but I dig in my purse, pulling out my key ring and handing it over. “Why do you need my keys?”
He snags it with a smirk. “Stay here.”
Before I can respond, he’s out the door, the bell jingling in his wake. I stare after him, more than a little baffled. I busy myself with tidying the counter, and ten minutes later, he’s back with my oversized book tote bag.
He sets it on the counter and pulls out my sneakers. “Problem solved.”
I stare at him, then down at the shoes, then back up at him. “You drove all the way home just to get my sneakers?”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You needed them.”
Something warm and fluttery unfurls in my chest. It’s such a small thing, but it’s everything. He’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m making this a big deal. Like it was a simple solution to a simple problem. But it wasn’t simple.
No one has ever done something like this for me. Not in the way Graham just did. Quietly, without question, without expectation.
I wet my lips, shifting my weight. “You’re kind of amazing.”
Graham shrugs. “Efficient.”
I shake my head, a soft smile playing at my lips as I toe off my sandals and slide my feet into the sneakers. Graham and Romeo watch me, their gazes steady and warm.
As I lace up my shoes, I glance at the tote bag on the counter, remembering what else I wanted to bring home. “Oh, I was going to bring Myrtle back with me. I don’t think she can survive here without me.”
He arches a single brow. “Myrtle?”
I nod, moving toward the back room. “I got her right before I moved here.” I emerge from the back room with Myrtle in my arms, her glossy green leaves brushing against my cheek.
Graham’s eyebrows lift as he takes in the small fiddle leaf fig tree in my arms.
“Myrtle, meet Graham. Graham, Myrtle,” I announce with a grin.
He blinks, then shakes his head with a chuckle. “Of course you named your plant.”
I shrug, shifting Myrtle’s weight. “Everyone deserves a name. Don’t you think?”
His eyes soften as he watches me cradle Myrtle close. His lips curve into a small, almost tender smile. “Francesca.”
How can he say so much by just uttering my name. The tone and inflection carries a hundred different meanings.
He steps closer, gently taking Myrtle from my arms. His fingers brush against mine, sending a tingle up my arm. “Let’s get her home then.”
I nod, my throat suddenly tight with emotion. Home. Our home. With Graham and Romeo and now Myrtle too. It feels right in a way I never expected.
We walk out of the bookstore together, Myrtle cradled in Graham’s arms and Romeo trotting happily beside us. The sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks.
I tip my face toward the sky, letting the warm breeze caress my skin. Graham's arm brushes against mine as we walk, a casual touch that feels anything but.
I glance over at him, taking in his strong profile, the way his forearms flex as he holds Myrtle steady. He's so handsome it steals my breath sometimes. More than that, he's good. Kind.
The type of man who drives out of his way to get his wife the right shoes without a second thought.
And I—I am so screwed.