28. Francesca
28
FRANCESCA
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels unfamiliar. Not bad. Just . . . different.
Moonlight spills through the sliver of space between my curtains, casting pale shadows across the ceiling. Romeo is snoring softly in his kennel. The one I found tucked inside the walk-in closet, like Graham had prepared for this months ago. Like he expected me to move in all along.
I roll over, staring at the clock on my nightstand. A little after one o’clock in the morning.
I should be exhausted. It’s been a long, emotional day. But sleep won’t come. My mind won’t shut off. And the longer I lie here, tangled in sheets that smell like lavender and something faintly woodsy, the more I think about him.
Graham.
My husband .
The word should freak me out, shouldn’t it? It should feel foreign, unnatural. But when I test it out in my head, when I let the syllables settle, I don’t hate it.
I shift onto my back, exhaling slowly. My mind keeps circling back to something Graham told me the night I agreed to this.
"This marriage can be whatever you want it to be."
It felt like a promise then. A whispered, open-ended possibility. And in the weeks leading up to today, he’s repeated it more times than I can count.
"Whatever you want, Francesca."
But what do I want? The question rattles around my mind, refusing to settle. I stare up at the ceiling, fingers plucking absently at the edge of the duvet.
I want my bookstore. I want to wake up every morning knowing Fiction & Folklore is mine, free and clear. No more impossible benchmarks, no more threats from my parents. Just me, building something I love, creating a haven for readers and dreamers like me.
I want independence. The kind I’ve never really had before. The freedom to make my own choices without the suffocating weight of familial obligation and expectation bearing down on me.
And I want Graham.
The thought slams into me, stealing my breath. I want him. Not just as a business partner or a paper husband. But as a man.
I want to feel his hands on me again, those strong, capable hands that held me so tenderly as we said our vows. I want to taste his kiss again, to lose myself in the heat of his mouth and the slide of his tongue. I want to discover what other sounds I can pull from him, what he looks like when he comes undone.
In another life, I’d be writing pros and cons on a piece of paper with my sister over a pitcher of margaritas and bottomless chips. She’d tell me I’m being stupid by not taking what Graham is offering.
So what the hell am I waiting for?
I throw the covers off my legs, swinging them over the side of the bed. My fingers curl around the edge of the mattress as I stare at the door.
I could stay here. Crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and wait for sleep to come.
Or . . .
Before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and slip into the hallway. The wooden floor is cool beneath my feet as I approach his door. My hand hovers over the knob for a second, hesitation coiling in my stomach. But then I remember the way he looked at me as he slid the wedding band onto my finger. The heat in his eyes as he kissed me, his hands firm and possessive on my face.
I want that. I want him. And maybe, just maybe, he wants me too.
I knock once. Just once. I tell myself that if he doesn’t answer, I’ll go back to bed. No harm, no foul. No weird morning-after awkwardness.
My heart thunders in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. I lean my ear against the door, straining my hearing.
I knock again. “Graham?” Okay, I lied. That’s the last time.
“Francesca?”
I whirl around, pulse hammering. Graham is behind me, standing in the doorway to his office.
And oh. “Jesus.”
He’s shirtless. Glasses perched on his nose. Low-slung gray sweatpants hanging dangerously on his hips. And a goddamn smile on his lips.
I stare. I mean, I try not to, but I’m only human. And Graham Carter, in this state of casual, late-night dishevelment, is the most unfairly attractive man I’ve ever seen.
His lips curl at the corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “I prefer husband ,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “But I’ll accept Graham. Maybe even God, in the right moment.”
It takes me a full three seconds to process his teasing words because the image of him is so distracting.
I blink. “You’re wearing glasses.”
“I am.” He crosses his arms, which only makes his biceps look bigger.
“You have tattoos.”
“I do.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe. That damn smirk is growing.
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
We stare at each other, caught in some silent, what the hell is happening right now moment.
“You were knocking on my door.”
I lift my chin, stepping toward him. “I was.”
His grin grows wider, and I have a sneaking suspicion that underneath that permanent five o’clock shadow are dimples. “Are we gonna play this all night?”
“I might.”
His eyes flicker with something dark, something amused and wickedly dangerous.
“Did you need something, wife ?”
