6. Graham
6
GRAHAM
present day
The scent of fresh espresso and burnt sugar wraps around me as I step inside the coffee shop. Same place. Same routine. The barista doesn’t even ask for my name. Just pours my coffee, hands it over, moves on.
I like it that way. No small talk. No forced conversation. Just hot coffee, a quiet corner, and a chance to clear my head before I get back to work.
Some days, I need a midday break from staring at my screens, swimming in miles of code and broken programming. So I walk the couple of miles into downtown, grab some lunch or a coffee.
A necessary reset. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose twelve hours inside my office.
I take my usual seat by the window, the hum of the espresso machine and the quiet murmur of conversation a comforting backdrop. Outside, Main Street moves at its usual pace.
Same faces. Same storefronts. Same slice of life. Society tries to tell everyone they should hate that. That they should always strive for something bigger, better, faster— more .
But it’s all bullshit.
I mean, sure, dreams are important. Working on your craft? Necessary. But when you achieve those things, when you reach your goals, it’s okay to enjoy it, too. To allow yourself to be content. To sit in your local coffee shop and enjoy a dark roast.
I take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle, but my mind drifts. The familiar hum of the coffee shop fades into the background as my thoughts pull me elsewhere.
I’ve been in this exact spot hundreds of times over the last five years. And every once in a while—when I’m overtired, when my brain is running on too little sleep and too much caffeine—I’ll catch a glimpse of blonde out of the corner of my eye.
Just for a second. Just long enough for something in my chest to go tight. And in that second, before logic catches up—I think it’s her .
It never is.
I know it’s not healthy. I know it’s not normal . But at some point, it just became part of my routine.
Get out of bed. Make coffee. Check the alerts I set up. Drink a protein shake. Go to the gym. Check the alerts. Work. Check the fucking alerts.
Because what if today was different? What if the system picked up something new? What if I finally had a lead?
The fact that I never did should have been enough to make me stop.
It wasn’t.
Not all of the alerts are for her. Some are for clients. Some for passion projects. But she’s always on the list.
A name buried among breach reports, flagged anomalies, and data trails. A ghost in the machine. Forever just out of reach.
At least one good thing came out of all of this. My curiosity forced me to make dozens of modifications and system upgrades for Sentinel and Oracle. Better automation. Smarter search capabilities. The systems can see deeper, scan wider, pull connections faster.
All because of her.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting the warmth hit my bloodstream. The familiar bitterness grounds me, pulls me back to the present.
And that’s when I hear it. A conversation at the next table snags my attention.
“Did you see the old Main Street Books is reopening?” A woman’s voice carries over from the table behind me.
“Yeah, fiction something or other. I saw the owner planting geraniums in flower boxes last week. She seems friendly,” another woman says with a hum.
“There’s no way Barbara Bergen approved flower boxes on a hundred-year-old building.” The first woman snorts.
Barbara Bergen is the head of the Avalon Falls Historical Society. It’s basically a social club for retirees with too much time and too many opinions. They spend their days preserving brick facades, arguing over paint colors, and vetoing anything they think disrupts the “integrity” of downtown.
“I still wonder what happened to Miri. She was such a free spirit. Tragic she left so young.”
“Tragic,” the other woman agrees.
I take another sip of coffee, but it doesn’t taste the same. Something itches at the back of my mind. A name. A vague familiarity. Like a song I’ve heard before but can’t quite place.
I shift in my seat, fingers tapping once against the paper cup before I set it down. Intrigue tiptoes down my spine, one centimeter at a time. I’m not usually one to indulge in small town gossip, but I’m feeling . . . curious today.
I drain the last of my coffee and rise from my seat, the tentative emotion too insistent to ignore now. I toss my empty cup in the trash and push open the door, stepping out onto Main Street.
The afternoon sun hangs high in the sky, bathing the historic brick buildings in a warm, golden glow. I turn right, falling into an easy stride as I head down the sidewalk. The air is crisp, charged—the first hint of a rainstorm lingering on the breeze.
I pass a few shops, the familiar scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery, the soft chime of a bell as someone exits the boutique on the corner.
Then I pass the café, the murmur of conversation spilling out onto the street, the scent of roasted espresso trailing after me.
