Page 14 of The Wrong Groom

I let myself zone out, my subconscious taking over as the pencil’s tip outlines the contours of a woman’s body.

The dress that takes shape on her form complements her narrow shoulders. The hemline is asymmetrical, the skirt loose, so that it will sway with movement. The neckline is a daring sweetheart, framing the face beautifully while leaving room for bold statement jewelry.

I pause to take another quick sip of tea, the familiar flavor of the oolong leaves spreading over my tongue.

This is the only thing I’ve ever done that has felt authentic. Genuine. I’ve been enamored with fashion since I was a little girl, which is a blessing and a curse given my circumstances.

Throughout my childhood, I had ample opportunities to dip my toe into the fashion world. I’ve met top designers through their collaborations with Vérité. I’ve been to various fashion weeks, Milan, Paris. I’ve seen countless runway shows and gotten to know the industry.

I never bothered to voice my interest in design, though. My parents had made it clear that I was destined for a role in corporate.

My family appointed me Chief Financial Officer of Vérité after I graduated with my degree in Economics. If I’m being honest with myself, though, that position is in name only. I’ve never been given a say in the running of the business. As far as my parents are concerned, my only real contribution to Vérité is my upcoming arranged marriage and its associated benefits.

Thinking of my marriage, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to Gabriel. I can’t get the color of his eyes out of my mind, a rich, deep gray, like steel. Earlier, when we were in the sun, I noticed that the irises are lighter in the center.

I swallow, my pencil forming a jagged line through the gown’s bodice as a shiver runs up my spine. It’s not just Gabriel’s eyes that are lingering in my mind.

It’s his scent. The way his hands felt on my body as he caught me, steadied me. The slight smile that tugged his lips, even if it was ironic.

I stare down at the gown taking shape on my sketch paper. It’s beautiful, minus the error in the bodice.

What would it be like to wear something beautiful for him? To know that he’s looking at me not just as a business arrangement, but as a woman worthy of admiration?

I reach for my eraser with a sigh of frustration, and slowly, methodically, I begin to fix my mistake.

Chapter 5

Gabriel

The outdoor fireplace on my deck crackles as Tristan, Reid, Dominic and I sit by the wet bar, watching Peyton splash in the shallow end of the swimming pool, inflatable pool floaties strapped to her arms. Each of us holds a cold beer, aside from Tristan, who opted for whiskey.

The doorbell chimes inside the house, and Peyton bursts out of the water, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Uncle Beckett!” she shouts, sprinting across the deck.

“Peyton, towel off before you go inside, please!” I call after her.

“Yeah, no chance of that happening.” Reid grins.

I sigh, getting to my feet. “I’ll go enforce it.”

I have a nanny for Peyton, but she’s only here during the hours when I’m at work. The rest of the time, it’s nice to be able to have my little girl to myself. Plus, when my brothers are over, there are four extra pairs of eyes to help watch the kiddo, which makes life a little easier.

These casual gatherings have been getting more and more frequent lately, ever since our father’s death. The five of us are closer now than we’ve been in a long time—maybe closer than we’ve been in our whole lives. It’s been nice. A little strange, but also surprisingly natural, like we’re finally settling into roles we’ve long avoided.

In the foyer, Peyton grasps the door handle and swings the door open, and Beckett beams down at her from the other side.

“Looks like someone’s been swimming!” he exclaims. Peyton giggles in response.

“Not so much swimming as splashing,” I reply dryly. “Hope you didn’t wear anything that can’t get wet.”

“Ah, I’ll be fine. I won’t melt. See, watch this.” Beckett lets out an exaggerated roar and swoops into the house, snatching up Peyton, who shrieks in delight. He lifts my daughter and carries her back toward the deck. “Quick! We have to get this little fish back into the water!”

Grinning despite myself, I follow the sound of Peyton’s laughter out to the poolside. I watch as Beckett tosses her carefully into the water, and she splashes around in a crude imitation of swimming. I’ve gotten her lessons, and although she’s made good progress and gained a lot more confidence in the water, floaties are still a must.

“Hey, Beck,” Reid says, raising his beer bottle. “You’re late.”

Beckett waves a hand dismissively. “No such thing as late. We’re not at work.”

I huff a laugh at that. Beckett is secretly the hardest working one out of all of us, although I’m not sure even he realizes that. He would never show up late to the office, but in his personal life—as much as he allows himself to have one—he’s much more easygoing.