12. Graham
GRAHAM
I ’m out of the flower shop before Sophie can say another word, my boots crunching against the gravel as I head straight to my truck. My mind is racing, and my heart is still pounding from the moment we just shared.
The way her eyes locked on mine. The soft curve of her lips as she smiled, oblivious to the way she was undoing me with every second that passed.
I grip the steering wheel as I drive, the cool breeze coming through the open window doing little to calm the heat burning in my chest. I don’t even bother turning on the radio; the silence feels safer, less likely to trip me up with reminders of how close I came to losing control.
By the time I get home, I’m practically pacing as I step inside, the walls of my small house suddenly feeling too close, too confining.
What is wrong with me?
I toss my keys onto the counter, yank off my jacket, and head straight for the bathroom. I turn the shower on full blast, cold water cascading down in an unforgiving rush. It’s shocking, but that’s the point.
I step under the spray, the chill biting into my skin as I brace my hands against the tiled wall.
My mind keeps replaying the moment—the feel of her skin under my fingertips, soft and warm, the way her eyes widened just slightly when I touched her. It wasn’t just the physical pull. It was something deeper, something that hit me right in the chest and hasn’t let go since.
I close my eyes, letting the water drip down my face as I picture her again. Her smile, her laugh, how she lights up a room without even trying.
And then I picture what it would’ve been like to kiss her.
The thought grips me, unexpected and consuming. I imagine leaning in, brushing her lips with mine, feeling her soften against me. My hands on her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingers grazing my jaw?—
I slam my palm against the wall, cutting off the thought before it can spiral further.
This is insane.
I can’t do this. I won’t do this.
Sophie Davis is off-limits. She’s here for Riley and Ethan’s wedding, nothing more. And she’s made it clear that she doesn’t need—or want—anything complicated.
I take a deep breath, the cold water doing its job as it cools the heat coursing through me.
The last time I felt this way about a woman, it didn’t end well. My life back at the castle taught me that emotions, attraction, even love—they’re liabilities. They’re weaknesses that can be exploited, used against you.
And Sophie? She’s not just a liability. She’s a walking reminder of everything I left behind.
Her poise, her confidence, the way she carries herself—it’s too close, too familiar. Other women are so easy to ignore, but Sophie isn’t.
I scrub a hand over my face, step out of the shower, and grab a towel.
This has to stop.
I can’t let myself get distracted. Not by her. Not by anyone.
As I sit on the edge of my bed, the towel draped around my shoulders, I make a silent promise to myself:
I’ll keep my distance from Sophie.
I don’t care how much she intrigues me or how drawn I feel to her.
Because letting her in? Letting her see the real me?
That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
T he drive back into Bardstown feels longer than usual. Maybe it’s the exhaustion weighing me down after a full day working with clients out of town. Or perhaps it’s the thought of seeing Sophie again after the way I bolted out of the flower shop yesterday.
I shouldn’t have left like that.
The moment still plays in my mind, a loop of her wide-eyed gaze locking with mine and the way I felt completely unmoored. I didn’t know how to deal with it then, and even now, I still don’t, but the least I can do is apologize.
When I pull into the parking lot of Mia’s flower shop, the sky is turning golden, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the ground. I grab my notebook from the passenger seat and head inside, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
As I step through the door, the familiar scent of flowers greets me, mingling with the soft hum of conversation. Mia is standing behind the counter, chatting with a customer, her hands deftly tying a ribbon around a bouquet.
And then I see Sophie.
She’s sitting on the desk, staring intently into the screen of her iPad as she works. She has a pen and journal beside her on the table, where she scribbles occasionally. Her back is to me as she works, wholly buried in what she is doing; she doesn’t even hear my footsteps as I walk toward her.
“Hey,” I say, standing behind her as she finally turns to look at me.
“Hi,” she says, her voice polite but distant, before returning to her task.
I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Usually, she’s the one who breaks the ice, filling the silence with her bubbly chatter. But today, the air between us feels heavier, more strained.
Mia notices, of course. She always does.
“Graham,” she says brightly, gesturing for me to come closer. “Good to see you. You look like you’ve had a long day.”
I shrug, setting my notebook down on the counter. “Just a lot of driving.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Mia says, her tone light as she hands the bouquet to her customer with a warm smile. “Thanks for coming in. It’s been a busy day, but we’re making progress.”
I glance at Sophie, hoping she’ll chime in, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she focuses on the iPad, adjusting the seating chart and finalizing vendor details with a quiet efficiency that feels deliberate.
“Sophie,” I say, my voice low.
She pauses. “Yes?”
“I just wanted to say sorry. For yesterday.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I catch the slightest shift in her expression—something flickering behind her carefully neutral mask.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she says lightly, though her tone lacks its usual warmth. “It’s fine.”
“It didn’t feel fine,” I say, stepping closer. “I shouldn’t have just walked out like that.”
She finally turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Graham. Like you said, we’re just here to work.”
Her words are cold, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to respond.
Mia, sensing the tension, clears her throat. “Well, I’m going to grab a fresh batch of roses from the cooler,” she says, her tone cheerful but pointed. “You two hold down the fort while I’m gone.”
She disappears into the back, leaving me and Sophie alone in the shop.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the faint rustle of flowers and the distant sound of a car pulling into the parking lot.
“Sophie,” I say again, my voice softer this time.
She glances at me, her expression guarded. “Yes?”
“I mean it. I shouldn’t have left like that. I?—”
“Graham, it’s fine,” she interrupts, her tone sharper than before. “Really. Let’s just focus on the work, okay?”
I nod, swallowing the words I want to say. “Okay.”
But as she turns back to face her iPad, her movements are a little too precise. I can’t shake the feeling that things aren’t fine. Not by a long shot.
