Page 96 of Stolen Vows

But the image is forever burned into my brain.

For the firsttime in years, I wake up late. It’s already past seven, and my body feels sluggish, weighted down with exhaustion and something else.

After I came all over my hand last night, Francesca went to sleep and I went to work. While I was busy watching my wife, my software finished its data pull. It brought me fifty possible matches. Situations and people and hacks that are just a few lines different from my school district clients.

Cousins not twins.

So I spent hours filtering the data until I could start to make sense of it. But it got too late, my head got hazy and vision blurry.

I drag myself out of bed, muscles protesting the movement. I usually run five miles every morning, but my body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. A gorgeous, brilliant force named Francesca.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into alertness. It doesn’t work. My reflection stares back at me, eyes bleary and shadowed. I need coffee. And to see my wife.

Not necessarily in that order.

I pad downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet hitting me as I round the corner into the kitchen. I pause in the entryway, arrested by the sight before me. Francesca stands at the kitchen sink, her profile to me as she tends to the small army of plants lining the windowsill.

But it’s not just the plants that hold me in place. It’s her.

She’s softly singing as she waters them, her voice a sweet, gentle melody that wraps around me like a siren’s call. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

Something inside me pulls tight, a slow, steady pressure I don’t know how to release. I wasn’t made for this—this warmth, this ease. This . . . softness.

But she was. Francesca moves through my house like it belongs to her, like she belongs here. And maybe she does.

Maybe that should scare the shit out of me. But right now, it just makes the hollow inside my chest feel a little less empty.

She moves through the kitchen into the living room, stopping to sing and water every plant. She’s wearing one of those sleep sets, her hair a mess of loose waves. She’s barefoot, a watering can in one hand, Romeo trotting beside her, trying to lap up the dripping water before it hits the floor.

She lifts the watering can and waters Myrtle, her voice lilting.

I blink.

She turns, still in her own little world, still murmuring soft words of encouragement to the greenery between lyrics.

I’ve never had this in my house before. This quiet hum of life. Something so simple, so completely uncalculated. And it’s hers.

I should make my presence known, say something. Anything, instead of just standing here, watching. But I can’t bring myself to speak, to shatter this perfect, intimate moment. There’s something so peaceful, so achingly domestic about watching Francesca move through our home, tending to her plants and softly singing. It tugs at something deep in my chest, something I’m not ready to examine too closely.

She turns, still lost in her own little world, and startles when she sees me standing in the entryway. The watering can slips from her grasp, clattering to the floor and splashing water over her bare feet.

“Graham! You scared me,” she gasps.

I step forward, an apology already forming on my lips. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She waves off my apology, already bending down to pick up the fallen watering can. “It’s okay, I just didn’t hear you come down.” She straightens up, a soft pink flush coloring her cheeks. “How long were you standing there?”

I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Not long enough.”

Her laughter is bright, unguarded. She sets the watering can down, moving toward the kitchen. “Singing is supposed to help them grow.”

“If this actually works, I’m afraid of what you’ll try singing to next.”

Her gaze drags down my chest, pausing on my dick for a beat. “I don’t know, Graham. Does anything else need help growing?”

I bark a laugh, the sound surprising me as much as it does her. It’s loud and unchecked, bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. When was the last time I laughed like that? I can’t remember. But something about Francesca’s playful, flirtatious energy draws it out of me, effortless and unbidden.

She grins at me, eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer, more intimate. Like we’re sharing a secret joke just between us.

---