Page 115 of Stolen Vows

I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting over Francesca’s face, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I never really thought about it in those terms before. I enjoy it, but I’m starting to realize there might be other things in life that bring me happiness.”

Like you.

The way you sing Broadway songs to the plants when you water them. The way you call your dog a thousand strange nicknames with affection. The way your eyes light up when you glance at me because you’re being funny and you’re waiting for my reaction. The noises you make when you fall apart underneath me.

The way you fit so perfectly into my life that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.

I don’t say anything, keeping the confessions safely behind my ribcage.

She hums like she knows I want to say more but isn’t going to push me. I’ll add that to the list of things that bring me happiness too.

She shifts, leaning closer. The scent of vanilla and sugared lemons clings to her skin, seeping into me like a slow burn.

“I used to think I’d be a librarian.” She exhales, her fingers skating idly over my sweatpants-covered calf. “When I was little, I’d sneak out of our private tutoring lessons and hide in the library.” Her eyes flick to mine, cautious but open. “It was my favorite place in that whole house. Books don’t care who your parents are, you know? They don’t care about money or bloodlines or whether you can hold a conversation about Bordeaux vintages.”

A small, humorless smile curves her lips. “I used to imagine myself behind the desk, in charge of all the books. People coming in and asking me for recommendations. And I’d get to decide which ones to display, which ones to highlight. Which ones deserved attention.”

I watch her, my chest tight, waiting for her to keep going.

She exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It sounds silly now.”

“It doesn’t.”

Her breath catches.

I hold her gaze, letting her see it—the truth of my words, the way I see her. “You own a bookstore, Francesca.” My voice is quieter now. “You made it happen anyway.”

She blinks, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. And then she looks down at her hands, her fingers curling slightly. “Not the same.”

“No,” I agree, tipping my head toward her. “It’s better.”

A small sound leaves her throat, almost like a scoff. But her lips press together too tightly, like she’s trying to hold something back.

Before I can say anything else, she breathes out, “I’ve never told anyone that.”

The admission rocks through me. It’s small in the grand scheme of things. A childhood fantasy, a secret dream. But the weight behind it? The fact that she’s never told another soul? It feels like she just placed something fragile and important in my hands.

I nod once, slow. “Thank you.”

Her throat bobs, her fingers twisting in the blanket. “For what?”

“For trusting me with it.”

A shaky exhale leaves her lips. She looks away, then back at me, and there’s something soft and unguarded in her expression.

And before I can stop myself, before I can think better of it, I reach for her again. My palm finds the side of her neck, my thumb tracing over the delicate skin behind her ear.

She leans into me, and something settles inside my chest.

“Take me upstairs, Graham,” she whispers, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of my neck. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to think about anything but you.”

40

FRANCESCA

Graham doesn’t hesitate.The moment the words leave my lips, his grip tightens on my legs, his breath hitches, and something shifts between us. Something inevitable settles over us like some kind of magic spell.

His gaze locks onto mine, dark and searching, like he’s making sure he heard me right. Like he’s giving me a moment to walk it back. But I won’t. I don’t want to.

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