Page 32 of The Wrong Groom

“Yes,” Beckett says. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I purse my lips, my gaze drifting to the window. Outside, a rare rainstorm is gathering, clouds darkening the sky over the San Gabriel Mountain Range. It’s unusual weather for this time of year. The air feels charged. As I watch, the first few drops splatter against the glass.

“Gabe, where’d you go?” Beckett snaps his fingers, one eyebrow raised. “Hey.”

I clear my throat, trying to bring myself back to the present. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

Beckett gives me a searching look. After a long pause, he asks, “How’s married life treating you so far?”

I grimace. “It’s… definitely an adjustment,” I admit, glancing out the window at the rain, falling in sheets over the distant ridge and speckling the city around us.

“You don’t have to give me the media-friendly answer.”

“Okay.” I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see spots. “It’s fucking strange, that’s what it is. I have no idea how Tristan did it.”

Even as I speak, the image of Alexis’s face without makeup flashes in front of my eyes, fresh and gorgeous. Strange is one word for our situation, sure. I can think of about ten others that I don’t feel like saying aloud.

Beckett nods sympathetically. “Yeah. I get you. This whole situation… it’s hard to accept.” The look on his face suggests that he’s not looking forward to his own arranged marriage. Our mother mentioned it briefly a few weeks ago: he’s next on the chopping block.

“It’s a shit show,” I mutter.

He sits back in his chair, his hand rising to rub his forehead. “Yeah. It’s all just about whatever deal is most advantageous. It’s the fakest shit I can imagine. The Beaumonts decided they could get more bang for their buck, so they went behind closed doors with Mom and⁠—”

“Wait,” I say, sitting up straighter. “What do you mean, ‘more bang for their buck?’”

“Oh.” Beckett blinks. “You didn’t know? Apparently, Alexis had a different match arranged before her engagement to you was set up. I heard one of her friends talking about it at the wedding.”

That comes as a surprise, and not a pleasant one. I lean forward, a surge of intensity going through me. It’s all I can do not to glare at Beckett. “A different match?”

“Yeah,” Beckett says. He glances down at his laptop, typing for a few seconds. When he turns the screen around, he’s tabbed away from his pie charts. Instagram is open in their place—a man’s profile. Travis Whitaker. In his profile picture, he’s standing confidently, an effortlessly charming smile on his face. He’s tall, with sandy blond hair that’s tousled just enough to look stylish, and piercing green eyes.

Irritation prickles through me, and I involuntarily clench my fists at the sight of him. The idea of Alexis being promised to another man annoys me in a way I don’t want to delve into too deeply.

“He’s some venture capital guy,” Beckett says, turning the computer around again. “Has a startup, has his fingers in a few other pots. He’s not as big of a deal as you, so it makes sense that her parents broke it off. They get a lot more out of Thorne Enterprises than they do from some standard investor.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Oh, that’s just great. Fucking love finding out that I was the second option.”

“Not the second option,” Beckett counters. “The better option.”

I glower at him across my desk. “Do me a favor, Beck—get out of my office, will you?”

Beckett clicks his tongue, snapping his laptop shut. “Someone’s testy. Drink your fucking coffee and try not to kill anyone today, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I scoop up the cardboard cup, taking a perfunctory sip as Beckett rises from his seat. The bitter liquid burns my throat, but I welcome the sensation as a distraction from the frustration churning in my mind.

“Seriously, though,” Beckett adds, lingering at the door. “Take it easy. I know things are rocky right now, but you can’t let it eat you alive. And we do have to talk about FlashUp. Sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll try to think of something,” I say wearily, turning my attention back to my laptop. “See you later.”

The rest of the day drags, the minutes stretching into what feels like hours as I wrestle with my thoughts. I flip between emails, spreadsheets, and project updates, but my mind keeps drifting back to Alexis—or, more annoyingly, to Travis Whitaker’s stupid, smug face. It feels like I’ve been here for a month by the time five o’clock rolls around.

Unlike the rest of my brothers, I don’t tend to stay at the office after hours. Of course, the work never ends, and I’m not done when I leave Thorne Enterprises. But by the end of the day, I want to see my daughter. I never stay past five if I can help it. If the work is really piling up, I just work from home after she goes to bed. I’ll be damned if I miss her childhood for anything, even for the company.

I drive myself home, the windshield wipers working overtime to keep the rain at bay. It’s been ages since we’ve had rain like this. The Pacific Ocean is choppy with the unrelenting downpour, waves crashing violently against the shore.

When I arrive at my house, the familiar sight brings a sense of warmth amid the storm. The lights glow through the rain-streaked windows as I park the car and make a run for the porch.

The second I step through the threshold, I hear a rustle of fabric from the living room. Frowning, I close the door on the downpour and head deeper into the house.