Page 104 of Accidental Groom
Ross opens the door at Harry’s casual knock, and his eyes shift between me and Harry, as if he’s trying to work out if our talk went sideways or if the red, puffy state of my eyes is a positive. But the tension is gone, and the small, soft smile he gives me tells me that he can feel the lack of it hanging.
“Told you it’d be fine,” Ross says, reaching out and flicking me once in the middle of the forehead.
I shove his hand away, grumbling, and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “I just, uh, need to get my stuff.”
“No problem,” he says, taking a step back. “Come on in.”
I half expect Harry to hover at the door, but instead, he follows me inside, hanging near the sitting area as I grab my book and shoes. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he extends a hand to Ross, grasping him on the shoulder, and I still.
“Thank you,” Harry says, and I lose the air in my lungs. “For taking care of her the last few days.”
Ross blinks like he’s surprised, but he nods. “Of course. She’s basically family, always will be.”
“Yeah, I, uh,” Harry chuckles awkwardly, “I see that now. Guess I assumed the worst of you, too.”
Ross shrugs, and Harry lets go of him. “It’s all right. Once Elena told me how she left it, I wasn’t surprised that’s what you were thinking.”
“If you ever want to visit, you’re welcome to. At Highcourt Hall. Or wherever else, honestly. I mean that,” Harry says, and my throat tightens so hard I almost drop my book. “She needs more than just me and her sister around.”
Ross glances at me, grinning, before he looks back at Harry. “Thanks, man.”
————
The Highcourt Hotel in Philly is relatively new. It’s all sleek black glass and gold fixtures, dramatic lighting from the ground up outside. Harry pulls into the underground garage and tips the valet, and then before I even blink, we’re taking the private elevator all the way up to the top.
“How do you know no one’s staying in the penthouse?” I ask quietly, glancing up at him as he stares at the rising floor numbers.
“Called when I left home to make sure,” he says.
“You were going to stay either way?”
He shrugs. “Figured if it went south and I wanted to break something, it would be better to do it to something I own.”
I blink.Fair enough.
The penthouse is understated but beautiful. Wide glass windows, dark wood, a fireplace that clicks on with the lights. There’s a hint of that scent that I’ve come to learn is just the Highcourt Hotel signature scent, something a bit heavy with a hint of bergamot. But when he closes the door behind us, it’s like the air changes — thicker, sharper, weightier.
I turn, and he’s looking at me, his gaze dragging up and down my pathetically dressed form. I’m barely in real clothes, just leggings and a sweater and a pair of flats, but I’m suddenly aware of the curve of my stomach and the damp chill still clinging to my skin from the brief walk outside. More than that, though, is the fact that this man drove four hours to find me, across a state line, because he didn’t want to go another night not knowing what was going on or where I was.
“I didn’t think you’d come down to Philly,” I say softly.
He blinks, tilting his head slightly, the light from the fireplace catching in his eyes. “Don’t think I could’ve stayed away if I tried, to be honest.”
And just like that, we’re moving.
It’s fast, clumsy, desperate. He reaches me in two strides, his hands cupping my cheeks, tilting my head up to his as his mouth finds mine. It’s not tentative or searching — his kiss is full of possession, apology, andrelief. A broken little sound escapes my throat and I press against him as much as my stomach will allow, my arms winding around his neck as he backs me toward the door on the left.
It’s weird how much lighter everything feels without the weight of a million different things weighing on us.
His hand slides over the curve of my spine, his other pushing down the door handle, his mouth never leaving mine. He walks me to the bed, turns, and sits on the mattress, pulling me fully into his lap.
“I’m gonna crush you,” I whine against his lips.
“You’re not.” His grip tightens at my back, pulling me flush to him. “Wouldn’t care if you did, anyway.”
His hands move. They’re everywhere at once, mapping my back, my sides, the swell of my stomach, as if he’s relearning me and confirming I’m real. I sink fully into his lap at his insistence, my hands fisting in the soft wool of his sweater. The sensation of his solid warmth beneath me after days of cold dread is like an anchor.
“Genuinely thought I’d lost you,” he confesses against my lips. But then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a desperation that mirrors the one growing in me. “The thought of you being anyone else’s… God, it fucking gutted me.”
