33. Francesca
33
FRANCESCA
I expected questions. A barrage of them, really. If I was Hazel, and my son married a woman I’d never met, I’d have a boatful of questions in my back pocket.
But the Carter family is largely gentle in their curiosity. Eloise is delighted to hear that I’m the owner of Fiction & Folklore, since her younger sister loves the store. I, of course, refrain from telling her that I recognized her already. Peach-colored hair stands out in the best way in this town.
Cora and I chatted about her bakery. She told me about some kind of ube vegan ice cream sandwich recipe she makes that sounds delicious. I caught Graham dipping his chin to Cora’s boyfriend, Jagger, during the conversation, and I have a feeling he’ll be putting in a custom order for a Tuesday walk soon.
Lucas raises his glass, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “To Graham and Francesca. May your marriage be filled with love, laughter, and endless adventures together.”
“To Graham and Francesca,” everyone echoes, clinking glasses.
I take a sip of the bubbly champagne, the effervescence tickling my nose. Graham’s hand finds my thigh under the table. A small, intimate gesture that makes warmth bloom in my chest.
"So, how did you two meet?" Lucas asks, leaning back in his chair. “Graham’s been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing.”
I glance at Graham, who gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. We discussed this earlier, agreeing on a version of the truth without all the finer details.
“We met at Fiction and Folklore actually,” I say with a smile. “Graham came in looking for a book and we got to talking. He started coming by more often and, well, one thing led to another.” I shrug, trying to appear casual even as my heart races. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
Hazel smiles and nods. “And what was the moment?”
I blink. “The moment?”
“The moment you knew Graham was it for you,” Hazel says, glancing at her husband with fondness.
“Oh, uh?—”
“It was a college party, actually,” Graham interrupts. “That was the first time we met. Almost a decade ago. We’d just won the championship, and I played that night, so I wasn’t in the mood to party, but?—”
“I made you stay,” Beau says.
But I can’t pull my gaze from Graham’s expression to look at his brother or anyone else.
“Yeah,” Graham grunts. “And so I was sulking against the wall. Until I saw her.” His eyes soften as they meet mine, a small, private smile curving his lips. “Francesca was dancing alone, in the middle of a crowded room, completely lost in the music.” His fingers flex against my thigh, like he’s remembering it in real time. “She was smiling, like she didn’t have a single care in the world. I don’t know how long I stood there and watched her. Too long probably.”
My breath catches in my throat. I remember that night. The thrum of the bass, the heat of too many bodies packed into a small space. My sister showed up and tried to talk me into going home early, but I was determined to stay my full year at school. She insisted on going to the house party with me and then ditched me for hours. But I didn’t care. I danced and danced and danced.
“And then I went searching for water and I found you,” I murmur, my smile twisting to the side.
Graham’s hand curls inward, his fingers sliding down my inner thigh as he adjusts his grip.
“Well this puts a new spin on tall drink of water ,” Beau mutters with a laugh.
Graham’s thumb rubs slow circles on my thigh, sending tingles of heat racing across my skin. “You walked right up to me, all flushed and breathless.” His voice drops an octave, rough and intimate. “Looked up at me with those big golden eyes, and I handed you my drink. That’s when I knew.”
My heart stutters in my chest at his words.
“So you, what, didn’t talk for ten years then? I’m confused. If you met in college, what took you so long?” Cora asks as she takes a sip of her champagne. There’s no malice in her question, just genuine curiosity.
I wet my lips and drag my gaze from Graham. It takes more effort than it should considering I’m surrounded by his family. “I had to move back home.”
“But you’re back now? Where’s home?” Cora asks.
“Here,” Graham grunts.
Lucas smothers a laugh with a cough, and it breaks the mounting tension. But Graham’s shoulders never relax and his hand never leaves my thigh. Beau cracks a joke and Eloise laughs. Jagger whispers something in Cora’s ear that has her blushing. Hazel never peels her gaze from the space between me and her son, a small smile lifting her mouth.
And I feel it then. That old ache. Because this is so different from my family it’s laughable.
As the meal winds down, everyone starts to clear the table. Cora and Beau argue good-naturedly over who has to do the dishes, while Jagger and Eloise gather up the leftover food. I stand to help, but Hazel waves me off with a smile.
“Sit, relax. You’re our guest,” she insists, patting my shoulder as she passes by with an armload of plates.
I sink back into my chair, a little overwhelmed by the easy affection and warmth of this family. Graham’s hand finds mine under the table, his fingers lacing through my own. I glance over at him, finding him already watching me with a soft, tender expression that makes my heart flip.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
I nod, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “More than okay. Your family is wonderful, Graham.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, the simple touch grounding me. “You fit right in.”
