Page 91 of Stolen Vows

Graham.

He’s wearing what I’ve come to think of as his standard outfit: hair pulled back, henley, well-worn jeans, and sneakers. Holding a drink tray with two coffees in one hand and a pastry box in the other.

My gaze trails over him, stopping and snagging on the way his jeans stretch across his thighs. Have his thighs always looked this big? I bet he never skips leg day.

“Francesca.” His voice is deep, casual. A smooth tenor that slides down my sternum and settles low in my stomach. But his eyes—his eyes aren’t casual at all. They roam over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing me all over again.

Romeo's ears perk up at the sound of Graham's voice, his fluffy tail thumping against the floor in recognition. He stands up from his bed behind the counter and trots over to Graham, nails clicking on the hardwood.

“Graham.” I clear my throat, attempting to regain my composure. “It’s Monday?” It comes out as a question. Coffee walks with pastries is our Tuesday tradition.

His lips twitch as he sets the coffees down on a nearby table. He crouches down to pet Romeo as he looks at me. “It’s Tuesday in Australia.”

I try to play it off, but when Graham straightens, his eyes flick to my lips—just for a second. It’s quick, barely there, but I see it. A pulse of heat sparks under my skin.

My smile grows and my stomach flips. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Carter?”

He prowls toward me, all casual control. “Always,wife.”

His clean, woodsy scent greets me first. I lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Good.”

“I decided I don’t want to wait until Tuesday.”

My stomach flips, and our fingers brush when he hands me my latte. “We live together now,” I remind him, attempting to sound casual. “You can see me every day.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t so much as flicker. “I know.”

And then, just as quickly as he arrived, he turns toward the counter, moving through the store like he’s always belonged here. Like it’s just another Tuesday.

Except it’s Monday. And nothing about this feels routine.

We fall into our usual closing routine, an unspoken rhythm we’ve somehow built over the past several months. I lock up the register. He restocks the impulse-buy bookmarks by the register. At one point, I catch him scanning the shelves, rearranging a few titles until the spines align just right.

“What are you doing?” I ask, amused.

He barely glances up. “Your depth is inconsistent.”

I gape at him. “What?”

His mouth twitches. “I fixed it.”

“You fixed what?”

“Your spines weren’t level on the top shelf.”

I cross my arms, shaking my head even as a smile tugs at my lips. “Of course you’d notice that.”

Graham straightens up. “It’s the details that matter, Francesca.” His voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent of intensity that makes my breath catch.

Like last night. When he touched me with such focused attention, such single-minded purpose. Like he was cataloging every hitch of my breath, every shiver and moan, committing them to memory.

Heat climbs up my neck and I glance away from him, willing the memory to fade quickly.

“The top shelf might be out of your eyeline. It’s not your fault.” His eyes glint with something dangerously close to amusement.

I stare at him, locking my expression down. “Are you calling me short, husband?”

It feels like a magic word, something I can pull out and use against him whenever I want. I don’t know how long it’ll last before the magic wears off, so I need to get in some time now.

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