Page 83 of Stolen Vows

It’s nothing. Just a second too close, a half-step miscalculated. But it lingers, awareness crackling between us like a lit fuse.

Graham doesn’t move away immediately. His head dips slightly, just enough that I swear I feel his breath against my hair.

I stay frozen, the moment stretching, thickening. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s considering something.

Then, as if snapping back to reality, he exhales and steps away. “Goodnight, Francesca.”

I nod, but when the door clicks shut behind him, I press my palm against the wood, my skin still buzzing where we touched.

I glance around the room again, my fingers brushing over the edge of the bed.My bed.Inmy husband’shouse.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.

Then, before I can think too much about it, I whisper the words out loud, “Welcome home.”

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

28

FRANCESCA

The house is quiet.Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels unfamiliar. Not bad. Just . . . different.

Moonlight spills through the sliver of space between my curtains, casting pale shadows across the ceiling. Romeo is snoring softly in his kennel. The one I found tucked inside the walk-in closet, like Graham had prepared for this months ago. Like he expected me to move in all along.

I roll over, staring at the clock on my nightstand. A little after one o’clock in the morning.

I should be exhausted. It’s been a long, emotional day. But sleep won’t come. My mind won’t shut off. And the longer I lie here, tangled in sheets that smell like lavender and something faintly woodsy, the more I think about him.

Graham.

Myhusband.

The word should freak me out, shouldn’t it? It should feel foreign, unnatural. But when I test it out in my head, when I let the syllables settle, I don’t hate it.

I shift onto my back, exhaling slowly. My mind keeps circling back to something Graham told me the night I agreed to this.

"This marriage can be whatever you want it to be."

It felt like a promise then. A whispered, open-ended possibility. And in the weeks leading up to today, he’s repeated it more times than I can count.

"Whatever you want, Francesca."

But what do I want? The question rattles around my mind, refusing to settle. I stare up at the ceiling, fingers plucking absently at the edge of the duvet.

I want my bookstore. I want to wake up every morning knowing Fiction & Folklore is mine, free and clear. No more impossible benchmarks, no more threats from my parents. Just me, building something I love, creating a haven for readers and dreamers like me.

I want independence. The kind I’ve never really had before. The freedom to make my own choices without the suffocating weight of familial obligation and expectation bearing down on me.

And I want Graham.

The thought slams into me, stealing my breath. I want him. Not just as a business partner or a paper husband. But as a man.

I want to feel his hands on me again, those strong, capable hands that held me so tenderly as we said our vows. I want to taste his kiss again, to lose myself in the heat of his mouth and the slide of his tongue. I want to discover what other sounds I can pull from him, what he looks like when he comes undone.

In another life, I’d be writing pros and cons on a piece of paper with my sister over a pitcher of margaritas and bottomless chips. She’d tell me I’m being stupid by not taking what Graham is offering.

So what the hell am I waiting for?

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