7. Francesca
7
FRANCESCA
My heart pounds against my ribs as Graham freaking Carter disappears out the front door, the bell chiming softly behind him. I exhale shakily, one hand pressed against my chest, as if that could somehow steady the erratic rhythm beneath my fingertips.
What just happened?
The last fifteen minutes play on a dizzying loop in my mind. Graham, here, in my store.
His hand on my cheek, my neck.
His skin against mine.
His scent, crisp and clean, like fresh linens and something distinctly male.
Five years. Five long years of wondering, of imagining, of convincing myself I’d built him up too much in my mind. That there was no way the real Graham Carter could live up to the version I’d created.
But I was wrong. So very wrong.
Because the real Graham is better. Stronger. More intense. More everything.
The way he looked at me, his hazel eyes burning into mine like he could see straight through me, down to my very soul. The heat of his palm against my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair. The rasp in his voice when he said my name.
I thought he was going to kiss me. And I think . . . I think I was hoping he would.
I shake my head, a desperate attempt to clear my obviously romance-addled brain. Maybe I need to chill out on the shifter romances. Or at least the alpha male werewolf ones.
Because silently begging a man to kiss me like he’d die if he didn’t seems a little much. Even for me.
Romeo vocalizes next to me, like he’s in on my silent conversation and wholeheartedly agrees.
I crouch down, rubbing behind his ears. “What a good boy you are,” I coo. And it’s true. He’s such a good dog.
I was nervous he’d have an accident in the store or chew on books or something, but so far, he’s been a fluffy little angel. He turns toward me, resting the top of his head against my chest, his tail swishing softly. I like to think of it as his version of a hug.
I run my hand over the length of his back. “You won’t believe this, but we’ve only met a few times before.”
His back leg kicks as I scratch the spot right before his tail, little noises rumbling from his chest. I smile, settling onto the floor next to Romeo, and he immediately climbs into my lap. His warm little body is a comforting weight against my legs as I scratch behind his ears.
I let my mind wander back to Graham.
“Ten years ago at a college party. Then five years later at a coffee shop. The one down the block, actually. When I was here after Aunt Miriam passed away.” My chest tightens at the memory, grief still fresh even after all this time. I hug Romeo a little closer. “And now, here. In my bookstore.”
Even thinking the words my bookstore feels surreal. I’ve spent years working toward this, and it still feels unreal. Like a hazy dream I haven’t fully woken up from.
I exhale slowly, my fingers still absently running through Romeo’s fur as my mind replays the last few minutes over and over. The intensity in Graham’s eyes. The heat of his touch. The way my name sounded on his lips.
Like a promise.
“He said he’s been looking for me,” I whisper to Romeo. “I wonder what that means? Maybe he’s just a curious person.”
I can relate to that. I get curious about a lot of things. For every time someone bemoans the instant gratification of our digital world, I send up a prayer of thanks.
Answers to just about anything in thirty seconds or less.
Can dogs have grapes? No, they’re toxic for dogs.
Best indoor plants for indirect, partial, or full sun? Fiddle leaf fig, snake plant, monstera.
Can you teach yourself how to tango in a week? Not well, but yes.
Romeo tilts his head, his warm brown eyes gazing up at me with so much love, it makes my chest ache a little.
“We don’t deserve dogs, do we?”
He responds by nuzzling his cold, wet nose against my palm, his tail thumping softly against the hardwood floor. I laugh, bending to press a kiss to the top of his fluffy head.
“You’re right, you’re right. I shouldn’t spend so much time analyzing a five-minute interaction with a man I barely know.” Even if that man is Graham Carter, with his intense hazel eyes and broad shoulders. “We’ve got a bookstore to finish setting up.”
I give Romeo one last kiss on his soft, fluffy head and scratch behind his ears before pushing to my feet. He lets out a little whine of protest but settles down on the floor, content to watch me work.
The box I’d been carrying before Graham walked in still sits on the counter where I dropped it, half-opened and waiting. I take a deep breath and step over to it, pulling back the cardboard flaps to reveal stacks of carefully wrapped objects.
One by one, I lift them out and set them on the wooden countertop. Delicate teacups with intricate floral designs, their matching saucers stacked neatly beside them. An antique silver tea strainer, the handle worn smooth from years of use. A collection of mismatched spoons, their slender stems glinting in the afternoon light.
