Page 12 of Stolen Vows

“Right. Thank you,” I murmur, stepping toward the pickup area. I glance back at Graham. “And thank you again.” I force a grin, still feeling the hot flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

He doesn’t smile back, doesn’t say you’re welcome—he just dips his chin.

Then he turns as the barista asks, “What can I get for you?”

I should stop staring. I really should. But I don’t. Because watching him is fascinating.

He orders a black coffee, voice low and even, and I swear even that’s attractive.

He was big five years ago, but now? Now he’s the kind of big that seems almost unfair. Like the kind of man you’d expect on the cover of a bodice-ripper, all broad shoulders and rough hands, a woman tossed over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

I bet he lives at the gym.

He strolls toward me, catching my gaze and holding it.

My grin widens the closer he gets. “You probably don’t remember me, but we’ve met before. I’m?—”

“Francesca.” His voice is steady, certain, cutting through my words like a blade.

I blink up at him, my stomach flipping. I don’t know what I expected—hesitation, maybe. A politeoh yeah, I think I remember.

But not this.

Not the way he says my name like there was never a chance he’d forget it.

I swallow, suddenly too aware of the space between us. Or maybe just how small that space feels.

God, I must be exhausted. My mind is playing tricks on me again.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is gruff, low, exactly how I remember it.

It pulls me out of my own head, grounding me back in the moment. I shift on my feet, flicking my braid over my shoulder. “Oh. My aunt died.”

His expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I nod, swallowing past the sudden emotion in my throat. “Thank you. I’m just here taking care of some of her things . . .” I wave a hand vaguely, like that explains anything.

Something about the way he looks at me makes my stomach twist again. I don’t know what I expect—pity, maybe. That soft, empty sympathy people offer when they don’t know what else to say.

But that’s not what he’s doing. His gaze is steady, unreadable. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

I exhale, shifting slightly, letting my gaze roam over his face, trying to catalog the differences between the version of him I remember and the man standing in front of me now.

Granted, the version of him in my head was never quite real to begin with.

A strange mix of college photos online, a missed connection, five years of distance, and too many romance novels. A carefully curated what-if, built from scraps of memory and fantasy.

It’s silly.Childish.

I tear my gaze away and glance around the coffee shop. It’s not busy—a little less than half the tables occupied, the low hum of conversation filling the space. Most people look away the second my gaze meets theirs.

I’d forgotten what that was like—the small-town feel of Avalon Falls, where curiosity is quiet but ever-present. I don’t hate it.

I force some brightness into my voice, injecting a little extra pep as I turn back to Graham. “You ever have those days where you think an iced latte might change your life?”

He arches a brow, his expression somewhere between amused and skeptical. “Change your life.”

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