Page 11 of Stolen Vows

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories, the regrets, the shame clinging to me like a second skin.

Coffee. I need coffee before I can face any of this, before I can sit across from lawyers and make decisions about the rest of Aunt Miriam’s estate.

Before I let the reality of what I’ve lost settle too deep.

I turn away from the bookstore, my sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk as I head down the street. I push open the door to the coffee shop, the bell above jingling softly. The scent of fresh espresso and warm cinnamon wraps around me, a small comfort against the harsh reality pressing in from the outside.

It’s the same as I remember—cozy, unpretentious, the kind of place that never needed to change.

I step up to the counter and order an iced latte, grateful for the familiarity of the routine. The barista rings me up, and I reach inside my purse for my wallet.

But my fingers don’t find the smooth, supple leather.

My stomach drops. I freeze, pawing uselessly through my bag, heat creeping up my neck. I check my pockets next, even though I already know it’s not there.

I must’ve left it at the lawyer’s office.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, already bracing for the awkwardness of backing out of my order. “I’m sorry, I misplaced my wallet.”

“I’ve got it.”

The deep voice comes from behind me. Gruff. Unfamiliar.

I turn slowly, my heart kicking against my ribs.

And there he is.

Graham Carter.

His name slips from my lips softer than I mean it to, like I’m testing the shape of it, making sure it still fits.

He’s tall. Broader than I remember. His chest and arms—bigger, stronger, filling out the space around him effortlessly. The last time I saw him, his hair curled around his ears, thick and unruly.

Now it’s long enough to be pulled back—tied at the nape of his neck in one of those messy man buns that shouldn’t look good on anyone, but somehow does on him. A few strands have escaped, brushing the sharp angles of his jaw.

But his eyes.

His eyes are the same.

The same deep hazel, flecks of moss green bright around his pupils. The same gaze I spent too many months trying to forget.

A shiver runs through me, a strange sensation curling at the base of my spine.

Did I . . . just conjure this man from my thoughts alone?

His brows pull together, just slightly. Recognition flickers in his eyes, fast but certain.

I open my mouth, then close it again. My fingers curl at my sides, a sharp pulse of heat creeping up my neck.

I clear my throat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I—” I start, then falter, my cheeks burning. “Thank you.”

Something passes across his face—something sharp, knowing. Or maybe I’m just exhausted and seeing things.

“It’s nothing.” He taps his credit card against the reader, and I know I should step aside, give him some space, but I can’t make myself move.

There’s a warmth that saunters through my veins at his proximity, slow and unhurried. The man is just so . . .big.

“Thanks, Carter,” the barista says. “And ma’am, your latte will be ready at the end of the counter.”

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