Page 17 of The Wrong Groom

“Uncle Dominic got water up his nose, thanks to you two,” Dominic complains, grabbing a towel from a nearby deck chair.

“Ah, he deserved it,” Beckett says, and Peyton giggles.

“I’m going to start dinner,” I say, setting Peyton down on my now-vacant barstool. “Everyone good with burgers?”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and I turn toward the grill, which rests under the awning by the door. I hear Peyton chattering away to Dominic and Beckett behind me, still buzzing with energy from their swim.

I flip open the grill and fire it up. Then I head inside to grab the patties from the fridge. After a few minutes, the air on the deck is filled with the sound and smell of sizzling meat.

Peyton runs over with a little plastic cup of maraschino cherries, holding it up to me. “Do you want one?” she asks.

“Where’d you get those?” I ruffle her hair fondly.

“Uncle Tristan got them from the fridge,” she says, popping one of the sweet cherries into her mouth. “Do you want one, Daddy?”

“No thanks, Bug,” I tell her. “But thank you for offering. Don’t let Uncle Tristan give you any more of those, or you’ll spoil your dinner.”

She nods, grinning, and scuttles back over to the bar, hopping up onto Tristan’s lap. Without a doubt, she’s getting a cherry refill before the night is over.

With a fond sigh, I turn my attention back to the grill top, flipping over the burgers one by one. My heart feels tight as I think about how Peyton’s life is going to be upended by this marriage.

No matter what, I promise myself, I’ll make sure she’s okay.

Peyton comes first, before anything else. There isn’t room in my life for any distractions, any disruptions, or unnecessary risks. Peyton has already lost too much. And so have I.

Chapter 6

Alexis

My pencil glides in quick strokes over the lined paper—the only paper I could find lying around in the botanical garden’s bridal suite—as I sketch the outline of a short, summery dress. The design is playful, with flared sleeves and a wide skirt, something anyone could wear and feel comfortable in, even if they’re not model-skinny.

I’ve always taken that sort of approach to fashion: that it should be accessible, something that makes people feel good in their own skin. It shouldn’t just be about exclusivity or unattainable beauty standards. My parents’ world, with its perfect models and high-end brands, never sat right with me.

The door to the bridal suite opens, startling me out of the trance-like state I go into when I draw. My mother enters, her heels clicking on the tile floor as she sweeps across the room with her usual air of urgency. With her, there’s a rush of air that smells like flowers and, below that, earth.

“Alexis, quit wasting time,” she chides me. “You need to be getting ready.”

Glumly, I nod, sliding my sketches off the vanity and into the wastepaper basket beside it. “I know. Sorry.”

“Now, the makeup artist will be here in five minutes,” she says, checking the placement of her own necklace in the mirror before turning to me. “I expect you to be ready for her. No more distractions, alright?”

I nod again, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in my chest.

“Good. You’ll want to look your best today.” Her voice softens slightly, as if she’s trying to reassure me, but the underlying tone of urgency remains. “This is pivotal for our family, and I need you to remember that. It’s quite possibly the most important day of your life.”

There’s a bitter, horrible taste in my mouth, but I swallow it, like I always do. Sometimes, it feels like this is all I am to her: a pawn, worth only what I can contribute to the family’s social standing.

As I pull my dress from the hanger, the fabric slips through my fingers, rich and luxurious. It’s beautiful, no doubt about that, but it doesn’t feel like me. It’s a classic silhouette, fitted at the waist with a flowing skirt that billows as I move. The color is a pristine white, almost blinding under the bright lights of the bridal suite, but it feels more like a costume than an outfit I would choose for myself.

Still, I’ve always known my wedding gown would look like this. After all, my wedding was always going to be about appearances. “Classic” was the only option on the table.

In my mind, I can already picture the gowns I would design for myself—something simple, something fluid, something to encourage movement rather than constrict it. It doesn’t matter though, so I push the thoughts away. No more distractions.

The makeup artist arrives, brisk and efficient, her rolling case clicking across the floor as she sets up by the vanity. Each brush she lays out gleams under the light, each palette filled with colors meant to enhance, conceal, transform. As if she can paint me into something I’m not. Something I’m expected to be.

She greets me with a warm smile, and I have to force myself to return it.

As she applies foundation, I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror, my face adorned with layers of product that feel foreign on my skin. The girl I see in the reflection already looks unfamiliar. Like she’s slipping away, inch by inch, under the sheen of primer and powder. It’s like I’m watching a version of me be sculpted, molded into the woman my family wants the world to see. Every dab of foundation is another layer on the facade.