Page 27 of The Wrong Groom

Only then do I notice the stove behind her. It looks as though she was in the middle of cooking something, and it didn’t exactly go to plan.

There’s some spilled milk on the stovetop, a half-cracked egg resting precariously on the counter, and a sprinkle of flour dusting the edge of the sink. Whatever’s in the frying pan, sizzling ominously, doesn’t look all that appetizing.

“What are you doing?” I ask slowly, taking in the scene.

She glances down at the pan, shame burning on her face. “I… I got up early to t-try to make breakfast. I didn’t think you would wake up so soon.”

“I never sleep well,” I say automatically. That’s not true, though. Now I have one data point to the contrary. Last night, I got an uninterrupted six hours, from the moment my head touched the pillow to the moment the sunlight came through my window. And, if I’m being honest, it feels amazing. I knew my constant sleep-deprived state wasn’t good for my health, but I’d forgotten just how good it feels to be well rested.

She brushes loose strands of hair out of her face, her forehead creased with stress. “It—it d-didn’t turn out how I wanted. Um, I’ll… I’ll clean this up. S-sorry.”

She grabs the frying pan by the handle and lifts her attempted omelet off the stove, moving toward the trash can.

“Wait,” I say, stepping forward before she can throw it away. “Let me take a look.”

She freezes, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. I glance at the slightly scrambled mess, noticing a bit of browned egg along one edge, but honestly, it’s not as bad as it seemed at first sight. Definitely edible. Well, parts of it are edible, at any rate.

“What—what are you doing?” she asks.

I shrug. “I’ll eat it. I want to. My wife made it.”

Her mouth falls open slightly, as if she’s astonished. I take the pan from her and set it aside. I watch her expression as I reach up to the cabinets to root around for a plate. She looks terrified, all the more so because of my scrutiny. A flash of guilt shoots through me. No matter what I do, no matter what my intentions, I can’t seem to stop making Alexis feel uneasy.

I don’t think that’s entirely my fault, but it does make me feel like shit. I want her to be comfortable, if possible.

I let out a small breath. “Listen… I don’t have any expectations of you in this marriage. I want you to know that.”

“I—” She starts quickly, but I hold up a hand.

“Just—hold on a second. I don’t expect you to cook or clean or… or do other things for me.”

Color rises in her cheeks again, and she looks away. Last night’s tension lingers between us, barely softened by the morning light.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to fulfill some kind of imaginary role as my wife,” I continue. “That’s not fair to you.”

Her eyes meet mine again, and I’m not surprised to see them glistening with a few unshed tears. Alexis sniffles and swipes at them hastily before they can fall. There’s an air of impatience to the action that makes my heart sink.

“I’ve known for a long time that an arranged marriage was in my future,” she admits. “Since I was a kid. I… I don’t want to be bad at it.”

I step closer to her, reaching out to tilt her chin up. “You could never be bad at it.”

She gives me a dubious look, like she doesn’t quite believe that. I feel a flicker of irritation, this time not directed at myself, but instead at her family. If I had to guess, that’s where this is all coming from: her parents’ shitty expectations.

I could already tell by the way her father spoke to me at the wedding. The Beaumonts, at least to a certain extent, see their daughter as a resource, an asset to be managed rather than a person with her own mind and heart. They wanted to find the perfect arrangement, not for her, but for themselves. Hand her off to some man they want to do business with. Expect her to cook for him, and clean for him, and whatever other stereotypical nonsense he decides to impose on her.

It’s insulting, really.

The frustration briefly boils into anger, then gives way to sadness as I meet Alexis’s wavering gaze. I sigh, letting my hand fall.

“I’m worried I’ll be bad at it too,” I admit.

She blinks, startled. “You… what?”

“I’ve been on my own, just me and Peyton, for a long time. There are a few instincts that might have dulled over the years.”

“You don’t have to change anything,” she protests.

I shake my head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Even if this isn’t a marriage based on love, I want you to feel comfortable in this house.”