“You think so?” I hate how small my voice sounds.
“I know it.”
As if summoned by my happiness, my phone vibrates inside my purse. I slip it out and see my mother’s name flash on the screen. I bite the inside of my cheek and let it go to voicemail. It’s probably an accident. My mother doesn’t call me. If she needs something, she usually sends her message through Florence.
I exhale when it stops vibrating, my home screen lighting up with five missed calls from her.
“Shit,” I whisper, my heart skipping a beat. I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry, I just need to take this. I’ll be right back.”
I hurry out of the dining room, my heels clicking against the floor as I make my way to the front door. I step onto the porch and take a steadying breath before calling my mother back.
She answers on the first ring. “Oh good. I thought I’d need to send the sheriff's department to your little flat. Because the only way you’d ignore my calls is if you were dead.”
“Mother,” I greet, trying to keep my voice level. “I apologize, I was at dinner and my phone was in my purse.”
“A dinner party on a Sunday night, Francesca? Don’t insult me again.” Her voice is sharp, each word precisely enunciated. “In fact, I should contact Rupert and have him add an addendum to our contract. It seems the only way you behave is when I threaten you legally.”
I close my eyes briefly, counting to three in my head before responding. My anxiety is spiking, and I hate this feeling. How can she be a thousand miles away and still have the safe effect on me as if she’s standing in front of me?
“I’m sorry, Mother. I—” Self-loathing curdles in my gut like spoiled milk, swallowing the rest of my explanation. I hate how easily I slide back into that role. Not when I’ve spent the last six months growing out of it.
Temporary insanity. An out of body experience. Lucid dreaming.
Alien abduction.
It’s the only explanation for what comes out of my mouth next.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t answer because I was having dinner with my husband and his family.”
The line goes quiet. Long enough that I pull my phone away from my ear to make sure the call didn’t drop. It didn’t. She’s intentionally being quiet, which is worse than if she was raging at me.
My heartbeat echoes inside my ears, and it feels like I might hop right out of my skin I’m so scared.
“Francesca. Tell me you didn’t marry Giovanni Baldini without telling your family about it.” Each word is a controlled bite of rage.
I swallow and roll my shoulders back. God, I wish Romeo was here. He’s like an emotional support fluff, and I think I need some grounding right now.
“I didn’t.”
She exhales. “Thank god. You would’ve ruined everything if you married him without giving me a chance to plan it. We need this wedding to be big. I don’t have to remind you how important this merger is for us, do I? Because your father?—”
“You misunderstood,” I interrupt her for the first time maybe in my entire life.
“Excuse me?” she seethes.
“I said you misunderstood. I’m already married. And it’s not to Giovanni Baldini.”
There’s a beat of silence. “You little bitch. You’re going to pay for making me fix this mistake of yours. Why can’t you be more like your sister, hm? Instead of always making my life harder. You’re an ungrateful child, Francesca, and?—”
“Gotta go, Mom. It hasn’t been a pleasure talking to you.” It’s the second time interrupting her, and it feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
I hang up the phone, my fingers tingling with adrenaline.
“Shit,” I whisper. “What did I just do?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath, my heart pounding against my ribs as I stare down at my phone in disbelief. Did I really just hang up on my mother? After telling her I got married without her knowledge or permission? To someone who isn’t Giovanni Baldini?
A laugh bubbles up my throat, edged with hysteria and giddy liberation. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it spills out anyway, echoing in the quiet night air.
Holy shit. I did that. I stood up to Catherine Kennedy Carrington Ashburn and lived to tell the tale. Lightning didn’t strike me down and the world didn’t end.
I feel incredible. Alive and liberated. Like I want to celebrate.
“Francesca.” His voice is lower than usual, rougher.
I spin around and see my husband standing on the porch, the fading sun highlighting his jawline. My legs move of their own accord, carrying me toward him in quick, purposeful strides. The adrenaline from my conversation with my mother still sings in my veins, making me feel reckless and bold. Invincible.
He watches me approach, his brows knitting together. “Francesca, what?—”
But I don’t let him finish. I launch myself at him, jumping up and wrapping my arms around his neck. He catches me effortlessly, his strong hands gripping the backs of my thighs as my legs wind around his waist.
I crash my lips to his in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of exhilaration and triumph into it. He makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat but recovers quickly, his arms banding around me as he returns the kiss with equal fervor.
His lips are firm and demanding against mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to claim me. I moan into the kiss, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging him impossibly closer. He tastes like champagne and something uniquely him, and I can’t get enough.
I pull back, panting against his lips. “Take me home.”