My stomach flips. I should have a good answer. A prepared excuse. Instead, all I say is: “Why are you still awake?”
“Working.” He gestures over his shoulder at his monitors, glowing behind him. “Why are you awake?”
“I can’t sleep.”
His head tilts, gaze sharpening. “And so you came to me.”
There’s something deeply, unfairly intimate about the way he says it. A challenge. A dare.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Is that okay?”
“I’m your husband.” He says it like it’s the only answer that matters.
I shake my head, laughing softly. “Can I come in?”
His smirk fades, replaced by something steadier. Something real. “It’s your house too, Francesca. You don’t need my permission.”
I step inside before I can rethink it. Graham’s office is controlled chaos.
Whiteboards filled with notes and arrows, organized in a way that seems erratic but, knowing him, is probably highly methodical. Multiple monitors glow, casting the space in an ambient blue light. The desk is neat, too neat considering the sheer amount of information he’s working through.
It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect. Not because of the space itself, but because it’s so him. Logical. Efficient. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
“Still working on that school thing?” I ask, looking at the whiteboard.
He sinks into his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Nah, fixed that already. I’m working on another.”
My gaze drifts over his whiteboard, skimming the scrawled words and branching arrows. I recognize some of the terminology, though most of it is lost on me. But then, something catches my eye. Glendale River School District written in big bold letters.
I frown slightly. “Is this your current client?”
“One of them. Want to see what I’m working on?” He sounds eager, like he’s barely holding himself back from showing me.
“Definitely.”
Graham grins, a boyish excitement lighting up his features. He spins his chair to face the monitors, gesturing for me to come closer. “C’mere, sunshine. I’ll show you.”
I pad over to his desk, bare feet sinking into the plush area rug. The glow of the screens illuminates his face as I approach, casting his features in sharp relief. He looks younger like this, the intensity that always simmers beneath his surface softened by genuine enthusiasm.
He points to lines of code on the central monitor, his finger tracing the pattern as he explains. “See this? It’s a hacker’s code,” he explains, glancing up at me. “They’ve infiltrated this school district’s network, holding it and their information for ransom. Student records, financial information, you name it. But there’s something interesting here. See this?” He points to a specific line of code, his brow furrowed in concentration. “See this string right here? It’s like a signature. Every hacker has their own style, their own calling card. And I’ve seen one similar to this before.”
I lean in closer, my hair brushing his shoulder as I squint at the screen. The lines of code are gibberish to me, but Graham seems to read them like a second language.
“Where have you seen it before?” I ask, genuinely curious. Watching him work, seeing the way his mind takes in and processes is fascinating.
He leans back in his chair, his eyes still locked on the monitors. “A few months ago, with another client. Different school district, but similar M.O. Hold the network hostage, demand payment in cryptocurrency.”
I frown, pieces starting to click into place. “So you think it’s the same hacker? They’re targeting school districts specifically?”
“Similar, but not the same.” He types rapidly, pulling up what looks like an email exchange. “The superintendent mentioned getting emails a few weeks before the attack. Phishing attempts, same as the other two school districts I’ve looked into in the last few months.”
“So there’s a pattern,” I murmur. “Could it be a copycat type of this? Does that happen?”
“It does. It’s why I started this.” He types in a few commands and pulls up what looks like a complicated spreadsheet. “A database so I can keep track of signatures and styles, clients and known or assumed hackers.”
“That’s so smart,” I murmur, my gaze sliding over his monitors. “Huh, that’s a weird coincidence.”
At my tone, Graham stills. “What is?”
I gesture to the screen. “North Cape and Glendale River. Those school districts are neighboring my hometown.” I tilt my head. “Strange, right?”
“Hm,” he hums under his breath.
I step closer to his desk, idly shifting my weight, when his left monitor catches my attention. Half-hidden behind a few open windows is a camera feed. Of my bedroom.
I minimize the open windows, revealing nine security feeds that cover what looks like the expanse of the house. The front door to the back patio and everything in between. Including my bedroom.
I blink at the screen, my stomach flipping. “Is that my room?”
Graham exhales, slow and measured. “It’s not what it looks like.” His tone is steady, but I hear it. That barely perceptible edge.
