Page 26 of The Wrong Groom

For a long moment, we lie there in silence. In this house, I realize, I can hear the city in the distance—the muffled sounds of traffic, a distant siren wailing. It was always so quiet in my condo that I could only hear the refrigerator from down the hall. These sounds are so natural by comparison, and they help me soothe myself as I wait for Gabriel to act.

Gabriel shifts, turning to glance at me. His eyes are dark in the low light. “Alexis, I’m not going to have sex with you.”

His words are abrupt and unexpected. Was I really that transparent? Can he actually read my mind? I blink, my heart racing as I process what he just said.

“Um, okay,” I manage to reply, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over me. A touch of disappointment too, which I don’t really know how to process.

“We barely know each other. And I’m not going to force myself on a woman just because we’ve been bound together by an arranged marriage.”

I nod. “I… yeah. Um. Thank you.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans over and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness that’s lit only by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the curtains.

I lie in the dark for a long time, on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I’m so aware of him beside me—his deep, even breaths as he drifts off, the firmness of his body, the warmth of him—that I can’t imagine sleeping.

Eventually, though, my exhaustion wins out.

Chapter 9

Gabriel

When I wake, it’s morning.

Not exactly an earth-shattering realization for most people, sure, but it catches me off guard. Sunlight streams through the windows, there’s birdsong outside, and for a moment, I’m disoriented.

I don’t usually sleep through the night like that. Normally, I can expect to wake up anywhere from two to five times while it’s still dark, my mind racing with thoughts that refuse to settle.

And I feel… rested.

Damn. I must have been completely exhausted last night. It makes sense. Yesterday was a long, stressful day, after all.

The wedding comes crashing back into my mind like the Pacific tide. Every excruciating minute of it. The Beaumonts, hovering around Alexis with undisguised satisfaction for what they managed to orchestrate. My brothers’ sympathetic glances, Tristan’s reassurances. And most of all, Alexis’s discomfort. The way she looked as though she was trapped in her own wedding dress, forcing a smile that was dimmed severely by her nerves.

I glance to the other side of the bed, and—Alexis isn’t there.

I frown, confused, and check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning. There’s no reason for Alexis to be up this early. After everything that happened yesterday, I expected her to sleep in.

Maybe she’s just an early riser.

I slide out of bed and make my way to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. The coolness invigorates me, helping to drive away the last vestiges of sleep.

I head downstairs, the wooden steps creaking slightly under my weight. The house is quiet except for the faint sounds of the city outside. I take a moment to absorb the warmth of the morning light filtering through the windows.

Then I hear a clattering sound, followed by a quiet, hissed “Shit.” It seems to be coming from the kitchen.

“Oh, god,” I mutter to myself, quickening my pace toward the kitchen. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find there—a small fire, maybe—but there’s definitely the smell of something burning.

When I enter the kitchen, to my relief, there’s no fire. Alexis is standing near the stove, a spatula in hand. She whirls around as I enter, a wince plastered across her face like I’ve caught her red-handed committing a crime.

I go still at the sight of her, momentarily taken aback. She’s wearing a cotton robe over the t-shirt and sweats she slept in, and her face is bare of any makeup.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her without makeup on. She was beautiful on the day of the photoshoot, and beautiful at the wedding, but without the makeup… she’s stunning in an entirely different way. There’s something disarmingly honest about her bare face, a softness that wasn’t there yesterday.

She looks older, somehow, as if the makeup was trying to age her up and failing. She looks… more human. Light freckles dot the bridge of her nose. Her hair is slightly mussed, still falling in waves around her shoulders.

I take a step toward her, opening my mouth, then closing it again.

She bites her lip, her nervousness palpable. “Sorry about the mess. I… I’ll clean it up.”