23. Francesca
23
FRANCESCA
I laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because it’s the only possible reaction to what I just heard.
It’s a sharp, disbelieving sound, bursting out before I can stop it. Because Graham Carter just asked me to marry him.
No, not asked, exactly. More like stated it.
Let's get married.
Like he was suggesting we try a new restaurant or test out a different coffee order.
My laugh fades as quickly as it came, smothered by the look on Graham’s face. He’s not smiling. Not even a hint of amusement in the set of his jaw or the furrow of his brow.
He’s serious. Deadly serious.
“Wait, what?” I stammer, blinking rapidly. “You’re not—you can’t be serious.”
Graham leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped between them. His gaze is steady, unwavering as it meets mine. “I am.”
I stare at Graham, heart pounding. Did he really just say what I think he said? My mind races, trying to make sense of his words.
“Married? Us ?” I shake my head, sure I misheard him. “Graham, we barely know each other. We’ve been on, what, six coffee walks?”
His lips twitch. “Seven. And they basically dates.”
I throw my hands up. “That doesn’t make it better! We haven’t even been on a real date and you want to get married?” A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. I can feel how wide my eyes are right now. “This is insane.”
He holds my gaze as he shakes his head slowly. He’s watching me like he’s waiting for something. “No, what’s insane is the contract between you and your parents for this bookstore.”
My stomach drops, and time itself holds its breath. My gaze flies to his as the first thread of fear slithers beneath my skin. It’s a honed awareness I developed too young, something I never felt around Graham before.
But I can see now that might’ve been a mistake.
“How do you know about that?” I know I never said anything about the contract. Right ?
His face softens, his gaze losing some of the intensity as he looks at me. It feels like him, but everything about this conversation feels off. Wrong. Like a sweatshirt that’s been worn too many times. Misshapen with holes and a weird smell.
He exhales softly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I told you I was in cybersecurity, right?” When I nod, he continues, “Well, part of that is security software engineering.”
I stare at him, my mind struggling to catch up with his words. “So you, what, hacked into my personal information? How is that any better than what my parents are doing?”
Graham’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the surface. “It’s not the same thing at all, Francesca. I didn’t hack into anything. The contract is publicly filed, which means it can be accessed by anyone who requests it.”
Hurt lances across my breastbone, sinking into the soft tissue. “You could’ve asked me, Graham.”
He dips his chin in acknowledgement. “I should have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “You wouldn’t have told me. And time isn’t a luxury you have right now.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and tear my gaze away from him. He’s not wrong. I definitely wouldn’t have told him all the sordid details that is my relationship with my parents. Definitely not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Still. “You should’ve asked.”
“I’m sorry, sunshine. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m trying to help you.”
I slide him a look, skepticism heavy on my brow. “And how is getting married going to help me exactly?”
He holds my gaze steadily, his expression calm and resolute. “The Ashburn clause.”
My brows knit together as I try to process his words. “What about the Ashburn clause?” I ask slowly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Graham leans in closer, his voice low and urgent. “If we get married for a year, you own Fiction and Folklore outright. No more profit benchmarks, no more control from your parents. It’s yours, free and clear.”
I stare at him, my mind reeling. He’s right. Of course he’s right. I know the terms of Aunt Miriam’s will, my trust, and the bookstore contract like the back of my hand.
But for him to know it? That feels different. And I’m . . . I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I shake my head, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts. “Even if that’s true, it’s crazy, Graham. We can’t just get married .”
He leans back, studying me intently. “Why not? It solves your problem.”
“Because!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “People don’t just get married to solve legal issues. That’s not how it works.”
“Sometimes it is.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. Like he’s discussing the weather forecast and not the absurd notion of us getting hitched.
I press my fingers to my temples, my brain hurting with the overload of information. “God, you really went all-out on my publicly accessible information, hm? What’s next? You’re going to show me the veterinary records of all my childhood pets?”
