Page 28 of The Wrong Groom

“I…” She trails off, frowning.

“That means cooking or not cooking, whatever you want to do—and never feeling bad about making a mess.”

She nods, but I can tell that my words haven’t quite undone her worries. She fidgets a little, her gaze wary. Before I can press the issue further, I hear a quiet shuffle from behind me.

I turn to see Peyton in the doorway, her favorite stuffed animal—an orange tabby cat named Mr. Whiskers—clutched to her chest. At the sight of Alexis, she shyly lifts Mr. Whiskers up to hide her face, and my heart twists. I think I could almost stomach this entire arrangement if it weren’t for Peyton, for the turmoil this is bringing into her life.

Peyton has never been good at interacting with strangers. Her teachers have talked to me about her shyness since she first learned to talk. She’s so bubbly and cheerful around me and my brothers that it never even occurred to me, but once they pointed it out, I began to see it manifest everywhere. The way she clings to me at the grocery store, hiding behind my legs in checkout lines. The way she avoids looking our driver in the eye, even after years of seeing him every morning.

And now, there’s a stranger in her house. In her life.

Peyton sees the mess around the stove, and her head tilts to one side. “What happened?” she asks in a small voice.

I almost smile at that, but manage to school my expression into neutrality. “Alexis was doing some cooking.”

Alexis cringes, visibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Peyton blinks at her, then lowers Mr. Whiskers just a little, tucking him beneath her chin. “That’s okay,” she says in a small voice. “I made a mess with the glue in school.”

“Oh,” Alexis says, taken aback. “You did?”

Peyton nods solemnly. “Ms. Nichols said it was good to make a mess sometimes. She said it helps you to learn and get better at things.” Her little face is serious, earnest, like she’s offering the kindest truth she knows. And somehow, it feels profound. The kind of wisdom only a child can give.

Alexis looks relieved, and her shoulders relax a little more. “That’s… that’s a good point.”

As I watch this interaction, my throat constricts, and there’s an unexpected swell of emotion in my chest. I swallow hard to force the feeling away.

I reach for Alexis’s attempted omelet. “Who wants breakfast?”

“Me!” Peyton says, her earlier shyness diminished now that she’s talked to Alexis a bit. “But I want to eat something else! Not that!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexis flush bright red. I grin despite myself and set to work chiseling the omelet out of the pan, depositing it on my own plate.

“How’s this sound? I’ll eat the omelet, and I’ll also whip up some waffles for the two of you.” I gesture to the waffle maker on the counter. “And, Alexis, if I’m ever slow to get up and you’re hungry, waffles are much easier than omelets.”

“Thanks,” she says. There’s a dry bite to her voice, like she’s getting past her embarrassment and working her way toward sass. Good. I’d rather she be annoyed at the teasing than at herself.

I chuckle under my breath and finish scraping the last of the omelet from the scorched pan. “I’m serious. Waffles are foolproof. And Peyton’s a fan.”

Peyton climbs onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, Mr. Whiskers now propped in her lap like an audience member awaiting the show. “With strawberries,” she adds, watching me with wide eyes.

“And whipped cream,” I reply with a wink. “Of course.”

Alexis tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still flushed but smiling now. “I think I can manage waffles next time. Maybe even without burning the kitchen down.”

“There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink, if all else fails,” I deadpan.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement there. “Good to know.”

As I pour the batter into the waffle iron, the kitchen starts to fill with the warm, comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon. The tension that had crackled in the air earlier is slowly dissipating, replaced by something tentative, fragile, like the first cautious rays of sun after a storm.

Chapter 10

Alexis

As the three of us eat breakfast together, I can’t help feeling completely awkward.

So far, this morning has gone about as poorly as I feared it would. I had it in my head that I would spring out of bed at the crack of dawn and cheerfully whip up breakfast for my husband. He would be impressed and grateful, and I would be the picture of the perfect wife.