And the worst part?
I don’t know how to fix it.
S ophie brushes past me, her attention on her planner as she gathers her things. Her movements are quick, and I can’t help but notice the extra distance she’s putting between us.
“We need to head to the Holloway estate,” she says curtly, not looking up from her notes. “There’s a lot to get done if we’re going to stay on schedule.”
Her tone is professional, almost too much so, and it grates on me in a way I can’t explain. I want to fix whatever this is between us, but she’s shutting me out, and maybe I deserve it after the way I’ve been acting.
“All right,” I say quietly, grabbing my truck keys. “Let’s go.”
The drive to the Holloway mansion is quiet, and the only sound comes from the low hum of the engine. Sophie sits in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed out the window.
I glance at her once, twice, hoping she’ll say something—anything—but the silence stretches on, heavy and unyielding.
My phone buzzes in the console, the screen lighting up with yet another call from the castle.
I hit ignore, my jaw tightening as I shove the phone back into my pocket.
Sophie notices, her eyes flicking toward me briefly. “Important call?” she asks, her tone neutral.
“Nothing I can’t handle later,” I reply, keeping my focus on the road.
She doesn’t press, and I’m grateful for it. The last thing I need right now is to explain why I’m dodging calls from a life I left behind.
The Holloway estate is as stunning as ever, its sprawling gardens and grand facade catching the afternoon light. It’s the perfect backdrop for Riley and Ethan’s wedding, but the amount of work it will take to get it ready is daunting.
We unload our supplies and set up near the lake, where Sophie spreads out her planner and starts outlining the layout. I grab my sketchbook and begin working on the landscape design, mapping out where the seating, floral arrangements, and other elements will go.
The tension between us lingers, thick and unspoken, but I’m determined to break through it.
After an hour of working in silence, I decide to make peace the only way I know how—with food.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I say, setting down my pencil.
Sophie looks up, her brow furrowing slightly. “Where are you going?”
“Getting us pizza,” I reply simply, brushing the dirt off my hands.
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
I return with a large pizza and a couple of sodas, setting the box on the table we’ve been using as a workstation.
Sophie glances at it, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Thanks.”
I feel like I’m doing too much, but I tell myself it’s just practical that two people working together should eat.
“Figured we could use a break,” I say, grabbing a slice and leaning back against the table.
She takes a slice, eating slowly, her gaze drifting back to her notes even as she chews.
We eat in silence for a while, but it feels less strained than before. The simple act of sharing a meal seems to ease some of the tension, and I decide to test the waters with small talk.
“You always this much of a perfectionist?” I ask, gesturing toward her meticulously organized planner.
She raises an eyebrow, her smile becoming more pronounced. “Are you calling me a perfectionist?”
I shrug. “If the color-coded tabs fit…”
She laughs softly, the sound light and genuine, and for the first time all day, it feels like the distance between us is shrinking.
“Fine,” she admits, setting her slice down. “I am a perfectionist. But you’re one to talk. You’ve redrawn that same section of the garden three times already.”
I smirk, leaning over to glance at her planner. “It has to be right. No point doing something halfway.”
“Exactly,” she says, nodding.
We just sit there for a moment, the shared understanding settling between us like a bridge.
“I guess we have that in common,” she says after a while, her tone thoughtful. “Being perfectionists.”
“Maybe,” I reply, finishing my slice. “But there’s worse things to be, right?”
She smiles again, softer this time, and I feel the tight knot in my chest loosen slightly.
The light is starting to fade, painting the Holloway mansion in warm gold and soft purples. We’ve made good progress, mapping out the layout and marking sections of the garden where certain features will go.
Sophie’s sitting cross-legged on the grass now, her planner opens in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers. I leaned back against the fountain, a sketchbook balanced on my knees, scribbling out an alternate design for the pathway leading up to the ceremony area.
We’ve fallen into a rhythm—talking here and there, pausing when one of us gets lost in our work, then picking up again like we didn’t skip a beat.
“So,” Sophie says, breaking the silence, “what’s the strangest project you’ve ever worked on?”
I glance up, smirking. “Strangest?”
“Yeah,” she says, tilting her head, her expression curious. “Something completely out of left field. The kind of thing you’d never expect as a landscape architect.”
I chuckle, setting down my pencil. “That’s easy. The chicken maze.”
Her brow furrows in confusion. “The what?”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “A few years ago, a family hired me to design a maze in their backyard. For their chickens.”
She blinks at me, her pen stopping mid-twirl. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious,” I say, grinning. “They wanted this elaborate thing with hedges and little tunnels. They even requested a fountain in the middle.”
She stares at me for a moment before bursting into laughter, the sound bright and infectious. “You actually did it?”
“Of course,” I say, shrugging. “They were paying, and honestly, it was kind of fun. The chickens seemed to enjoy it, too.”
She laughs harder, clutching her stomach as she leans back on her hands. “You built a luxury maze for chickens. That’s… I don’t even know what to say.”
“Hey,” I say, raising a hand in mock defense. “Don’t knock it. Those chickens were living their best lives.”
She shakes her head, still laughing, and for a moment, I forget the awkwardness from earlier, the tension hanging between us.
Her laughter fades into a soft chuckle, and she looks at me, her eyes warm and sparkling. “I don’t think I’ll ever hear a story like that again.”
“Probably not,” I admit, smiling despite myself.
The air between us feels lighter now, and I find myself wondering if this is what it could always be like with Sophie—easy, unguarded, real.
But as she turns her attention back to her planner, that thought lingers, heavier than I’d like to admit.
Because even as the distance between us shrinks, I know a part of me is still holding back.
And for her sake—for both our sakes—I need to make sure it stays that way.