“You didn’t have pets growing up.” When I cut him a sharp look, he huffs a little. “You told me Romeo was the first pet you’ve ever had. Something about your parents not liking pets.”
Some of my anger deflates, the frayed edges of my shock still trembling in my fingertips. “Right.”
He drops his head, letting it hang for a moment, his gaze on the ground. He exhales and pushes to his feet. He holds out his hand to me, palm up. “It’s easier if I show you. Will you come with me?”
I tilt my chin up and look down my nose at him. I feel ridiculous considering he’s towering over me, but as far as defenses go, I’m running low at the moment.
“I can’t leave Romeo.” It’s not entirely true. I could put him in his kennel in our apartment upstairs, but I don’t want to. And I’m not sure if I want to be all that accommodating to Graham right now either.
“Come with me, sunshine. Romeo, too.”
I stare at Graham’s outstretched hand for a long moment, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm against my ribs. His palm is broad, fingers long and elegant. Strong. Capable.
It’s a hand I’ve come to know over the past two months. A hand that has passed me countless lattes, that has brushed against mine in fleeting touches that linger. A hand that cradled my face so tenderly as he kissed me, that gripped my waist and pulled me flush against the solid wall of his chest.
I know the weight of that hand, the warmth and strength of it. And despite the swirl of confusion and hurt churning in my gut, I still feel the pull toward him. The inexplicable draw that has been there since the first time he walked into my bookstore.
So even though my mind is screaming at me to demand more answers, to push him away and protect myself, my heart whispers a different truth. Trust him.
I stare at his outstretched hand, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
This is a choice. My choice. And maybe that’s why my stomach twists. I’m used to clawing for control, for fighting tooth and nail just to keep what’s mine. But Graham, he’s giving me something. A way forward. A way out. Something .
My fingers curl around Romeo’s leash, my knuckles going white. “This is insane,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I should tell you to leave. I should?—”
But I don’t.
My fingers twitch with the force of holding them still. Slowly, I lift my hand and place it in his.
His fingers close around mine, gentle but firm. Reassuring, solid. He pulls me to my feet with an ease that should be frustrating, but instead, it feels grounding.
“Where are we going?” I ask, grabbing my latte. Even in my current situation, I’ll never let a good latte go to waste.
“Home.”
The drive was short, too short for me to process everything that just happened in the last half hour. Not properly at least. I feel like I’m in some kind of lucid dream.
Graham’s house is not what I expected. Though to be fair, I’m not sure what I expected. Something sleek and modern maybe, all sharp angles and monochrome tones to match the intensity that always seems to simmer beneath his surface.
But as he leads me up the front steps, Romeo trotting happily beside us, I take in the warm red brick, the large windows framed by dark shutters, the neatly trimmed hedges lining the walkway. It’s traditional, almost cozy despite its size. Inviting in a way that catches me off guard.
He unlocks the front door and gestures for me to step inside. I hesitate for a brief moment before crossing the threshold, Romeo padding in beside me, his leash looped around my wrist. Clearly, he doesn’t share my reservations.
The interior is just as surprising as the exterior. Warm hardwood floors, plush area rugs, furniture that looks comfortable and lived-in rather than the sterile minimalism I half-expected. There aren’t many personal touches but feels like a home, lived-in.
It feels significant somehow, him bringing me here. Like he doesn’t invite many people here.
Graham closes the door behind us, the click of the latch sounding loud in the quiet house. I turn to face him, my heart still racing with a confusing mix of anticipation and trepidation.
He meets my gaze, his eyes dark and intense as they search mine. “It’s a lot, I know. But I need you to know that I’m serious. About all of it.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I don’t understand any of this, Graham. But I’ll listen.”
I barely register any details as we step inside. My head is too full, spinning with everything Graham just threw at me. The marriage proposal. The fact that he somehow knows everything about my contract. The certainty in his voice, like this is the simplest solution in the world.
“It’s this way.” Graham’s fingertips press against the small of my back as he leads us through his house. Romeo squirms his way between us, happy to just be here.
