Page 27 of Stolen Vows

She lifts one shoulder into a halfhearted shrug. “Mystery solved.”

A soft shuffle pulls my gaze down. A small bundle of golden fur trots around the counter, pressing its snoot against Francesca’s legs.

She blinks, like she’s only just remembering he’s there, then bends down, her fingers sinking into his fluffy coat.

“Still not a dog person?” she asks, her voice lighter now, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

Amusement sparks beneath my skin, sharp and unexpected. I arch a brow. “That’s a dog? It looks like an animatronic stuffed animal.”

She laughs—soft, bright, completely unguarded.

And fuck me. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Goosebumps prickle along my skin, crawling up the back of my neck.

“This is Romeo. He’s a mini Australian Labradoodle.” She rubs her cheek against the top of the dog’s head. “And he’s the goodest boy.”

“Hm.” I study the dog, taking in the small frame, the ridiculous wavy hair. Ears a little too big and long. The way he leans into her touch, tail swishing back and forth, like he’s in heaven.

A beat of silence settles between us, but it doesn’t feel as big as it did five minutes ago. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering whatever . . . this is in here.

I glance at the screen and see one of my biggest client’s names. Shit. “I—I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“Of course.” Francesca nods, shifting to her feet.

I walk backward toward the door, willingly falling into her hypnotic gaze. “Until next time, Francesca.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Maybe don’t wait five years next time.” It’s delivered with a smirk, but her shoulders never lose the tension.

I nod, walking backward, never breaking our connection as I walk out the door.

7

FRANCESCA

My heart poundsagainst my ribs as Graham freaking Carter disappears out the front door, the bell chiming softly behind him. I exhale shakily, one hand pressed against my chest, as if that could somehow steady the erratic rhythm beneath my fingertips.

What just happened?

The last fifteen minutes play on a dizzying loop in my mind. Graham, here, in my store.

His hand on my cheek, my neck.

His skin against mine.

His scent, crisp and clean, like fresh linens and something distinctly male.

Five years. Five long years of wondering, of imagining, of convincing myself I’d built him up too much in my mind. That there was no way the real Graham Carter could live up to the version I’d created.

But I was wrong. So very wrong.

Because the real Graham is better. Stronger. More intense. More everything.

The way he looked at me, his hazel eyes burning into mine like he could see straight through me, down to my very soul. The heat of his palm against my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair. The rasp in his voice when he said my name.

I thought he was going to kiss me. And I think . . . I think I was hoping he would.

I shake my head, a desperate attempt to clear my obviously romance-addled brain. Maybe I need to chill out on the shifter romances. Or at least the alpha male werewolf ones.

Because silently begging a man to kiss me like he’d die if he didn’t seems a little much. Even for me.

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