11. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he morning air is crisp, the kind that makes you feel alive and ready to tackle anything. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I step out of my car, clutching my planner like a shield.
Graham’s house stands ahead, tucked at the edge of Bardstown, where the trees grow thick, and the air smells faintly of pine. It’s quiet here, far removed from the buzz of the town square. Peaceful. I can see why he likes it.
I take a deep breath, my nerves buzzing as I walk up the gravel path toward the house. The grass on the walkway is a little moist as I can see the drops on my shoes, but it’s nothing a quick clean later can’t fix. After how things went at the pork festival, I debated whether approaching him again was a good idea. But the work he did for the festival was incredible. It’s clear he has an eye for detail and a way of bringing spaces to life, and if anyone can help me pull off Riley and Ethan’s dream wedding, it’s him.
And so, here I am.
I knock on the open door, stepping inside, when I hear the faint scrape of a chair.
Graham looks up from his drafting table, his expression unreadable as always. He’s in a gray T-shirt and jeans, ink stains lightly smudging his hands, and for a moment, I’m struck by how at ease he looks here—completely in his element.
“Sophie,” he says, his tone neutral. “What brings you by?”
I step further in, clutching my planner a little tighter. “I wanted to talk to you about the wedding, specifically the Holloway mansion. I still haven’t gotten your email, and time is running out .”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the bench. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy. I haven’t finalized all the designs yet, but I’m working on them.”
I glance around the room, the walls lined with tools and sketches pinned haphazardly to a corkboard. It’s practical, no-nonsense, exactly what I’d expect from him.
“I know things have been… a little tense between us. Especially after the games yesterday,” I start, choosing my words carefully. “And I just want to say that I’m sorry if I pushed too hard at the festival. That wasn’t my intention.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything, his gaze steady on me.
I press on, refusing to let his silence throw me off. “I hope none of it gets in the way of our work relationship here.”
Graham crosses his arms, his expression guarded. “It won’t.”
I smile, feeling better about this. I could have easily emailed him, but I had a strong feeling he would stall. “That’s all I came out here to say. I’ll be expecting your work on the Holloway estate. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
As I leave his house and step back into the fresh morning air, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Graham may have his walls, but I’m determined to prove we can create something incredible together.
Even if I have to tiptoe around those walls to do it.
M ia’s flower shop smells like heaven—fresh blooms, earthy greens, and a faint hint of lavender candles burning on the counter. It’s the perfect neutral ground for Graham and me to work, and I appreciate Mia for offering it.
The flower shop is quieter than I expected today, the usual hum of customers replaced by the soft rustle of leaves as Graham moves a potted fern out of the way to make space for his sketches. Instead of sending the email as we agreed, he said we should meet face-to-face and discuss the plans. And, of course, I oblige. He’s already spread out his tools—pencils, rulers, and a notebook filled with rough ideas for the Holloway estate layout.
I pull up a chair across from him, carefully setting my planner on the table. “Ready to dive in?”
He nods, his expression focused as he begins outlining the plans we’ve been discussing. His precision is remarkable, every line deliberate and exact. I try to focus on my notes, but my eyes keep drifting to him, to the way his hands move across the page with a confidence that feels effortless.
Graham Cole isn’t just good at what he does. He’s extraordinary.
The more I watch him work, the more I realize how wrong Bardstown feels for someone like him. His talent is the kind you see in big cities, designing parks that become landmarks or estates that make the covers of luxury magazines. He could thrive anywhere—anywhere but here.
And yet, here he is.
I remind myself not to wonder why. He’s made it clear that his personal life is off-limits, and I’m determined not to push him again. The last thing I want is to complicate things when we’re finally making progress for Riley and Ethan’s big day.
Still, something about him makes it hard to look away.
“Do you have the seating chart?” Graham asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Oh, right,” I say, flipping through my planner until I find the page. “Here it is. Riley wants the guests seated in a semicircle, facing the fountain.”
He nods, glancing at the sketch. “That works. I’ll adjust the walkway to lead into the seating area.”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that, exchanging ideas and fine-tuning details. I do my best to focus on the work, but now and then, my gaze drifts back to Graham—his quiet concentration, the way he leans over the table as he draws.
A few days later, we’re back at the flower shop, deep in the planning process. The Holloway mansion is shaping up beautifully on paper, and I can already picture how it will look on the big day—elegant, romantic, exactly what Riley wants.
But today, I’m feeling off.
It starts with a faint headache, followed by a wave of dizziness that makes me grip the edge of the table for support.
“You okay?” Graham asks, glancing up from his sketch.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, though my voice comes out weaker than I’d like.
He frowns, standing and moving toward me. “You don’t look fine. Sit down.”
I shake my head, trying to brush it off. “I’m just a little tired. It's been a lot between Riley and my clients in Manhattan, but I’m managing.”
“Sophie,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, I lower myself into the chair, still gripping the table's edge as the dizziness ebbs and flows. Graham disappears into the back room, returning moments later with a glass of water.
“Drink,” he says, handing it to me.
I take it, grateful for the coolness against my palm. “Thanks.”
He watches me closely, his expression unreadable. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though the words feel hollow.
“No, you’re not,” he counters. “You’re overworked, and it’s catching up with you. Take the rest of the day off.”
“I can’t,” I protest weakly. “There’s too much to do?—”
“I’ll handle it,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind.
