Page 22 of The Wrong Groom

I become aware that other people have pulled back to give us space on the dance floor. There was no script for our first dance. This was one moment of the performance we weren’t required to have. But now here we are, swaying in the center of the room, surrounded by the diffuse glow of fairy lights and the watchful eyes of our guests.

I guide Alexis in a slow circle, and she looks up at me, confusion darkening her gaze. “I thought we weren’t going to have a dance.”

I shrug. “Decided we might as well.” I keep my voice nonchalant, as if I haven’t been watching her all night, as if I haven’t been haunted by the image of her laughter with someone else.

Her lips tighten. My mind races, trying to figure out what she’s thinking. I’m intimately aware of the way her body moves, of our closeness. How can I feel so connected and so distant all at once?

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, desperate to break the silence that has settled between us. “The dress is impressive.”

In a quiet voice, she replies, “Thank you.” There’s a pause. I can feel her thoughts churning behind that composed expression of hers. She hesitates, then glances up at me through her lashes, her voice barely audible. “This dress isn’t exactly my style, to be honest.”

“It’s not?” I hold out my arm, allowing her to twirl. The ivory skirts flare outwards as she moves. “I thought your family’s company designed it.”

She makes a face as she spins back into my arms. “Yeah, well. Vérité and I have… conflicting fashion opinions.”

That raises my eyebrows. “Conflicting, huh?”

“Most of the time,” she says. She shrugs slightly, and I can tell by the way her shoulders lift that there’s more beneath those words. More she hasn’t shared, more opinions she’s used to keeping to herself.

Before I can ask her to elaborate, the delicate strains of the song end on a long, vibrating cello note. I drop my arms, and Alexis steps away from me.

As she does, it hits me for the first time just how vastly my life has changed.

The woman in front of me isn’t just a temptation that I shouldn’t be drawn to. She’s not just an enigma, a mystery that draws me in with every word while I try to resist.

She’s my wife.

Chapter 8

Alexis

By the end of the night, I feel dead on my feet.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. I’ve shaken at least a hundred hands, greeted a hundred people I barely even know. Heard the words congratulations and best wishes so many times that those phrases have lost all meaning.

As the band plays the final song, I find myself back on that bench beside the maple tree—a refuge in the chaos. I’m sitting down, resting my sore feet. I would have ripped those heels off twenty minutes into the reception if it had been up to me, but I know better than to do something like that. I have an image to maintain.

My mother makes her way across the dance floor, dodging the stragglers who are still trying to dance. Her eyes are on me, and for a moment, my chest clenches painfully. I rise to my feet, anticipation humming through my body, one last burst of adrenaline to carry me through this interaction.

But when she reaches me, my mother pulls me into a hug.

Something inside of me unwinds, the tightness in my ribcage releasing its hold. I breathe out as my mother’s hand rests on my upper back.

“You did so well,” she tells me quietly.

There’s a lump in my throat, and for the first time today, my eyes prick with tears. “I—thank you,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

She pulls back slightly, her hands lingering on my shoulders, searching my eyes. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. I just want you to know that I’m proud of you.” She glances over at my father, who’s off to the side, speaking to Gabriel and one of his brothers. “We both are.”

I watch as my father shakes Gabriel’s hand enthusiastically, beaming from ear to ear. I can hear snatches of their conversation—business talk. Something about Gabriel joining the board of Vérité, which I hadn’t known was in the works, but doesn’t surprise me.

They move toward me and my mother, still conversing, although my father seems to be doing most of the talking.

“We’re very excited for what’s to come,” he says, voice booming.

“Thank you, Mr. Beaumont,” Gabriel replies, his tone low by comparison. “I’m looking forward to contributing however I can.”

“Please, call me Jonathan,” my father says. “We’re family now, after all.”