Page 41 of Accidental Groom
I don’t lie this time. “I know.”
He takes me to a place I’ve never heard of, tucked into the top floor of a glass high-rise, all sharp angles and dark tabletops and low lighting. It’s intimate, quiet,full, and buzzing with quiet but obscene opulence — it's the kind of place that doesn’t post its menu online, and you certainly won’t know the cost until the bill comes.
We’re led to a corner table by a hostess who barely masks her surprise when Harry asks for a table for him and hiswife.
Whispers spread like wildfire. I hear them as we pass, feel them building in me like static.
The view from the window beside our table is breathtaking — the last bits of light reflecting and multiplying off the glass of the windows around us, the streetlights flickering on beneath, an endless stream of people walking through the sidewalks and nonstop yellow cabs in the road. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, lives I used towishfor, lives I used to long for in the dead of night when only Sarah could hear me. It’s odd, considering where I am now.
Harry orders for both of us, and I don’t pick a fight about it. He knows this place, said as much on the drive from the helipad to here, and food might be the only thing I trust him with. The wine he picks out is older than me and far more upscale than my parents’ wine, the amuse-bouche has ingredients that I’ve never even heard of, and the waitress calls himMr. Highcourtlike she knows exactly who he is and what he does, like he’s been here a million times before.
And through it all, Harry’s hand rests on the table less than an inch from mine. Not touching, not avoiding, but sitting too close for comfort. We don’t talk, at least notmuch, something heavy sitting between us that neither of us wants to put words to.
Fucking Thailand.
I know what happens there. I know why men like him go, know what he’s doing, know exactly what kind ofwomen?—
“—age gap’s insane, right? She’s what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”
I stiffen the moment the whispered words hit my ears. It’s coming from behind us — a pair of servers close enough to the kitchen doors to think they won’t be heard in the dining space. My gaze snaps to Harry, but if he’s noticed, it’s not obvious.
“He’s got to be fifty, at least,” the other says, her voice a little higher, a littlelouder. My fork slips from my grip, clattering against the plate of filet mignon. Harry’s eyes meet mine. “Could be her dad, maybe.”
“No, he definitely saidwife.I heard him. Probably a gold-digger.”
Harry’s jaw shifts, just a little, a muscle twitching beneath his ear. He definitely heard that.
I reach for my wine, my hand shaking only slightly, and take a sip. Swallow.
Set it down.
“Elena,” Harry says, a hint of something darker in his voice, gravel barely covered by satin.
I stand anyway.
“Elena,” he repeats.God, the way he says it.
I ignore him.
I weave through the tables without really thinking, my heels clicking against the floor. For once, I’m not thinking about how I look or how uncomfortable the tightness of my dress should make me feel. I have a one-track mind.
“Excuse me.” I stop just short of where the two servers are standing, glasses and towels in hand, polishing away. They freeze as they look at me, the younger girl with auburn hair and freckles going red in the face, the older, blonde one forcing a half-smile.
She’s the one who tries to speak.
“Hello! Did you need something?—”
“No,” I interrupt. I rub my lips together, my lipstick and the sheen of wine left behind making them glide easily. I probably shouldn’t have drunk, now that I think about it. My inhibitions always lower a little too much. “I just wanted to clarify something for you, since you’re clearly confused.”
The younger girl takes a step back. The older one’s face morphs, wariness creeping in.
“I am his wife. You heard that correctly,” I say, and the sound of a chair scraping against the marble floor behind me makes me pause for all of two seconds. “I’mthirty. Old enough to make decisions for myself, like marrying a man with at leastsomemeasure of integrity instead of someone my age who gossips like a child on their shift.”
The younger one’s throat bobs. “I-I’m sorry?—”
“Take this as a word of advice,” I continue, leaning in a little closer and lowering my voice. I canfeelheat at my back, and the softness of a much larger hand wrapping gently around my wrist doesn’t make me reconsider my words. “Women don’t always marry older for money. He’s old enough to knowexactlywhat to do without needing correction. Consider that next time a man your age asks, ‘Did you come?’”
I’m wrenched back into something warm and sturdy, the breath nearly leaving my lungs, and I don’t need to turn to know exactly whose chest I’m pressed against. “That’s enough, Elena.”
