Page 16 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I ease into the chair beside her, letting my elbow brush against hers, the soft contact grounding me in the quiet between us.

"And your parents?" I ask, voice low, careful not to shatter whatever fragile thread she’s following in her thoughts.

She huffs a breath that’s part laugh, part exasperation. “My mom would’ve dramatically gasped the moment she saw the coastal venue. Something about the humidity and lighting ruining her hair and the entire aesthetic. She’d probably demand a full do-over with a private florist and imported linens. And my dad? He’d pull you aside mid-reception and hand you a customized spreadsheet labeled ‘Post-Marital Financial Risk Assessment.’”

I chuckle, already picturing it. "I’d survive the theatrics. Especially if it meant kissing you right after."

She doesn’t reply at first. Her gaze drifts to the window again, far away and focused all at once. The quiet stretches between us, not heavy, but full.

"It’s ridiculous," she murmurs, shaking her head just slightly.

"It’s not," I say, softer now. "Not even a little."

Her fingers begin to trace lazy circles along the rim of her mug, her lips parted like there’s more she wants to say but isn’t quite ready to speak aloud. “I can’t believe I’m even entertaining the idea. That I’m picturing it. The dress, the setting, the people. You.”

“I can,” I answer, without hesitation.

She turns her head, meets my gaze, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, she really lets me see her. The fear, the hope, the what-if of it all. Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to measure how much she can trust this moment. And I hold that look, don’t shy away, don’t crack a joke to fill the silence. My hand finds hers beneath the table, fingers curling gently over her knuckles. Because whatever she’s imagining…It’s starting to matter to me, too, and I want to be the one she keeps imagining it with.

11

MARGOT

It starts with the kind of nausea I can’t explain away with stress or bad coffee. The kind that creeps in early, before Grayson’s even awake, sharp and quiet and disorienting. At first, I think it’s just exhaustion, days of stolen sleep, too much trail mix, too many thoughts I haven’t sorted out. But when it happens again the next morning, and then again the morning after that, something inside me shifts.

I don’t panic. Not immediately. Instead, I run silent calculations in my head, schedules, timelines, probabilities. Like if I crunch the numbers hard enough, the answer will change. It doesn’t.

I slip out of bed before sunrise, careful not to wake him. His hand twitches where it rests across my side, like he’s reaching for me even in sleep. I stare at it for a moment, then gently pull away. The nearest pharmacy is twenty minutes away, and I drive there like I’m chasing down a ghost. No makeup. Hoodie pulled low. I don’t want to be recognized. I don’t want to be seen. I buy one test. Then two. Just in case.

Back at the cabin, I lock myself in the bathroom and wait. The minutes crawl. My heart drums louder than the clock ticking above the mirror. I try to steady my breathing, but I already know. I knew the moment I stepped through the aisle of pregnancy tests with shaking fingers. Two lines. Clear. Undeniable. Pregnant.

I sit on the edge of the tub, knees drawn to my chest, the plastic test clenched in my palm like it might suddenly offer a different result. For a few minutes, I feel everything. Then nothing. Then everything again. A dozen thoughts crash in at once, our company, the sabotage, the press, the accidental marriage, the vows we don’t remember, the future we haven’t planned.

And Grayson. God, Grayson. The man who holds my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Who makes me tea when I forget to eat. Who kisses me like he remembers things I haven’t told him yet.

I think of the way he looked at me last night when I told him I’d imagined our wedding. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t run. But this? A baby? This is something else entirely. I hide the tests in the bottom drawer of the vanity. Beneath the extra towels. Behind the travel-sized shampoo bottles. Somewhere I won’t have to look. Then I splash water on my face, inhale slowly, and step out into the kitchen like nothing’s changed.

Grayson’s already up, fiddling with the coffee machine. He looks over his shoulder and grins. "Sleep okay?"

I nod, too quickly. "Yeah. Fine."

He eyes me more closely now, brow lifting. "You’re dressed. Did you go out?"

My heart stutters. I glance down at my jeans, the hoodie zipped halfway up. “Just needed some air,” I say with a shrug, moving to the cabinet like I’m searching for a mug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t press, but I can feel his gaze linger a second longer than usual. Not suspicious, not yet. Just curious. I keep my back to him, focusing on the chipped ceramic in my hands like it might anchor me.

“Next time, wake me,” he says lightly. “I’ll come with.”

I manage a laugh that sounds almost real. "You snore when you're cold. I was doing you a favor."

He chuckles and turns back to the coffee, letting it drop. But I don’t, because the lie is already planted, and now I have to remember it. Carry it. Build the rest of my morning around it, and hope to God I can keep it from unraveling.

Grayson moves around the kitchen with surprising focus, barefoot and half-awake, sleeves pushed up as he slices strawberries and cracks eggs into the pan with a concentration usually reserved for quarterly board meetings. I hover near the counter for a moment, pretending to read something on my phone, watching him from the corner of my eye.

He hums a low, off-key tune under his breath, something vaguely familiar and probably meant to soothe me, though I’m not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. The smell of butter and toast fills the small space, warm and thick, and it churns in my stomach like a warning. He plates the food carefully, arranging the strawberries like he's plating at a five-star brunch instead of in a drafty cabin with one wobbly table and mismatched mugs. Then he turns, proud, and sets the plate down in front of me like he’s presenting an offering.

“Look at that,” he says proudly, sliding into the chair across from me. “I made a breakfast that doesn’t require a fire extinguisher.”

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