I barely register any other details of his house as we climb the two flights of stairs to the top floor.
“I didn’t know they had brownstones like this in Avalon Falls.” They kind of remind me of brownstones, three homes connected to form an entire block’s street facade.
“They call them maisonettes. This one is mine, the one on the right is my brother’s, and we share the one in the middle. Sort of like communal space.”
I hum under my breath. He hasn’t talked much about his family, and even though my mind is spinning with all the marriage and contracts, I want to know more.
“You two must be close to share a house.” I imagine sharing a house with either of my brothers or Florence. I can’t even picture it, that’s how outlandish that idea is.
“You fishing, sunshine?” Graham’s hand is warm and steady as he guides me up the stairs. I try to focus on the sensation, to ground myself in the present moment instead of spiraling into the tangled web of my thoughts.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but I think I should know about my future husband’s family.” I mean it as a joke, but the words come out softer than I intend, a little too breathless.
Graham stills. It’s barely a pause. A shift in his stance, a flicker in his gaze. His fingers flex against the stair railing, like he’s testing his grip. Like he felt that.
But then he exhales, slow and even, like he’s locking the reaction away. “Beau and I have always been close,” he says, voice measured. “I’m not as close with my younger sisters.”
That pause sticks in my head. That grip on the railing. A sliver of something unexpected flickers in my chest, but I push it down before it can take shape.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He nods. He nods once, firm, like he’s decided something, then pushes open the door.
It's an office. A very nice office, with dark wood shelves lining the walls, a large desk with multiple computer monitors, and a leather couch tucked under the window. But what catches my eye is the whiteboard taking up most of the far wall.
“What am I looking at?”
I step further into the room, my gaze locked on the whiteboard. It’s covered in Graham’s neat, precise handwriting, lines and arrows connecting various notes and diagrams. At first glance, it looks like a jumble of information, but as I study it more closely, a pattern emerges.
In the center of the board, written in large letters, is a name I recognize. North Cape School District. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. There are probably tons of school districts with the same name, kind of like how there are ten cities named Springfield in the US.
Various bullet points and sub-headers surround the name, detailing what appears to be an extensive cybersecurity project.
“Writing it down sometimes helps to find patterns. I can show you more later.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “Wouldn’t that be considered a security breach?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Spousal privilege.”
The words hang in the air, stretching wide until they curl around my shoulders, tethering us together.
I force a chuckle out, a cheap mask for the rattle of effortlessness that rolled off his tongue. “Ah, right. That.” I exhale and pivot toward the computers, straightening my shoulders. “I’m ready.”
Graham crosses the room to his desk in a few long strides, the leather chair creaking as he sits. Sinking into the seat with an effortless masculinity that is just so intrinsically him. He flicks his wrist and the screens flare to life, bathing his face in an electronic glow.
I watch transfixed as Graham’s hands fly over the keyboard, windows and files opening and closing faster than I can track. It’s mesmerizing in a way, the fluidity of his movements, the intensity of his focus. Like watching a conductor lead a symphony, or a painter create a masterpiece. There’s an artistry to it, a raw sort of power that’s intoxicating.
He stops. Fingers poised over the keyboard. And then, he extends his hand to me.
“Francesca.”
Something in his voice makes my chest tighten. I swallow hard, pulse skittering. “What are you doing?”
His gaze flicks to mine, steady and unreadable. “Giving you control.”
The words sink into my skin, burrow into something soft and vulnerable inside me. I go still. No one’s ever given me control before. Not really. I’ve fought for it, stolen scraps of it where I could. But this, this is intentional. It’s his choice. It’s mine.
I hesitate. My fingers tighten around Romeo’s leash. My gaze flicks down to him, like I need something solid to hold onto. My heartbeat pounds too loud, too fast. “Why?”
His jaw shifts. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let me dodge the weight of the moment. His voice is quiet, certain. “Because you deserve it.”
Something cracks open inside me. A splintering kind of shift. And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I step forward.