I stare at him, surprised by the offer. “You’ll handle it?”
“Yes,” he says, already turning back to the table. “Go home. Rest. I’ll finish the sketches for today.”
For a moment, I consider arguing, but the truth is, I don’t have the energy. The dizziness has drained me, leaving me feeling fragile in a way I hate.
“Okay,” I say quietly, setting the glass down. “But only for today.”
He nods, already focused on his work again.
I linger for a moment, watching as he picks up his pencil and leans over the table. His concentration is absolute, his hand steady as he brings the sketches to life with a precision that feels almost hypnotic.
Something about his calm, methodical, yet completely immersed work style makes it impossible to look away.
I wonder, not for the first time, what brought him to Bardstown. What made someone with this kind of talent choose a small town over a bigger stage?
But I don’t ask.
Instead, I gather my things and quietly slip out of the shop, leaving him to his sketches and my thoughts to their questions.
And as I drive back to Mia’s house, I can’t shake the image of him—head bent over the table, entirely in his element.
Graham Cole might be a mystery, but he’s also undeniably brilliant.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes him so hard to ignore.
B y the time I get home, my body feels heavier than usual, the kind of exhaustion that settles in your bones and refuses to budge. I head straight to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and stepping into a cold shower. The icy water shocks my senses, but it’s exactly what I need—a reset button for both my body and my mind.
Afterward, I collapse onto my bed, pulling the comforter up to my chin. The combination of the shower and the room's quiet lulls me to sleep almost instantly.
“Sophie?”
Mia’s voice filters into my dreams, pulling me reluctantly back to reality.
I blink my eyes open to find her standing in my doorway, her head tilted in curiosity. “You okay? You’ve been out for a while.”
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just needed a nap. It’s been a long day.”
Mia steps inside, leaning against the doorframe. “Long enough that you left the flower shop early? That’s not like you.”
“Graham made me leave,” I admit with a faint smile. “He said I was overworking myself and needed to rest.”
Mia’s eyebrows shoot up, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Graham made you leave? The same Graham who keeps everyone at arm’s length?”
I roll my eyes, already bracing myself for her comments. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” she says, her grin widening. “Maybe the two of you are finally starting to understand each other.”
“We’re just learning to work together without making things awkward,” I say quickly, though even I can hear the hesitation in my voice. “That’s it.”
Mia doesn’t buy it for a second. “But he intrigues you, doesn’t he?”
I sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “A little. Okay, a lot. There’s… something about him. He’s so good at what he does, and he’s so closed off at the same time. It makes me wonder what he’s keeping hidden.”
Mia gives me a knowing look. “You should take him a pie tomorrow as a thank-you for being nice today. It could be a great way to… I don’t know, pick things up.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t need advice from the great matchmaker.”
She smirks, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “Suit yourself. But a pie never hurt anyone.”
With that, she leaves the room, humming to herself as she walks down the hall.
And as much as I hate to admit it, her words stick with me.
The next day, I stop by Bardstown’s bakery on my way to the flower shop, picking up a freshly baked apple pie. I tell myself it’s just a friendly gesture, a thank-you for Graham’s kindness yesterday. But as I walk into the shop, pie in hand, I can’t ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach.
Graham is already at the table, working on one of his sketches. He glances up when I walk in, his expression softening just slightly.
“What’s that?” he asks, nodding toward the box in my hands.
I set it on the table, wondering if I’m doing too much, but open the lid to reveal the golden crust. “Thank you for being nice yesterday and making me leave before I passed out.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he sets down his pencil. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing a couple of plates from the counter. “But I wanted to.”
We sit at the table, and the smell of warm apples and cinnamon fills the air as I cut two slices. The first bite is perfect: flaky crust, sweet filling, and just enough spice.
“This is good,” Graham says, his voice a little lighter than usual.
“Right? Bardstown’s bakery never misses,” I say, grinning. “Manhattan wishes it had a bakery this good!”
We eat in comfortable silence, the kind that feels surprisingly natural. But then, as I take another bite, something sticks to my lips—a crumb from the crust.
Graham notices before I do.
“You’ve got a little something,” he says, gesturing to his upper lip.
I reach up, trying to brush it away. “Here?”
“Higher,” he says, chuckling.
I try again, but apparently, I miss the spot.
“Here, let me,” he says, his voice softening as he leans forward.
Before I can protest, his fingers graze my lips, brushing the crumb away with the gentlest touch, and my breath hitches. My body responds to his touch with so much intensity, it nearly floors me.
The moment lingers, his hand still near my face, his eyes meeting mine.
And just like that, the air between us shifts.
The casual ease from a moment ago is gone, replaced by something heavier, something charged. My skin tingles when his fingers touch me, the sensation radiating outward until it feels like every nerve in my body is on high alert.
He doesn’t move, his gaze locked on mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
“Graham,” I say softly, though I’m not sure what I’m about to say.
His hand drops, and he leans back, breaking the moment.
“Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.
“Don’t be,” I say quickly, my voice barely above a whisper.
But he doesn’t look at me again. Instead, he picks up his fork, focusing on the pie like nothing happened.
I sit there, my heart still racing, wondering how something so simple—so small—could feel so monumental. Graham and I fall silent as we continue working, and I wonder if what just happened between us changes anything.