Page 132 of The Wrong Groom

“You didn’t have to go in on him like that,” Tristan is saying, his tone reproachful.

“I mean, it’s too late now,” Beckett replies. “I said what I said.”

“He’s hurting. Why kick him while he’s down?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to try and get him back up?”

“What the fuck do you think it’s going to change?” Dominic mutters.

There’s a clink of glasses and a long pause. Then Beckett says, “That’s not my problem. That’s Gabe’s.”

I descend the stairs, making my steps loud on purpose so that they’ll know I’m coming back down. The conversation dies abruptly, and by the time I return to the living room, they’ve moved back to shop talk. I settle into an armchair and tune out an argument between Tristan and Reid about that stupid app, nursing a whiskey on the rocks.

Eventually, to my relief, Jackson stands up, stretching. “It’s getting late,” he declares. “I’ve got a charity brunch tomorrow, so I’d better go get some sleep.”

Ivy trails after him, although she seems more reluctant to leave. The second they’re gone, Beckett follows, and slowly, the rest of my brothers trickle out of the house too. Tristan and Chloe are the last to go. Tristan hesitates at the door, grimacing as he starts to apologize for what Beckett said, but I wave him away wearily.

He doesn’t need to apologize for Beckett’s words. It’s not his problem, and it’s not his job to make excuses for our youngest brother, who has always had a habit of saying exactly what’s on his mind.

The truth is, nobody needs to apologize for Beckett, because he was right.

Once I’m finally alone in the house, the quiet descends on me like a heavy weight, pressing down on my shoulders. The silence amplifies everything I don’t want to think about. The ache in my chest, the guilt gnawing at the edges of my conscience, the deep exhaustion that I can’t address.

I trudge up the stairs, shed my clothes, and climb into bed. Sleep won’t come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure if I wish the last, lingering traces of Alexis’s scent in my sheets were stronger, or if I wish they would fade and leave me in peace.

I’m considering my options for sleep—melatonin or something stronger—when I hear a cry from down the hall. Peyton.

In an instant, I’m out of bed, moving before I can fully process it. My exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a sharp, instinctive urgency.

I push open Peyton’s door to find her sitting up in bed, clutching Pepper to her chest. The kitten protests with a small, sleepy meow, but doesn’t struggle in Peyton’s hold.

“Daddy,” she whimpers, her voice wobbling.

I’m beside her in an instant, brushing her curls away from her damp forehead. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Her lower lip trembles. “I had a bad dream.”

“Oh, Bug,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I exhale slowly, relief and something deeper settling in my chest. A nightmare? I can handle that. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

She sniffles. Tears gather in her eyes, and I hold her to my chest. Pepper nestles between us, purring, enjoying the additional warmth. We struck gold with that cat. I find myself relieved that Peyton had some company the moment she was jolted awake.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, rocking Peyton back and forth gently.

She’s crying in earnest now, her back shaking. I rub my palm in circles on her spine in an attempt to soothe her, but it doesn’t seem to do much good.

She hiccups between sobs. “Alexis came back.”

My hand goes still on her back.

“In my dream, she came back, and I was so happy,” she whimpers, pressing her wet face into my shirt. “But then I turned around and she was gone again. I couldn’t find her anywhere. And nobody would tell me where she went.”

A sharp ache stabs through my chest.

Fuck. I should have seen this coming. Peyton has never once cried for Melanie. She was too young to remember her, too young to miss what she never had.

When I thought she was ready to hear it and explained—as gently as I could—that her mother had passed away, she didn’t cry. She just looked lost and a little uncertain, grieving something she couldn’t quite grasp.

But Alexis, she knew. Alexis brushed the tangles out of her hair and helped her pick out her kitten and coached her through talking to strangers without hiding behind my leg. Alexis tucked her in at night and read her stories in all the different voices. Alexis is real to her in a way Melanie never had the chance to be.