Page 76 of Stolen Vows

26

GRAHAM

The courthouse is unimpressive.A nondescript brick building with outdated carpeting and fluorescent lights that flicker slightly in the waiting area. It smells faintly of paper, ink, and cheap cologne. A handful of people sit scattered in the chairs, waiting for their numbers to be called.

A teenage couple in jeans and sneakers, shifting nervously. An elderly couple holding hands like they’ve been doing it for decades. A man in a pressed suit, tapping impatiently on his phone.

It’s just another day. Another wedding on a docket full of them. But to me, it feels different.

Because today, I’m marrying Francesca Ashburn.

I stand by the window, hands clasped behind my back, staring out at the parking lot. My suit jacket feels too tight, the tie around my neck a fraction too snug. I roll my shoulders, trying to dispel the tension coiling in my muscles.

It’s just nerves, I tell myself. Perfectly normal wedding day jitters.

Except this isn't a normal wedding day. And what I'm feeling isn't just nerves.

It’s anticipation. Eagerness. A bone-deep certainty that this is right, even if it’s unexpected.

I think back to the first time I saw her. Dancing in the middle of the baseball house at Sterling University all those years ago. The way my heart squeezed at the sight of her carefree smile, her hair whipping around her face as she twirled. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

Even then, there was something about Francesca that drew me in. A light, a warmth that radiated from her very being. She was magnetic in a way I couldn’t define, but felt deep in the small, soft space behind my ribs.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight. I still don’t. But something shifted in that moment. A recognition, deep in my bones, that she was important. That she would change everything.

It took nearly a decade, but here we are. Minutes away from becoming husband and wife. I’m sure it’s not the way she’d planned it. And I never really thought much about marriage, even less when it became apparent that would be the only way I’d get Nana Jo’s inheritance.

But as I stand here waiting for my future wife to arrive, I realize there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. No one else I’d rather pledge my life to, even if it’s just on paper.

For now.

I don’t know what to expect from this marriage, and ironically, that’s the most alarming part of this whole situation. The unknown.

What Francesca will want it to be. A friendship? A partnership of convenience? Or something more?

My mind spins with the possibilities, each one sending a different thrill down my spine. I picture lazy Sunday mornings, waking up to her soft curves pressed against me, her hair tickling my nose. I imagine quiet evenings on the couch, her feet in my lap as we both read, content in each other’s company. I see us cooking dinner together, laughing as we move around the kitchen in sync, stealing kisses between stirs of pasta.

“You sure about this, bro?” Beau claps me on the shoulder. His tone is jovial and upbeat but his words are wrapped in concern.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Jesus, don’t get all emotional on me.” He grins. “You got everything?”

“All set. Just waiting on the bride.” I glance at my watch, more out of habit than any real concern for the time. “Doyou?”

He presses a hand against his chest, his mouth curved into a faux frown. “You wound me, brother. As if I’d forget your fucking wedding rings. Give me a little credit.”

I roll my eyes with a low scoff. “The last time you asked me to give you a little credit, you showed up at one of my rental cabins and went for a midnight swim with your girlfriend. Naked.”

Beau drags his hand over his grin with a low laugh. “Yeah, you got me. That was a good night though. Maybe you should take a page outta my book and do the same thing, yeah?”

“I’m good.”

He whistles under his breath. ”Never thought I’d see the day. Graham Carter, nervous about a girl.”

I shoot him a look. “That’s not just some girl. That’s my future wife.”

His expression softens, his gaze bouncing between mine. “Are you really sure this is what you want to do? Just say the word or grunt or whatever, and I’ll have you gone in sixty seconds or less.”

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