Page 8 of Stolen Vows

I take two steps toward the kitchen when I feel it—her fingers wrapping around my wrist.

The contact startles me. I glance over my shoulder just as she rises onto her toes, close enough that I catch the faint scent of something sweet clinging to her skin.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she shouts over the music.

My brows pull together. My pulse ticks up for reasons entirely unrelated to baseball.

“In the crowd,” she says, nodding to the people everywhere.

I didn’t realize I stopped counting how many people walked in the front door. I nod, turn forward again, and don’t think about the fact that she’s still holding on.

People clap me on the back as I move through the house, murmuring congratulations, asking about the game, about the next round. I dip my chin in acknowledgment but don’t slow my pace.

She stays close, fingers still wrapped around my wrist, until we reach the basement door.

I open it, letting her step in first, then follow, closing it behind us. The chaos of the party dulls instantly, the pounding music reduced to a distant hum beneath above our heads. My shoulders drop, and I exhale quietly.

“So, you’re a baseball player, then?” Her voice lilts at the end, curiosity threading through her tone.

I glance at her as I step past. “Yeah.”

I discard my beer bottle on the counter of the small half-kitchen. And then I enter the combination on the lock, flick it open, and pull the fridge door wide. Cold air spills out, raising the hair on my arms. I take a step back as she moves forward?—

And we bump into each other. My hand curls around her shoulder, steadying her before I even think about it. She laughs, light and airy, like a bubble popping against my skin, and I let go just as fast.

“Wow, okay, so this is really just a beer fridge, huh?” she muses, leaning in and plucking a bottle from the top shelf. She waggles it in front of me. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to have one of these?”

“I’m sure.” I close the fridge, grab the magnetic bottle opener off the side, and hand it to her.

“So,” she says, popping the cap off with an easy flick of her wrist. “Why do I get the feeling you’re kind of a big deal? Do you live in this house . . .” She trails off, eyebrows lifting as her gaze drifts over my face.

“Graham.”

Something shifts in her expression, like she’s tucking my name away, committing it to memory.

“Graham,” she muses, her lips tilting up as her gaze glides downward, like she’s cataloging details.

Then she holds out her hand.

“I’m Francesca.”

The sound of the basement door slamming open jars me, the pulsing music spilling down the stairs like a discordant waterfall. My head jerks toward the noise, my hand slipping from hers. Francesca’s.

“Frankie!”

The shrill voice cuts through the din, footsteps pounding down the stairs with sharp, unapologetic urgency.

The woman appears before I’ve even registered her fully, but the resemblance is instant—undeniable.

Same height. Same delicate bone structure, the kind that breaks hearts with one look. Same honey-gold hair.

But that’s where the similarities end.

Where Francesca feels untamed—light catching in her hair, amusement curling at her lips, a sense that she belongs here simply because she decided to—this woman is the opposite.

She strolls into the room like it’s beneath her, nose high, eyes narrowed as she scans the space. Her gaze flicks over the worn couch, the half-empty bottles littering the coffee table, the scuffed-up floorboards like she’s mentally cataloging every offense.

She stops just short of us, arms crossing over her chest, lips pressing into a thin line.

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