3. Francesca
3
FRANCESCA
five years ago
The air feels too thick, like I’m wading through split pea soup, slow and sluggish, my senses all off.
Main Street in Avalon Falls stretches ahead of me, unchanged, like it’s been trapped in time. The same brick storefronts, the same faded awnings, the same old-fashioned streetlights that flicker on at dusk, buzzing faintly in the quiet.
I should feel something. Nostalgia, maybe. Or familiarity.
Instead, I feel nothing.
Nothing except the heavy, aching kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones when grief has worn you down to the marrow.
I haven’t been back here in five years. Not since the night I let my sister drag me out of my one and only college party. It took months for me to stop thinking about that guy I met.
Graham .
After one particularly bad night at home, I caved—I looked him up. Turns out, searching Graham, baseball, and Sterling University was enough. Three clicks, and there he was—stone-faced and serious, staring back at me from a roster photo.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reach out strong. But I stopped myself before I could go through with it.
What was the point?
I was stuck on the other side of the country with a fiancé I didn’t want, living a life that wasn’t mine.
And now, I’m here. And the weight of everything I lost, everything I tried to outrun, everything I thought I’d never have to face again presses against my ribs, threatening to crack me open.
The loss of Aunt Miriam isn’t just the loss of an incredible woman. It’s the loss of the last, fragile thread of hope I had.
My mother’s sister never played by their rules. She carved her own path, refused to be just another Carrington heiress, and when she finally broke free, they cut her off without hesitation.
She packed up, moved across the country, and married a man ten years younger, a musician with calloused fingers and a devil-may-care grin. She opened a bookstore instead of hosting charity galas, spent her days surrounded by stories instead of stock portfolios, and never once looked back.
She was the only person who ever looked at me and saw something more than an Ashburn daughter, more than a pawn in a carefully arranged future. The only one who ever made me believe I could have more.
And now she’s gone.
The thread has snapped, and I’m free-falling.
I slow to a stop in front of a familiar brick building, its large display windows reflecting the dull gray sky above. Gold lettering, once crisp and bright, is now faded across the glass, spelling out the name of a place that should feel like home.
847 Main Street.
Aunt Miriam’s beloved bookstore.
Now, it’s mine. Or at least, it should be.
I clench my jaw, the lawyer’s words replaying in my head like a sick joke.
“The estate has been placed in a trust until you meet the conditions of the will . You are the primary beneficiary, but your parents have been appointed as executors until you turn thirty.”
A bitter laugh catches in my throat. Of course they have. Of course my parents found a way to control something that was never supposed to be theirs.
I shift my weight, my pulse drumming beneath my skin.
“You need to prove you’re capable of handling the estate before you can claim it.”
Which is bullshit. If Aunt Miriam wanted me to have it, if she trusted me with her legacy, why does a court need to agree? Why do my parents get to stand in the way?
Why does my mother need to control everything?
My eyes burn as I stare at the bookstore that should belong to me. They’ll never let me have it. Not really. Not unless I play their game.
Shame swells inside me, a tidal wave crashing against the overwhelming grief.
Five years ago, I talked a big game. I was so sure I’d get out, carve out a life on my own terms. Follow in Aunt Miriam’s footsteps. Prove that I could be more than the daughter my family groomed me to be.
But I’m still right here. The exact place I swore I’d never be, drowning under the impossible weight of their expectations.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories, the regrets, the shame clinging to me like a second skin.
Coffee. I need coffee before I can face any of this, before I can sit across from lawyers and make decisions about the rest of Aunt Miriam’s estate.
Before I let the reality of what I’ve lost settle too deep.
I turn away from the bookstore, my sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk as I head down the street. I push open the door to the coffee shop, the bell above jingling softly. The scent of fresh espresso and warm cinnamon wraps around me, a small comfort against the harsh reality pressing in from the outside.
It’s the same as I remember—cozy, unpretentious, the kind of place that never needed to change.
I step up to the counter and order an iced latte, grateful for the familiarity of the routine. The barista rings me up, and I reach inside my purse for my wallet.
But my fingers don’t find the smooth, supple leather.
My stomach drops. I freeze, pawing uselessly through my bag, heat creeping up my neck. I check my pockets next, even though I already know it’s not there.
I must’ve left it at the lawyer’s office.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, already bracing for the awkwardness of backing out of my order. “I’m sorry, I misplaced my wallet.”
“I’ve got it.”
The deep voice comes from behind me. Gruff. Unfamiliar.
I turn slowly, my heart kicking against my ribs.
And there he is.
Graham Carter.
His name slips from my lips softer than I mean it to, like I’m testing the shape of it, making sure it still fits.
