Page 25 of The Wrong Groom

An awkward silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things. Then Gabriel clears his throat, gesturing toward the hallway. “So, shall we?”

I fall in behind him, following him to the stairs. The faint scent of cedar and something faintly smoky—his cologne, I think—lingers in his wake.

As we reach the top, Gabriel pauses and gestures down the hallway. “Stairs at the end there go up to the roof,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “There’s a deck up top—nice place to sit, good view. You’re welcome to use it whenever.” He turns and points in the opposite direction. “Peyton’s bedroom is that way. And…” He faces the door nearest to us. “This is us.”

Gabriel pushes the door open, revealing a spacious room with a massive bed at its center, draped in crisp, cream-colored sheets. A cozy sitting area occupies one corner, with a low coffee table and two armchairs angled toward each other. There are large windows along one wall, framed by gauzy curtains drawn closed to block out the streetlights.

There are several boxes and suitcases along one wall. My stuff.

For a moment, we both just stand there in the doorway, caught in the strangeness of the moment. Then, clearing his throat slightly, Gabriel steps aside, letting me enter first.

Without discussion, we both start to get ready for bed. I go to one of the suitcases that I know contains clothes and drag it over to the foot of the bed, unzipping it and sifting through my things until I find something comfortable: an oversized t-shirt that feels like a lifeline right now. Gabriel, on the other side of the room, moves quietly, slipping out of his suit jacket and folding it over one of the armchairs.

Then he starts to unbutton his shirt. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I do my best to stare down into the open suitcase, but I can’t resist a quick glance up at him. Muscles ripple in his arms as he shrugs the shirt off, and…

Holy shit. He’s unreal. Defined shoulders, lean lines down to his waist… it’s hard not to stare. After a moment, he shrugs on a cotton t-shirt, and it’s all I can do not to sigh in relief—and, okay, maybe a little bit of disappointment.

I glance down at the t-shirt in my hands. It’s going to take some doing to get out of this dress. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it alone. It’s laced up in the back so intricately that I’m sure I’ll just end up tangling myself further. The last thing I want is to stand here struggling while Gabriel looks on.

“Um, could you—” I start, my voice cracking. “Could you help me with this?”

Gabriel pauses, his brows knitting together as he processes my request. “Sure,” he murmurs. He approaches me, and I turn my back to him, feeling a rush of nerves as I face away.

His fingers brush against my bare shoulders as he begins to untie the laces and work on the zipper. I hug the bodice to my chest, feeling exposed under his touch, but the sensation sends a thrill through me. His movements are careful and deliberate, and I can sense the tension radiating off him.

Finally, the last of the laces come undone, and the dress loosens around me. My grip tightens around my torso. I don’t want to step out of it here. I already feel vulnerable enough as it is.

As if he can read my mind, Gabriel gives a small cough and inclines his head to the side, toward the adjoining bathroom. I nod gratefully and make my escape, clutching my loose wedding dress and my pajamas to my body like they’re a shield.

The bathroom door closes behind me with a little click. I exhale and open my arms, letting everything fall to the floor—the dress, the pajamas, the tension. I step out of the pile of fabric, approaching the marble sink.

Oh, god. I can’t do this.

I can feel tears brewing, and I swallow hard, trying to force them back down. Somehow, my makeup has survived the night, and I’m not about to ruin it now.

I put on the t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, then start the arduous process of removing bobby pins from my hair. Eventually, it cascades down my shoulders, smooth and shining from whatever conditioner the stylist used. I stare into the mirror for a long moment, absent-mindedly running my fingers through the waves.

For a long moment, I debate whether or not to remove my makeup. I touch my reflection, tracing the line of my jaw and the delicate arch of my eyebrows.

No, I decide at last. It stays—at least, for now.

I pluck the wedding dress from the floor and steel myself, preparing to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom. When I step back into the room, Gabriel is in bed, leaning against the headboard. The sheets are pulled up to his chest.

I lay the wedding dress across the open armchair. The two chairs, with the dress and Gabriel’s suit, sit opposite each other almost as awkwardly as we do.

Then I turn back toward the bed.

This is it. This is the moment I’ve been mentally preparing for since I was twelve years old.

This was part of my mother’s explanations of womanhood: what to expect on your wedding night.

No matter how many times I’ve run through hypotheticals and rehearsed this moment in my mind, nothing could prepare me for it. Not really. Anxiety knots my stomach as I move woodenly toward the bed.

The glow of the bedside lamp silhouettes Gabriel. The way the light catches the angles of his face highlights the stubble along his jaw. His arms are splayed out, hands folded behind his head as he reclines, his triceps perfectly defined.

The flutter of nerves in my stomach rises again, but this time, it feels different. There’s a thrill mingling with the anxiety, a sense of anticipation that makes my heart race.

I climb into bed beside him. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, and it’s all I can do not to roll toward him, like gravity is trying to draw us together. The space between us feels charged, electric, and my heart beats faster as I settle in, pulling the covers up around my shoulders.