Page 110 of Stolen Vows

“Still. I’m walking my wife and our dog to work.” He’s already pulling on his shoes like there was never any question about him coming with me. Like I’m something to take care of. To keep safe.

And for once, I don’t want to fight it.

38

FRANCESCA

The last weekhas been a dream, a slow, simmering build finally breaking into something raw and consuming. Graham worshipped me on that couch, and I let him. I gave in to every touch, every whispered promise, every ounce of intensity in his eyes. My body still hums from it, fromhim, and if I close my eyes, I can still feel the rasp of his beard against my skin, the weight of his hands pressing me down, the way he looked at me like I belonged to him.

But beneath the glow of pleasure, a weight lingers.

Because three days ago, I told my mother I was already married.

Three days ago, I torched the carefully constructed path she had carved out for me.

Three days ago, I did the one thing she never expected me to do.

And I know my mother. I know her silence is not surrender. It's a strategy. I’ve never pushed back this strongly before, so I don’t have any way to gauge her reaction.

So while my body still tingles every time Graham’s lips twitch, my brain is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It happens on a Wednesday afternoon, wrapped in the cozy, familiar routine of Fiction & Folklore. The sun struggles to break through the clouds, and my third iced latte sits half-empty beside me. There’s a stack of new paperbacks waiting to be shelved on the counter, but I’ve been toying with the idea of doing a new display table. Something to spotlight indie romance authors.

Most of my favorite books are indie romance, and any other day, I’d have this done in twenty minutes. But there’s something about today. I’m just . . .off.

The bell chimes, and my heart stops, a painful squeeze inside my chest. My mother’s reckoning is here. I can’t explain how I know it, but I’m sure before I even look up.

I glance toward the door, my usual greeting trapped behind my clenched molars. I expected my sister. But it’s worse. So, so much worse.

Because Giovanni Baldini is standing inside my bookstore.

My stomach drops.

For half a second, I sit frozen, fingers curling around the stack of bookmarks, tightening until the edges press into my palms. I barely register the pain. My stomach twists into a knot so tight I think I might be sick. But I keep my chin up. My first instinct is to scan the shop, to check if anyone else is here—a customer, an employee, someone who could serve as a buffer.

But I already know we’re alone. It’s one of those random ghost hours we get on occasion. Where the stars aligned and there’s an hour of silence. I usually take advantage of it and tackle a project, but I’m glad something held me back today. I don’t want to be in a compromising position anywhere near this man.

His smile is easy, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored black slacks, and he looks every bit the polished, respectable businessman my parents always insisted he was.

But I know better. I see the danger lurking beneath the expensive watch and charming grin.

“Chessa.” His voice is warm, smooth, and unbothered. Like he’s greeting an old friend.

I hate that nickname. I always have.

I force myself to let go of the bookmarks, keeping my expression neutral. “Giovanni. What are you doing here?”

He tsks, shaking his head as he strolls deeper into the store, fingers trailing along the edge of a nearby bookshelf. “I’m disappointed in you, Chessa,” he says lightly.

My spine stiffens. Romeo presses into my legs, his hair fluffed out more than usual, a low growl vibrating through him.

He pauses near a display table, picking up a book, studying the cover like he’s truly interested. But I know it’s just a distraction—a way to appear calm, to give me the illusion of control when he’s the one who carefully orchestrated this moment.

I force an easy smile and mentally calculate how quickly I can reach my phone if I need to. “For what, exactly?” I ask, but I don’t care about his answer. I don’t care about his approval or anything about him at all, really.

But I’ve been forced to play these games long enough to recognize when I’m outmatched. And I’m always out-fucking-matched.

The thought sinks into my gut like a burning ember. It sizzles against my flesh, burning and burning.

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