He’s tall. Broader than I remember. His chest and arms—bigger, stronger, filling out the space around him effortlessly. The last time I saw him, his hair curled around his ears, thick and unruly.
Now it’s long enough to be pulled back—tied at the nape of his neck in one of those messy man buns that shouldn’t look good on anyone, but somehow does on him. A few strands have escaped, brushing the sharp angles of his jaw.
But his eyes.
His eyes are the same.
The same deep hazel, flecks of moss green bright around his pupils. The same gaze I spent too many months trying to forget.
A shiver runs through me, a strange sensation curling at the base of my spine.
Did I . . . just conjure this man from my thoughts alone?
His brows pull together, just slightly. Recognition flickers in his eyes, fast but certain.
I open my mouth, then close it again. My fingers curl at my sides, a sharp pulse of heat creeping up my neck.
I clear my throat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I—” I start, then falter, my cheeks burning. “Thank you.”
Something passes across his face—something sharp, knowing. Or maybe I’m just exhausted and seeing things.
“It’s nothing.” He taps his credit card against the reader, and I know I should step aside, give him some space, but I can’t make myself move.
There’s a warmth that saunters through my veins at his proximity, slow and unhurried. The man is just so . . . big .
“Thanks, Carter,” the barista says. “And ma’am, your latte will be ready at the end of the counter.”
“Right. Thank you,” I murmur, stepping toward the pickup area. I glance back at Graham. “And thank you again.” I force a grin, still feeling the hot flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.
He doesn’t smile back, doesn’t say you’re welcome—he just dips his chin.
Then he turns as the barista asks, “What can I get for you?”
I should stop staring. I really should. But I don’t. Because watching him is fascinating.
He orders a black coffee, voice low and even, and I swear even that’s attractive.
He was big five years ago, but now? Now he’s the kind of big that seems almost unfair. Like the kind of man you’d expect on the cover of a bodice-ripper, all broad shoulders and rough hands, a woman tossed over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
I bet he lives at the gym.
He strolls toward me, catching my gaze and holding it.
My grin widens the closer he gets. “You probably don’t remember me, but we’ve met before. I’m?—”
“Francesca.” His voice is steady, certain, cutting through my words like a blade.
I blink up at him, my stomach flipping. I don’t know what I expected—hesitation, maybe. A polite oh yeah, I think I remember.
But not this.
Not the way he says my name like there was never a chance he’d forget it.
I swallow, suddenly too aware of the space between us. Or maybe just how small that space feels.
God, I must be exhausted. My mind is playing tricks on me again.
“What are you doing here?”
His voice is gruff, low, exactly how I remember it.
It pulls me out of my own head, grounding me back in the moment. I shift on my feet, flicking my braid over my shoulder. “Oh. My aunt died.”
His expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I nod, swallowing past the sudden emotion in my throat. “Thank you. I’m just here taking care of some of her things . . .” I wave a hand vaguely, like that explains anything.
Something about the way he looks at me makes my stomach twist again. I don’t know what I expect—pity, maybe. That soft, empty sympathy people offer when they don’t know what else to say.
But that’s not what he’s doing. His gaze is steady, unreadable. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
I exhale, shifting slightly, letting my gaze roam over his face, trying to catalog the differences between the version of him I remember and the man standing in front of me now.
Granted, the version of him in my head was never quite real to begin with.
A strange mix of college photos online, a missed connection, five years of distance, and too many romance novels. A carefully curated what-if, built from scraps of memory and fantasy.
It’s silly. Childish .
I tear my gaze away and glance around the coffee shop. It’s not busy—a little less than half the tables occupied, the low hum of conversation filling the space. Most people look away the second my gaze meets theirs.
I’d forgotten what that was like—the small-town feel of Avalon Falls, where curiosity is quiet but ever-present. I don’t hate it.
I force some brightness into my voice, injecting a little extra pep as I turn back to Graham. “You ever have those days where you think an iced latte might change your life?”
He arches a brow, his expression somewhere between amused and skeptical. “Change your life.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to curb the grin that threatens to expose all my undoubtedly inappropriate thoughts about this virtual stranger.
“Yeah. You know, when you’re having a bad day and you think, gosh, an iced caramel latte might change everything. Turn the day around. Which might actually change everything.”
He stares at me, completely deadpan. “I’ve never had an iced caramel latte.”
This time, I don’t bother hiding my smile. A low chuckle rises in my chest, warming something inside me, blanketing all the many, many cracks between my ribs and around my heart.
“You’re funny, Graham Carter.”
His gaze lingers on mine for a beat too long, unreadable. Then, just as I start to wonder if I imagined the moment, he exhales and shakes his head.
