Page 34 of Stolen Vows

I’m not used to feeling either of those things. But I don’t hate it.

9

FRANCESCA

The energyin the bookshop is electric, buzzing and crackling like a live wire. I feel it humming through every nerve ending as I weave through the small crowd, offering warm smiles and gracious thank-yous to the well-wishers.

The grand opening is in full swing.

The crowd is split fairly evenly—half curious locals, half actual readers. But everyone has been so nice. So welcoming. It feels like something out of a made-for-TV movie. A picture-perfect small town where everyone shows up to support the new girl in town.

A wistful smile tugs at my lips as I take in the scene, my gaze sweeping over the cozy interior of the bookshop. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. A place where stories come alive, where words have the power to transport and transform. And now, it’s mine.

And of course, Romeo’s. He’s been a huge hit, which is a surprise to no one. No one can resist his sweet little face.

He’s currently stationed behind the counter, a latching baby gate blocking any escape. Not that he’s trying all that hard to get out though. He’s perfectly content to hang out behind the counter, popping his head up every few minutes. He balances on his hind legs, his tail wagging like crazy.

He’s raking in head pats and ear scratches like it’s his full-time job.

The little bell above the door chimes, and my gaze flies to it automatically. My heart stutters when I see a flash of blonde, but as the woman steps inside, the moment evaporates.

This woman’s hair is more peach than gold, the sunlight flashing it blonde. One of the downsides of the east-facing windows, I guess. Though I can’t bring myself to mind.

The sunlight pours through the windows, casting the entire store in a buttery golden glow. A few dust motes dance and swirl in the slanted rays like tiny flecks of magic, adding an enchanting feel to the space.

Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m reading more into this store, this day, this move across the country than I should.

Could that be like a fatal flaw? I’m forever reading more into situations and people. And relationships.

I don’t know why I keep expecting my sister to walk through the front door. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. Not since she called me from some random yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.

I push the thought away, forcing myself to smile at the customers walking in. Myrealsmile. Not the one that feels brittle and rough around the edges.

“Hello! Welcome to Fiction and Folklore. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

“Just looking, thanks.” The woman with the peach-colored hair smiles, two younger girls trailing behind her. They quickly disappear into the shelves, their excited whispers floating across the store.

I take a deep breath, letting the hum of conversation and soft pop music wash over me. Of course, I had to play one of my favorite records today to celebrate. I have a record player behind the counter I plan to use, but for today, I decided on a playlist from the tablet connected to the speaker system.

The scent of fresh paper, sugared lemons, and aged wood blends with the crisp, clean smell of new books. It’s the perfect mix of cozy and invigorating. Like the first page of a brand-new story.

I want to meander through the store, chat with more people, just take it all in. Soak everything up.

But for now, it’s better that I stay up front. Greeting customers, checking people out, answering any questions.

For now, Fiction & Folklore has one employee: me. I built the store hours with that little detail in mind. Eventually, I’d love to hire staff, but for the first year, profit is the name of the game. Paying employees eats into that.

The bell above the door chimes again, and my heart does that little stutter-stop once more. But this time, it’s not a flash of blonde that catches my eye.

It’s him.

Graham Carter steps into my bookstore, and the air suddenly feels charged. Electric like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

He’s wearing a dark green henley that stretches across his broad chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. Dark jeans hug his muscular thighs with black sneakers, and his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.

He’s holding a white bakery box in his hands, and my heart does a funny little flip in my chest.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, I internally chide.Maybe he just happened to walk past on his way to something else. Some other function. Something completely unrelated.

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