Page 28 of Stolen Vows

Romeo vocalizes next to me, like he’s in on my silent conversation and wholeheartedly agrees.

I crouch down, rubbing behind his ears. “What a good boy you are,” I coo. And it’s true. He’s such a good dog.

I was nervous he’d have an accident in the store or chew on books or something, but so far, he’s been a fluffy little angel. He turns toward me, resting the top of his head against my chest, his tail swishing softly. I like to think of it as his version of a hug.

I run my hand over the length of his back. “You won’t believe this, but we’ve only met a few times before.”

His back leg kicks as I scratch the spot right before his tail, little noises rumbling from his chest. I smile, settling onto the floor next to Romeo, and he immediately climbs into my lap. His warm little body is a comforting weight against my legs as I scratch behind his ears.

I let my mind wander back to Graham.

“Ten years ago at a college party. Then five years later at a coffee shop. The one down the block, actually. When I was here after Aunt Miriam passed away.” My chest tightens at the memory, grief still fresh even after all this time. I hug Romeo a little closer. “And now, here. In my bookstore.”

Even thinking the wordsmy bookstorefeels surreal. I’ve spent years working toward this, and it still feels unreal. Like a hazy dream I haven’t fully woken up from.

I exhale slowly, my fingers still absently running through Romeo’s fur as my mind replays the last few minutes over and over. The intensity in Graham’s eyes. The heat of his touch. The way my name sounded on his lips.

Like a promise.

“He said he’s been looking for me,” I whisper to Romeo. “I wonder what that means? Maybe he’s just a curious person.”

I can relate to that. I get curious about a lot of things. For every time someone bemoans the instant gratification of our digital world, I send up a prayer of thanks.

Answers to just about anything in thirty seconds or less.

Can dogs have grapes?No, they’re toxic for dogs.

Best indoor plants for indirect, partial, or full sun?Fiddle leaf fig, snake plant, monstera.

Can you teach yourself how to tango in a week?Not well, but yes.

Romeo tilts his head, his warm brown eyes gazing up at me with so much love, it makes my chest ache a little.

“We don’t deserve dogs, do we?”

He responds by nuzzling his cold, wet nose against my palm, his tail thumping softly against the hardwood floor. I laugh, bending to press a kiss to the top of his fluffy head.

“You’re right, you’re right. I shouldn’t spend so much time analyzing a five-minute interaction with a man I barely know.” Even if that man is Graham Carter, with his intense hazel eyes and broad shoulders. “We’ve got a bookstore to finish setting up.”

I give Romeo one last kiss on his soft, fluffy head and scratch behind his ears before pushing to my feet. He lets out a little whine of protest but settles down on the floor, content to watch me work.

The box I’d been carrying before Graham walked in still sits on the counter where I dropped it, half-opened and waiting. I take a deep breath and step over to it, pulling back the cardboard flaps to reveal stacks of carefully wrapped objects.

One by one, I lift them out and set them on the wooden countertop. Delicate teacups with intricate floral designs, their matching saucers stacked neatly beside them. An antique silver tea strainer, the handle worn smooth from years of use. A collection of mismatched spoons, their slender stems glinting in the afternoon light.

I found these in a chest in the backroom, behind some boxes of supplies and other random things. At first glance, they seemed like nothing special. A random assortment of old teacups and mismatched cutlery. But as I unwrapped each piece, carefully peeling back the thin paper, I realized they were so much more than that.

Tears prick at my eyes as I run my fingertip over the delicate rim of one of the teacups. Aunt Miriam had pulled out this tea set the few times I was able to visit her in Avalon Falls when I was younger. We’d sit at the breakfast nook in her house, sipping tea and nibbling on ginger cookies as she told me stories about far-off places and daring adventures.

For a little girl stuck in a gilded cage, those stolen afternoons with Aunt Miriam were my only tastes of freedom. She made me believe, even just for a few hours at a time, that I could be more than my family’s expectations. More than an Ashburn daughter destined for a carefully orchestrated future.

She saw me. The real me. And she nurtured that spark inside of me, fanning the flames every chance she could. With stories, with encouragement, with quiet moments of connection over steaming cups of tea in mismatched China.

I carefully arrange the delicate teacups on the shelf behind the counter, making sure each one is displayed just so. The silver tea strainer goes in the center, the worn spoons fanned out artfully beside it. When I’m done, I take a step back and admire my handiwork.

It’s perfect. A little piece of Aunt Miriam, right here in the heart of my bookstore. Tears blur my vision and I blink rapidly, determined not to cry again today. I’ve shed enough tears these past few months to fill an ocean. It’s time to look forward, not behind me.

With a deep breath, I turn back to the remaining boxes of supplies waiting to be unpacked. There are still so many little details to finalize before the grand opening next week. The shelves are full of books and the two display tables are done.

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