13. Francesca
13
FRANCESCA
A week later, the bell above the door chimes at 4:32 p.m.
“Welcome to Fiction and Folklore,” I call over my shoulder as I finish arranging the new romance releases on the front table.
“Francesca.”
I glance up at the sound of my name in that low tenor, my fingers pausing on the edge of a book cover. Anticipation thrums through me as I take him in. He looks the same as last week, yet somehow different. Maybe it’s the way the late afternoon light filters through the windows, casting a golden glow along the sharp cut of his jaw.
Or maybe it’s the drink carrier and the small white pastry bag in his hand.
If the man’s trying to buy my affection via sweet treats . . . it’s absolutely going to work. I push down the ridiculous warmth that spreads through my chest and offer him a sincere smile.
“Graham, what a nice surprise.”
Graham’s hazel eyes meet mine, unreadable as always, but I swear there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It’s Tuesday.”
He says the word like it’s a whole dissertation, like it’s the answer to every unspoken question hanging between us. Like Tuesdays mean something now. Like they’re ours.
My heart stutters in my chest as I absorb his words. Because he’s right. Last Tuesday, he brought me coffee and donuts. The Tuesday before that, cupcakes. It’s becoming a thing.
Our thing.
Warmth blooms in my chest, slow and sweet like honey. I tilt my head, trying and failing to suppress my smile. “So it is.”
He holds up the drink carrier and pastry bag. “I thought you might like an afternoon pick-me-up.”
My smile widens as I cross the store, my sneakers barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. The anticipation builds with each step, a fluttering sensation taking flight in my stomach.
“You thought right,” I say, my voice warm with open appreciation. “Tuesdays are quickly becoming my favorite day of the week.”
Something flickers in Graham’s eyes, there and gone too quickly for me to decipher. But it makes my breath catch all the same.
“Mine too.”
Graham sets the drink carrier and pastry bag on the table between us, the scent of rich coffee and sugar filling the small space. He lifts one of the paper cups from the carrier and hands it to me.
“Iced caramel latte, extra whip.” His voice is low, almost intimate despite the hum of the record playing over the sound system. It took me a couple of days to understand the automatic volume adjuster on this new system, but I think I finally figured it out.
My fingers brush against his as I take the cup, shaking my head with a soft chuckle. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you they forgot my whipped cream last week.”
Because of course that means he’ll get double now. For me. I barely know the man, and I knew that much.
He holds my gaze as he says, “Nah, I disagree. I think you should tell me everything. All the time.”
A laugh spills out, the disbelieving kind. I shake my head, my grin wide. “No, no way. You don’t want to know everything .”
He leans back against the table, arms crossed over his broad chest. One dark eyebrow arches. “Try me.”
I take a long sip of my latte, the cold sweetness a welcome distraction from the intensity of his gaze. Because the way he’s looking at me right now? It’s doing things to my insides. Twisty, fluttery things that have no business being there.
I flick my hair over my shoulder and huff a small laugh. “No way. I’m not falling for that. You’re gonna have to earn my secrets, Graham Carter.”
His eyes spark with something that looks suspiciously like intrigue, the corner of his mouth curling into a slow, devastating smirk. He leans in a fraction, just enough for the clean, woodsy scent of him to reach me.
“Alright then,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel. “Challenge accepted.”
My heart stutters in my chest, because holy crap, this man is going to be the death of me. But what a way to go.
I take another sip of the latte to break the intensity. The cool drink is a welcome contrast to the warmth of the weather. Or maybe it’s just him. “You’re spoiling me, you know.”
Graham shrugs one broad shoulder, his lips twitching into that almost-smile I’ve grown so fond of. “Good.”
My heart does a funny little flip at his words, a pleasant flush warming my cheeks. I duck my head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m closing in ten minutes if you want to wait and go on a walk with me?”
“And Romeo?” He grins, stealing a glance at the dog in question. He’s currently sitting in his best pose at Graham’s feet, giving him the full force of the puppy dog eyes.
“Yeah, and Romeo. Only if you’re not busy though. I don’t want to kee?—”
“I’m not busy.”
I rock forward on my toes, making myself memorize this feeling. It’s as if ten butterflies are casually fluttering around inside my chest, hopping from one cotton candy cloud to another. Everything is light and airy, swathed in pastel pinks and blues. And it just feels so . . . hopeful.