Page 101 of The Wrong Groom

“Sounds like a nice night,” Gabriel says. “Too bad we’re going to miss all the fun.”

“Next time, you can skip your party and join us,” Margaret replies with a chuckle.

Gabriel says his own goodbyes to Peyton, lifting her up into an adorable bear hug. Then he puts a hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. We step out into the night together. The moment the door closes behind us, he leans close to me and whispers in my ear.

“I really do love the dress.”

I blush. “I’m glad.”

“I can’t wait to get you out of it later,” he murmurs. His fingers find the slit in the fabric at my mid-thigh and brush against my skin.

I shiver, a thrill running through me at his touch.

“Gabriel,” I whisper, my voice catching slightly, “We’re on our way to a gala.”

He chuckles, his voice low and teasing. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate how gorgeous my wife looks.” He smirks as he adds, “Or that I can’t make a few plans for later.”

We climb into a waiting car. Gabriel drapes his arm over the back of the seat, and I lean readily into him as the driver takes us through the city streets.

“You know,” I admit, “I was actually a little nervous about tonight.”

“Really?” He grins. “You hide it well.”

Playfully, I elbow him in the ribs. “I was nervous. I’m not anymore. I’m actually looking forward to it.”

“Good.” He shoots me a warm glance, looking satisfied. “You should be. You’re going to be the most beautiful piece of art in the whole⁠—”

“No, no, stop,” I interrupt, laughing. “That’s so corny, oh my god. Take it back.”

“Sorry, I can’t.” He shakes his head, lifting his chin in a dignified manner. “It’s the truth, and I stand by it.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re already married, because your pickup lines need a lot of work,” I tease.

The drive is short. The easy banter with Gabriel and the evening hues of the sunset help relax me further as we draw close to the venue. By the time the car rolls to a stop, I feel even more at ease.

When Gabriel steps out and holds the door open for me, though, the calm I managed to muster vanishes immediately at the sound of a camera shutter clicking. There’s a flurry of flashes as I step out onto the sidewalk, adjusting my dress in a hurry. I should’ve known there would be media here. The wealthiest and most powerful people in Los Angeles will be here tonight, and the press never misses an opportunity to capture a moment. I tense up, immediately feeling the familiar pressure of being under a microscope.

Gabriel seems to sense the change in my demeanor. He gives my hand a squeeze and meets my gaze. He stands tall and composed, unaffected by the photographers. His hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me forward as we move toward the entrance.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs under his breath. “Remember, you look absolutely beautiful.”

Inside the museum, things are a little calmer. The relentless click of cameras and shouts of people trying to catch our attention are replaced by the murmur of conversations and the soft strains of a string quartet.

The museum’s lobby has marble floors and a high ceiling. A balcony overlooks the space, and over its cusp, I can see one of the galleries, filled with Impressionist works and devoid of any crowds. They must be off-limits, even for the party. I catch sight of a Monet in a gilded frame, his unmistakable water lilies.

The gala itself is a fundraiser, and at nine o’clock, there’s supposed to be a small auction to provide a second opportunity to donate to the museum. For now, though, the guests mill about with flutes of champagne and take hors d’oeuvres from passing servers.

Gabriel leans in slightly, his voice low as he murmurs, “Would you like a drink?”

I nod, grateful for the suggestion. “A glass of champagne would be nice.”

“Stay here. I’ll grab us something.”

I linger at one of the high tables, awkwardly waiting for Gabriel to return. When he does, he’s holding two flutes of champagne. And, to my horror, he’s not alone. There’s a middle-aged man beside him. The man wears a sharp, expensive suit. His dark hair is streaked with gray at the temples, and his piercing blue eyes are sharp, assessing.

“Alexis,” Gabriel says as he approaches, offering me one of the flutes. “This is Connor Williams. He’s one of the museum’s biggest benefactors.”

“Mrs. Thorne,” says Connor, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure. My daughters have been following your progress on the Fashion For All workshop.”