Page 25 of Stolen Vows

Beau doesn’t have my skill set. Which means if he could get into my phone, then just about anyone could. And that? That’s a fucking problem.

“Calm down, man,” Beau says, but there’s a smile in his voice.

I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders back. “I am calm.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Listen, I’m just reminding you about family dinner tonight.”

I scoff, my eyes rolling before I even realize it. “Mom called you, didn’t she?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Yeah. Just hung up with her, so you’re probably next.”

The corner of my mouth hooks into a smirk. “Doubt it. Not all of us require our mommies to remind us of things.”

Beau whistles. “Damn, bro. You’re extra prickly today. What’s up? Did the numbers not work out for the race or something?”

I close my eyes in an exaggerated blink. “Nah, we’re square with The Alley. The house numbers are solid, the payout’s steady. The roster is full.”

“Ah, just a Tuesday then, yeah?”

I don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking. Feeling smug. The asshole.

I frown into the phone. “Something like that. I gotta go.”

“Later, bro!” The call disconnects, and I slip my phone back into my pocket, my gaze drifting back to the Fiction & Folklore storefront.

Curiosity pulls at me, an itch under my skin that needs scratching. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stroll closer, peering through the large display windows.

Inside, the space is warmer than I remember. Bookshelves line the walls, stretching high toward the exposed rafter ceilings. Vintage floor lamps scatter soft light throughout the store, casting a golden glow over rich hardwood floors. Overstuffed armchairs sit in cozy reading nooks, inviting in a way that feels intentional.

It’s welcoming. Inviting.

The “open” sign is dark, but movement catches my eye. A flash of blonde. Just for a second. Then, gone behind the counter.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m opening the door and stepping inside. A bell chimes softly, announcing my entrance.

The scent of fresh paper and sugared lemons wraps around me, familiar in a way that sends something sharp through my chest. Honey-colored hardwood floors stretch out before me, worn smooth with age.

Soft pop music drifts from hidden speakers.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet!” a familiar female voice calls out. Footsteps approach, then she steps out from the back, a box balanced in her arms.

My breath catches, my heart slamming against my ribs. It’s her.

Francesca.

Five years. Fivefuckingyears. It’s an eternity and a blink of an eye.

And she’s just as stunning as I remember.

Honey-blonde hair tumbles past her shoulders, a few strands escaping the clip at the back of her head. A little startled, a little different—and somehow, exactly the same.

“Francesca.” Her name falls from my lips like a goddamn prayer.

She drops the box onto the counter, eyes wide, lips parting with a soft inhale. “Graham?”

I close the distance between us in four long strides, my boots loud in the otherwise quiet space. The details around me blur. Bookshelves, warm lighting, the scent of sugared lemons—all inconsequential.

It’s just her.

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