I found these in a chest in the backroom, behind some boxes of supplies and other random things. At first glance, they seemed like nothing special. A random assortment of old teacups and mismatched cutlery. But as I unwrapped each piece, carefully peeling back the thin paper, I realized they were so much more than that.
Tears prick at my eyes as I run my fingertip over the delicate rim of one of the teacups. Aunt Miriam had pulled out this tea set the few times I was able to visit her in Avalon Falls when I was younger. We’d sit at the breakfast nook in her house, sipping tea and nibbling on ginger cookies as she told me stories about far-off places and daring adventures.
For a little girl stuck in a gilded cage, those stolen afternoons with Aunt Miriam were my only tastes of freedom. She made me believe, even just for a few hours at a time, that I could be more than my family’s expectations. More than an Ashburn daughter destined for a carefully orchestrated future.
She saw me. The real me. And she nurtured that spark inside of me, fanning the flames every chance she could. With stories, with encouragement, with quiet moments of connection over steaming cups of tea in mismatched China.
I carefully arrange the delicate teacups on the shelf behind the counter, making sure each one is displayed just so. The silver tea strainer goes in the center, the worn spoons fanned out artfully beside it. When I’m done, I take a step back and admire my handiwork.
It’s perfect. A little piece of Aunt Miriam, right here in the heart of my bookstore. Tears blur my vision and I blink rapidly, determined not to cry again today. I’ve shed enough tears these past few months to fill an ocean. It’s time to look forward, not behind me.
With a deep breath, I turn back to the remaining boxes of supplies waiting to be unpacked. There are still so many little details to finalize before the grand opening next week. The shelves are full of books and the two display tables are done.
But for the first time in a long time, the work ahead of me feels exciting rather than daunting.
This bookstore, this fresh start, this chance to break free of my family’s expectations and follow my own path. It’s everything I’ve been dreaming of for years.
And now it’s finally within reach. I can almost taste it. I imagine it tastes like ripe, sweet strawberries, feels like warm summer sunshine on my face, like an amazing book that has me kicking my feet.
Romeo pads over and flops down at my feet, letting out a contented sigh. I grin down at him, then turn my attention back to the remaining boxes.
“Alright, you fluffy little meatball. Let’s get back to work.”
I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of unpacking and organizing, my earlier encounter with Graham slowly fading to the back of my mind. There’s something soothing about the methodical work, about seeing the bookstore come together piece by piece, detail by detail.
The minutes tick by and before I know it, the warm golden glow of the afternoon sun has faded to dusky blue twilight outside the bookstore windows. I straighten up from where I was crouched restocking the lower shelves, stretching my back with a soft groan.
Romeo perks up from his spot curled at my feet, tail thumping lazily against the hardwood floor. I crouch down to rub his fluffy ears. “Guess it’s about time to call it a day, huh, buddy? Should we go grab some dinner? Or how about a W-A-L-K first, and then dinner?”
His tail thumps harder, and he tries to lick my face. I swear he’s the most intelligent animal I’ve ever met. I started spelling his trigger words because every time one would slip out, he’d lose his mind for ten minutes with an epic case of the zoomies.
I laugh and press a quick kiss to Romeo’s fluffy head before pushing to my feet. “Alright, alright. Let me just grab my purse and then we can head out.”
I snag my bag from behind the counter and clip Romeo’s leash to his harness. He prances around my feet, his whole body wiggling with excitement. I can’t help but grin. His joy is infectious.
We step out of the bookstore, into the evening air. The last remnants of sunset streak the sky, pink and orange fading to indigo. The stars will come out and play soon.
Romeo and I stroll down Main Street, the shop lights glowing softly in the gathering dusk. The crisp evening air fills my lungs, and I feel some of the day’s tension melt from my shoulders.
There’s something magical about Avalon Falls, and tonight is a perfect example of it. Maybe it’s the way the streetlamps cast golden halos onto the worn brick sidewalks. Or the murmur of laughter spilling from the small bars and cafés, blending with the distant hum of cicadas. Or the way the whole town feels like a living, breathing story. One that I finally get to be part of.
We pass a little Italian restaurant three blocks down, the mouthwatering scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting out to greet us. My stomach rumbles in response, making the executive decision for us.
I glance down at Romeo, his tail wagging, his warm brown eyes locked onto me like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Dinner it is, buddy.”
He lets out a happy little huff. I laugh, tugging his leash gently as we step up to the outdoor hostess stand.
I feel completely, undeniably free.