20. Graham
20
GRAHAM
The walk back to my place is short, but my thoughts make it feel longer. Francesca’s words play on a loop in my head. I don’t technically own it yet.
That shouldn’t sit the way it does. Like a piece of glass stuck beneath my skin, a foreign object that doesn’t belong.
The way she said it, how she hesitated, was what got me. Like she wasn’t sure if she should say it at all. Like maybe she wasn’t supposed to say it.
And I don’t fucking like that.
I push through my front door, toeing off my boots. My house is quiet, dim. I flick on a few lights, making my way toward the kitchen out of sheer habit. Water. I need water. Or maybe something stronger.
Because I know what I’m about to do.
I tell myself I’m just curious. That I just want to make sense of things. That it’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any other client .
Except Francesca isn’t a client. She’s so much more than that. Which somehow makes this worse. Or better.
I can’t fucking tell anymore. Seems to be a running theme when it comes to her. I don’t know what’s going to come out of her mouth half the time, which is both exhilarating and terrifying. It’s wild to think that a five-foot-five blonde ball of sunshine could ever be scary.
But it’s that good kind of fear, like standing on the edge of a cliff and feeling the swooping thrill in your stomach as you peer over the edge. It’s the fear that comes from the unknown, from the possibility, from wanting something so badly it terrifies you.
And god, do I want her.
In every possible way. I want to wake up to her smile and fall asleep with her tucked against my chest. I want to listen to her talk about books for hours, watch the way her eyes light up and her hands gesture wildly as she gets excited. I want to make her laugh, bring her coffee and walk Romeo.
And to get all of that, I need to know what I’m up against. What’s really going on.
I sigh, stretching my neck to either side as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a long swig. The cool liquid doing little to settle the restless energy thrumming through me. I set it on the counter with more force than necessary.
There are two choices here.
One: I respect her privacy, let it go, and pretend like she isn’t sitting at the center of my fucking chest like an unsolved equation, demanding to be worked out.
Or two: I open the folder on my computer.
I brace my palms on the edge of the counter, letting my head hang. Yeah. Who the fuck am I kidding?
I push off the counter and swipe my bottle of water. Then I’m moving, long strides carrying me to my office before I can second guess myself. The glow of my monitors greets me as I drop into my chair, fingers already flying over the keyboard.
I pull up Oracle & Sentinel, the programs I built years ago for these exact kinds of deep dives. My fingers fly over the keys, entering search parameters and filters, honing in on Francesca and Fiction & Folklore in the unlikely event there’s new information in the last two months.
My fingers flex over the keys, hesitation creeping in. I shouldn’t do this. Not like this. If she found out . . . would she look at me differently? Would she hate me for it?
A muscle in my jaw jumps. This isn’t just curiosity anymore. This is about her. About making sure she’s not being backed into a corner with no way out.
Francesca Ashburn.
It’s a relatively uncommon last name, which made the very basic search I did fruitful. It’s a name with weight. The kind that grows heavy with generations of money and influence. Not just old money. Deep money. The kind that’s been building for generations, weaving itself into the fabric of high society.
A few clicks, and the folder opens, data populating across my screen. It’s the same information that was there, but two months ago, I only skimmed a couple of basic documents.
Two keystrokes later, and I’m digging deeper than I ever have before. Property records, legal documents, financial holdings. It’s all there, laid out in neat rows and columns.
I lose myself in the search, my brows furrowing as I read through Miriam Astor’s will and estate documentation. In an interesting move, Miriam left several things to her niece, Francesca, instead of her husband. Or anyone else. Including the bookstore and the loft above it.
And then, buried in the fine print, I find it. An Ashburn addendum.
My eyes narrow as I read through the addendum, a sinking feeling settling in my gut with each line.
In the event that Miriam Astor has passed away before Francesca Ashburn (hereinafter referred to as “the Beneficiary”) reaches the Ashburn Clause milestone, defined as either (1) the Beneficiary’s thirtieth birthday or (2) the Beneficiary remaining legally married for a minimum of one year, then all assets, including the property located at 807 Main Street in Avalon Falls (the first story bookstore and loft apartment), shall be transferred to a trust, to be managed by the Beneficiary’s guardians (hereinafter referred to as “the Trustees”) until such time as the Beneficiary reaches the Ashburn Clause milestone.
The Trustees shall have full discretion over the assets in the trust, including but not limited to the right to sell, lease, or otherwise dispose of the property at 807 Main Street.
I skim over the rest, my mood plummeting with each line of legalese. It all amounts to the same thing: she’s fucked.
My computer pings, and I switch my attention to the monitor on my left. Oracle has returned with one new document since I last ran the search. I click it open, my eyes scanning the text.
It’s a contract between Francesca and William Ashburn and Catherine Ashburn, dated only three months ago.
I lean in closer, absorbing every word as a cold, heavy dread settles in my stomach. The contract lays out the terms in no uncertain language. If Francesca doesn’t meet an extremely high profit margin by the end of her first year running the bookstore, her parents have the right to take full control of Fiction & Folklore. And given the language, it’s reasonable to assume they’d sell it.
Even if Francesca meets the profit benchmarks, she still won’t technically own the bookstore outright unless she activates the Ashburn clause.
I sit back in my chair, my fingers tapping against the desk as my mind spins out in too many directions.
It’s all there.