I stare at the monitor, at the grainy black-and-white image of my bedroom. The bed I just left, sheets rumpled from my tossing and turning. Something twists in my stomach, a confusing mix of unease and . . . intrigue ?
I turn toward him fully, perching on the edge of his desk. “Then what am I looking at?”
He holds my gaze, unwavering. “The entire house is on this feed. It’s not personal, Francesca. They’ve been up since I moved in.”
I glance back at the screen, noticing the camera labels. One of them, in bold white text, reads: Francesca. I arch a brow. “You titled that camera Francesca.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I’m not watching it.”
His voice is firm. Unapologetic. I believe him. I do. I study Graham’s face, searching for any hint of deception or ulterior motive. But all I see is steadfast honesty. He meets my gaze head-on without a flicker of hesitation.
I swallow, planting my palms on the desk behind me and leaning back. “Why do you have security cameras in the house at all?”
He relaxes in his chair, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s a precaution. Part of my job is assessing threats and mitigating risks. The cameras are just one layer of security.”
I glance at the monitor, at the camera feed labeled with my name. My mind spins with the implications, but beneath the initial shock, something else stirs. Something darker, more illicit.
The thought of Graham watching me, even unknowingly, sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine him sitting here late at night, his eyes drifting to the feed from my room. Would he linger there, transfixed by the sight of me sprawled across the bed?
I picture myself lying there in nothing but a thin camisole, the sheets tangled around my bare legs. My hand disappearing beneath the covers, beneath my panties. Would he watch, riveted, as I touched myself? Would his breath catch, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his chair?
When I meet Graham’s gaze again, there’s a knowing glint in his eyes, like he can read my thoughts. Heat crawls up my neck and I shift on the desk, lifting one of my legs and resting my toes on his chair, on the thin triangle of space between his thighs.
“And my bathroom? I don’t see that view.”
Graham’s breath catches. His eyes flick to my lips, then lower, over my shoulder, and back to my eyes. His fingers curl slightly at his sides, a small but telling movement.
“You won’t.” His voice is lower now, rougher.
I tilt my head, watching him. “There are windows in my bathroom. Could be dangerous not to have eyes in there.” My tone is innocent. The air between us is anything but.
He leans toward me, just a fraction, but I feel it. The slow drag of his gaze down my legs. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The tension coiling between us, stretching tight. His eyes snap back to mine, dark and intense. “I would never violate your privacy like that, Francesca. You have my word.” His voice is low, sincere. A vow. And I believe him. Completely.
I wet my lips, watching as his gaze drops to follow the movement. “What if I wanted you to?” The words leave my mouth before I can second guess them.
His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, a subconscious reaction. “Wanted me to?” His voice is a rumble, barely above a whisper.
“Do you want to watch me, husband?”
His voice is barely above a growl. “You’re playing with fire, sunshine.”
I lean forward, my leg sliding higher between his until my toes brush against the growing hardness in his sweatpants. “I can take it.”
Graham’s hands come down on my bare thighs, his fingers digging into my skin. He drags me to the very edge of the desk until I’m practically in his lap, my breath mingling with his.
“You sure about that?” His voice is a low rasp, his eyes burning into mine. “Because once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, desire pooling hot and thick in my veins. Graham’s hands are a brand on my thighs, the barely restrained power thrumming just beneath his skin.
I lean in closer, my lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Then don’t stop.”
“What are you saying, Francesca?”
I want him. Not just for this moment. Not just for tonight. I want every part of him. The husband, the protector, the man who watches.
I brush my lips against the corner of his mouth. “I’ve decided what kind of marriage I want.”
His tongue flicks my bottom lip. “Tell me, wife. Tell me what you want.”
I stare into Graham’s eyes, the heat in his gaze scorching me to my core. His hands flex on my thighs, his thumbs rubbing slow circles that make me shiver. I feel reckless, bold, drunk on the power of this moment.
“I want a real marriage.” The whispered confession jumps from my lips to his. Anticipation sparks under my skin, but I don’t want to take it back.
His grip tightens, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Jesus, Francesca.”
I watch him, waiting. The moment teeters. Charged, undeniable, waiting to break. And I realize something.
I want him to break. I want to see what happens when Graham Carter stops holding himself back.
I nip at his bottom lip, soothing the sting with my tongue. “I prefer wife.”