And that’s when I see it.
The sign catches my attention first.
A new one. Freshly painted. Hanging above the familiar brick storefront that used to house Main Street Books. But now, in elegant script, it reads: Fiction & Folklore.
The sign itself is a work of art, a masterpiece of wood and craftsmanship. The lettering is carved deep, bold and flowing, painted a rich antique gold that catches the afternoon light. The wood is stained a deep mahogany, polished to perfection, the edges softened by delicate etching—like the pages of an old storybook waiting to be opened.
My pulse kicks up, just slightly. I take a step toward the door when my phone rings. Slipping it free, I barely glance at the screen before my eyes snag on the contact photo.
Beau, mid-air over the lake, wearing the smallest pair of swim trunks I’ve ever seen.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my temple as I hit accept.
Shuffling back a few steps, I swipe to answer. “Why is there a half-naked photo of you jumping off the rope swing at the quarry as my contact photo?”
Laughter rumbles through the speaker, loud and unrepentant. “Jesus, it took you long enough to notice.”
“What?” I shake my head, glancing at the sign for Fiction & Folklore once more, the gold lettering gleaming in the afternoon light.
“I changed it like a week ago, bro. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Beau says between chuckles.
I drag my hand down my face, turning on my heel and pacing a few steps down the sidewalk. “We’re all smart. And how the hell did you manage to hack into my phone?”
The amusement in my voice fades as something else creeps in.
Paranoia .
A slow, crawling sensation along the back of my neck, raising the hair there.
Beau doesn’t have my skill set. Which means if he could get into my phone, then just about anyone could. And that? That’s a fucking problem.
“Calm down, man,” Beau says, but there’s a smile in his voice.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders back. “I am calm.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Listen, I’m just reminding you about family dinner tonight.”
I scoff, my eyes rolling before I even realize it. “Mom called you, didn’t she?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Yeah. Just hung up with her, so you’re probably next.”
The corner of my mouth hooks into a smirk. “Doubt it. Not all of us require our mommies to remind us of things.”
Beau whistles. “Damn, bro. You’re extra prickly today. What’s up? Did the numbers not work out for the race or something?”
I close my eyes in an exaggerated blink. “Nah, we’re square with The Alley. The house numbers are solid, the payout’s steady. The roster is full.”
“Ah, just a Tuesday then, yeah?”
I don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking. Feeling smug. The asshole.
I frown into the phone. “Something like that. I gotta go.”
“Later, bro!” The call disconnects, and I slip my phone back into my pocket, my gaze drifting back to the Fiction & Folklore storefront.
Curiosity pulls at me, an itch under my skin that needs scratching. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stroll closer, peering through the large display windows.
Inside, the space is warmer than I remember. Bookshelves line the walls, stretching high toward the exposed rafter ceilings. Vintage floor lamps scatter soft light throughout the store, casting a golden glow over rich hardwood floors. Overstuffed armchairs sit in cozy reading nooks, inviting in a way that feels intentional.
It’s welcoming. Inviting.
The “open” sign is dark, but movement catches my eye. A flash of blonde. Just for a second. Then, gone behind the counter.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m opening the door and stepping inside. A bell chimes softly, announcing my entrance.
The scent of fresh paper and sugared lemons wraps around me, familiar in a way that sends something sharp through my chest. Honey-colored hardwood floors stretch out before me, worn smooth with age.
Soft pop music drifts from hidden speakers.
“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet!” a familiar female voice calls out. Footsteps approach, then she steps out from the back, a box balanced in her arms.
My breath catches, my heart slamming against my ribs. It’s her.
Francesca .
Five years. Five fucking years. It’s an eternity and a blink of an eye.
And she’s just as stunning as I remember.
Honey-blonde hair tumbles past her shoulders, a few strands escaping the clip at the back of her head. A little startled, a little different—and somehow, exactly the same.
“Francesca.” Her name falls from my lips like a goddamn prayer.
She drops the box onto the counter, eyes wide, lips parting with a soft inhale. “Graham?”
I close the distance between us in four long strides, my boots loud in the otherwise quiet space. The details around me blur. Bookshelves, warm lighting, the scent of sugared lemons—all inconsequential.