I drag a hand over my face, letting out a slow exhale. “Fuck.”
No wonder she was off after a visit from her sister today. I can only imagine what kind of toll that level of strain takes on a person, a relationship.
My jaw tightens. I don’t like this. Not one fucking bit. Fiction & Folklore is her dream, and those assholes are dangling it in front of her like a carrot.
And now, I have a choice to make. Tell her or fix it myself?
I don’t even know how I’d tell her. It’s not like I can stroll into her store next Tuesday and say Hey, I hacked into some confidential legal documents and I might’ve crossed a line, but don’t worry, because I’m going to get you out of it. And by the way, your parents are even bigger assholes than you thought .
Yeah, I don’t see that working in any situation. Regardless of how easy-going she usually is.
I push my chair back, leaning away from the screen like putting physical space will alter anything. I chug the rest of my water bottle, tossing it into the garbage can in the corner.
My body is too tight, my muscles wound like steel cables, tension coiling low in my spine. I need to move. Need to do something physical to work through the swirling thoughts and emotions tangling up inside me. Movement always helps me work through shit when I’m stuck. I can let my mind wander when my hands are busy cleaning the kitchen or working out.
I leave my office, taking the stairs down two flights to the first floor. My footsteps echo in the quiet house as I make my way to the kitchen. It’s late, the inky darkness pressing against the windows. I flick on the light over the island, bathing the room in a warm glow.
The granite countertops gleam, the stainless steel appliances reflecting the light. It's pristine. Too pristine, like no one actually lives here. But it's familiar in a detached sort of way. I grab a rag from under the sink and start wiping down the counters, needing to do something with my hands while my mind works.
Fix it or leave it alone?
My jaw clenches as I scrub at a nonexistent smudge.
If I tell her what I know, she could get embarrassed, angry, hurt. She’d be right to push me away. But I can’t . . . I don’t think I can just leave it alone. Not when there’s a way to help her.
I haven’t found it yet, but it’ll come to me. It always does.
I exhale sharply, tossing the scrubby sponge onto the counter. When I look up, I catch my own reflection in the dark kitchen window.
Tension sits in the cut of my jaw, the tight set of my shoulders. My fists are braced against the counter like I’m trying to hold myself together.
I force myself to straighten, rolling my shoulders back. This isn’t just some puzzle to solve.
It’s Francesca. My ray of sunshine.
And that means I have to get this right.
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. A distraction. I need another fucking distraction, because cleaning isn’t working.
Movement outside catches my attention, breaking through the storm in my head. A shadow moves past the window, heading toward my front door.
A sharp knock sounds against my door, followed by a lazy, “Yo, you in there?”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair before pushing off the counter. “It’s open.”
Beau steps inside like he owns the place, the way he always does. He’s got an apple in one hand, his keys in the other, and his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Ooh, you look extra broody tonight.”
I arch a brow. “Did you come all the way over here just to say that?”
He shrugs, his grin wide, as he tosses his keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter. “Maybe I missed my big brother. You ever think of that?”
“No.”
He laughs. “Maybe I wanted to talk about the Gauntlet.”
I grunt, shaking my head. “C’mon, Beau, you know I can’t reveal any details.”
The Gauntlet is a yearly racing competition. A high-stakes, underground racing circuit that only the best get invited to. Beau was the reigning champ until he hung up his keys to adhere to Nana Jo’s will. Until recently, when he jumped back in and secured his spot.
Beau leans against the counter, taking a slow bite of his apple. “Nah, I know. I’m just fuckin’ with you, man. I was going home, and I saw you. Figured I’d stop by.”
I study my brother, taking in the ease of his stance, the way he’s too relaxed. A familiar prickle of unease settles in my chest.
“You sure you’re still good?” My voice comes out quieter than I mean for it to, but I don’t take the words back.
Beau stops chewing for half a second, his gaze flicking to mine. His expression doesn’t shift, but I know him too well. “Yeah, man, I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
I exhale slowly, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you’re racing again.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he nods. “I’ve made my peace with it.” His voice is firm, unwavering. “It’s worth it. She’s worth it.”
A sharp ping of recognition settles inside my ribs. He said the same thing when I asked him after he suddenly raced in the prequalifier.
It’s not that I didn’t believe him. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. But it’s still surprising to me that after all this time, he decided to walk away from his inheritance from Nana Jo.
A deep, familiar ache settles in my chest. I’m proud of him. I always have been. But fuck, part of me still hates what he had to give up. What he had to prove just to do what he loves.
My fingers drum against the counter, my mind whirring with calculations. Because Beau might be fine forfeiting his inheritance, but I still have mine. And there’s only one tiny stipulation to set it free.
And the solution to so many problems is sitting right in front of me. Nana Jo always said we had to build our own futures. That the money was just a safety net, not a golden ticket. I never thought twice about it. Didn’t need to. But now? Now it’s not just about me. It’s about Francesca. It’s about keeping what’s hers in her hands. And if that means playing their game, then fine.
My stomach tightens as the pieces slot into place, one after another, forming the kind of equation I should’ve figured out sooner.
Beau watches me carefully, his gaze narrowing slightly. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, bro?”
I shake my head, keeping my expression neutral. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
Beau smirks. “Dangerous.”
He’s right. Because I just figured out how to fix everything. And it’s so fucking simple.
All I have to do is get married.
To Francesca.