Page 7 of Accidental Groom
My mouth tastes like copper.
Fuck.
Behind her, Ralph White is practically vibrating with the need to solidify a solution as if his actual life is on the line. His small, weedy body poised to strike if I say no.
Her mother, Gail, looks white as a ghost, and Elena’s sister is just staring at the back of her head like she’s gone insane.
There’s an expectation hanging in the air, a need for me to respond, and yet, it feels like my mouth isn’t quite working.
Elena swallows as she glances around at her family, then meets my gaze again. “Can we speak alone?”
I hesitate.
It’s not because I don’t want to.
It’s because Ido.
Too much.
I look at her, then at Ralph, noting the way his jaw clenches tight enough to fracture a tooth. He gives a small, sharp nod, like a man granting a privilege I’m not even asking for.
I don’t need his approval to speak to her.
“Okay,” I say, my voice coming out far too steady for the war raging inside of me.
She follows me out into the hallway, her heels clicking against the stone floor, each step slow, careful. We pass an open archway, and she pauses, staring at the guests dressed in navy and gold and cream waiting in the main chapel.
Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her dress.
“Come on,” I say.
She blinks, the spell breaking, and looks back at me before continuing walking.
I lead her down a narrow side corridor, past iron sconces and stained glass, until I find a room I remember vaguely from the walkthrough I did with George two months ago. It’s small, windowless, quiet enough that we can talk and not too large to hear the echoing of whatever bad decision we’re about to make.
She follows me in, her heels clacking until she stops, the door clicking shut behind us. I turn to face her.
And then she breaks.
Not loudly, not dramatically, not sobbing — but her hands wrap around her waist, curling into fists. Her body trembles like she’s freezing, her eyes turn glassy, her breathingbroken, and I am very suddenly staring at a woman I do not recognize.
I’ve seen her a handful of times in my life. Once or twice when Ralph and I set this up for her and George when they were teenagers — a powerful marriage between old money and new money, securing their business within my own. A few times inher early twenties when she’d hosted events at one of Highcourt Hotels' locations, commanding a room like it was easy for her.
But never,never, have I seen her look fragile enough to break in the wind.
“Please,” she says, her voice too small, too broken. “Please, Harry. I meant it. Marry me.”
I stare at her, trying to control the frantic thumping in my chest.
This is a mistake.
But she’s standing in front of me in that goddamn dress that hugs her hips and pushes up over her chest, making her look like the most tragic kind of beautiful that people paint and hang in art galleries.
Her eyes are wide, not just with tears that she wouldn’t dare let fall, butfear.
And I know in my bones that she’s not asking for this because she wants it.
She’d just rather marry me than see her sister crushed beneath the same weight.