“I’m really not. You’re probably just grieving.”
The barista’s voice cuts through the space between us. “Iced caramel latte. Americano.”
I take a step toward the coffees, but Graham’s gruff “I got it” stops me in my tracks. He twists toward the counter, reaching for the drinks, and the material of his forest green henley stretches taut over his back and shoulders.
Jesus. The man’s biceps are massive. Like, truly unfair levels of big.
I bet he could toss me over his shoulder if he wanted to.
The thought flares out of nowhere, hot and ridiculous, and I shove it down before it can go any further.
He turns back, extending my latte to me. I reach for it, and our fingers brush, just enough to send a sharp jolt up my arm.
His grip lingers for a half second longer, his gaze flicking down to my hand.
“Married?”
I arch a brow over the rim of my cup as I take a slow sip. “Not married.”
Yet, a snarky voice in my mind adds. It sounds a lot like my sister. She wouldn’t be wrong, but she wouldn’t be right either. It’s a gray area, a limbo of sorts.
Graham’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his cup, his head tilting just slightly. Not a huge reaction, but enough. I catch the faint crease between his brows before he smooths it out.
“You seem surprised by that,” I murmur, taking another sip.
The caramel here is rich, the flavor deeper, almost buttery—freshly made instead of pumped from a bottle. A small luxury that somehow makes the moment feel more real.
“I thought you would be by now.” It’s not a dig. Just a contemplative hum, a small nod, like he’s acknowledging something that I don’t understand.
Technically, I’m still betrothed to Giovanni Bandini. But we have an agreement of sorts. As long as I’m in school, we won’t get married. So I’ve been enrolled in college for six years now. Three major changes, and now a double major to tack on another three. Just call me a career student.
Not because I love school. I don’t.
I just love the illusion of freedom. The fragile, temporary distance from my family’s expectations. From a future I never chose.
But that explanation is too long and too humiliating. So I just shake my head and take another sip instead.
I shift my weight, wrapping both hands around my drink. “What about you? Married? Kids? Did you go on to win Nationals?”
I already know the answer to that, but I can’t exactly say that.
His brows lift slightly, a flicker of something passing through his expression. “Yeah, we did. It was my senior year, so then I graduated and started my own business.”
I tilt my head, curiosity creeping in. “Oh, wow, that’s amazing. What do you do?”
“Cybersecurity.”
If it wasn’t for the steady eye contact, the quiet intensity beneath his words, I might think his short answers were a sign that he didn’t want to talk to me.
But I don’t think Graham Carter does anything he doesn’t want to do.
So as long as he’s standing in front of me, I’m going to keep talking to him.
I laugh, taking another sip of my latte. “I have to be honest—I don’t really know what that entails.”
“Most people don’t.”
There’s no arrogance in the way he says it. Just a simple, steady truth.
I tilt my head. “And are you married? Kids?”
“No.” The word is clipped, final, but not uncomfortable.
I don’t know why I expected something else—a longer answer, maybe. An explanation. But Graham Carter doesn’t offer explanations, apparently.
I study him for a beat, fingers curled around my latte, letting the cold bleed into my palms.
“Huh,” I say finally, taking another sip. “I figured someone would’ve locked you down by now.”
His lips twitch, a barely-there flicker of amusement. “Locked me down?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. You know, lured you in with promises of home-cooked meals and back rubs, maybe convinced you to get a dog.”
His head tilts slightly, that sharp hazel gaze never straying from mine. “I’m not a dog person.”
I press my palm against my chest and lean forward slightly, letting out an exaggerated little gasp. “Does that mean you’re a cat person?”
He huffs a little, and for half a second, it almost sounds like the beginning of a laugh. “I’m not a pet person.”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “That feels like a red flag.”
He arches a brow, but before I can tease him further, my phone vibrates inside my back pocket. I slip it out, glancing at the reminder I set earlier.
Lawyer’s office. 2:30.
Right. Back to reality. I exhale, turning back to Graham, suddenly aware that I don’t really want to leave.
“Well,” I say, gripping my cup a little tighter. “Thanks for the coffee, Graham. I owe you one.”
He studies me for a second, then dips his chin in a slow nod. “Until next time, Francesca.”
Something flutters low in my stomach, entirely unwelcome. My fingers flex around my cup, and for a split second, I almost ask for his number.
But I don’t. Because what’s the point?
Dragging someone like Graham Carter into the mess that is my family, my life, my carefully extended engagement? It would be selfish .
So I let the moment pass.
I nod instead, forcing a small smile before turning toward the door.
I don’t look back.
But I want to.