It’s just her.
I stop short, just in front of her. Close enough to see the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. I can’t bring myself to look away. “Married?”
She shakes her head slowly, just twice, long enough for her hair to slip over one shoulder. “Not married.”
I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. I don’t give myself a single goddamn second to consider all the ways this might be a mistake.
I palm her cheek, my thumb sweeping across her cheekbone, and make myself commit it to memory. The softness of her skin. The sweet, startled noise that slips from her lips. The way her golden eyes go wide, searching.
I lean down, my hand sliding over her cheek, curling around the side of her neck. My fingers tangle in the silky strands at her nape, anchoring me to this moment as I rest my forehead against hers.
Her breath catches, a soft gasp that ghosts across my lips.
I inhale deeply, murmuring, “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why?” she whispers. It sounds like a plea.
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers lightly into the curve of her neck, forcing myself to commit this moment to memory. “I don’t know.”
Her breath shudders. “I’m right here.”
Her words are barely above a whisper, but they slam into me. They settle deep in my chest, reverberating through every inch of me. A weight. A promise. Something I’ve been chasing for longer than I care to admit.
I tilt my head, my nose brushing along hers. “Good.”
The raw vulnerability of the moment settles in my bones. The rational part of my brain screams that this is too much. Way too much.
I don’t even know her. But it feels like I do. Like I have for years.
I’ve been looking for her for so long, I built an image of her in my mind—stitched together from a memory, a moment, a fucking ghost.
And now she’s here. In my hands. And I … I don’t know what to do.
I clear my throat, start to pull back. But before I can take another step, her hand lands on my forearm.
A small touch. But it stops me like an iron grip.
“Wait.”
My body obeys her command before my mind even processes it. I should go. But I don’t. I can’t . I can’t make myself step out of her grasp.
“Why?” Her voice is soft. Uncertain.
She looks up at me, and there’s something in her eyes—something wide, open, almost … hopeful. It pokes at something soft inside of me.
“Why.” I repeat her question as a statement, getting lost in her eyes. In the warmth of them. Like honey poured over gold.
“Why were you looking for me?”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t say I don’t believe in love at first sight, but then I saw you and couldn’t stop thinking about you. No, that seems … insane.
Confessing I had errant thoughts about you at the most inconvenient times, and I simply couldn’t not try to unravel the thread between us feels like too much.
Too revealing. Too strange. So I settle on something that’s truthful, but less unusual.
“You were a mystery. A puzzle I couldn’t figure out.”
“Oh.” A flicker of something crosses her face. “ Oh .” A shift in her expression, too quick to name.
Her fingers slip from my arm, and I feel the loss instantly. Like the pull of something just out of reach.
She lifts one shoulder into a halfhearted shrug. “Mystery solved.”
A soft shuffle pulls my gaze down. A small bundle of golden fur trots around the counter, pressing its snoot against Francesca’s legs.
She blinks, like she’s only just remembering he’s there, then bends down, her fingers sinking into his fluffy coat.
“Still not a dog person?” she asks, her voice lighter now, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
Amusement sparks beneath my skin, sharp and unexpected. I arch a brow. “That’s a dog? It looks like an animatronic stuffed animal.”
She laughs—soft, bright, completely unguarded.
And fuck me. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Goosebumps prickle along my skin, crawling up the back of my neck.
“This is Romeo. He’s a mini Australian Labradoodle.” She rubs her cheek against the top of the dog’s head. “And he’s the goodest boy.”
“Hm.” I study the dog, taking in the small frame, the ridiculous wavy hair. Ears a little too big and long. The way he leans into her touch, tail swishing back and forth, like he’s in heaven.
A beat of silence settles between us, but it doesn’t feel as big as it did five minutes ago. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering whatever . . . this is in here.
I glance at the screen and see one of my biggest client’s names. Shit. “I—I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
“Of course.” Francesca nods, shifting to her feet.
I walk backward toward the door, willingly falling into her hypnotic gaze. “Until next time, Francesca.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Maybe don’t wait five years next time.” It’s delivered with a smirk, but her shoulders never lose the tension.
I nod, walking backward, never breaking our connection as I walk out the door.