Page 42 of Accidental Groom
The girls skitter off before I can get another word in.
I can feel the way his chest expands on an inhale, slow and measured and stiff, but he doesn’t say another word. He just steers me back to the table and sits me down like a scolded child before settling in to finish his meal.
But his eyes don’t leave mine again.
————
Harry is silent the entire car ride.
It’s not long. Apparently, we’re not going back to the estate tonight, but he doesn’ttellme that — instead, the car drops us in front of the flagship Highcourt Hotel in Midtown East.
He opens my door, helps me out, but doesn’t meet my gaze. Just ushers me inside without a word, his hand on the small of my back.
A girl behind the check-in desk grins at him, spouting a greeting forMr. Highcourt, but doesn’t offer him a keycard or ask how long he’ll be staying. He nods to her, but keeps us walking, down the opulent main hall dripping with marble and crystal chandeliers, through a door labeledPrivate, before pulling out his wallet and slipping an unlabeled keycard free.
He holds it against the black box beside the fairly small elevator, and the doors open instantly.
His hand presses harder into my back, pushing me gently forward, and before I can question it, the doors shut behind us.
It’s just us, locked inside a moving metal box,again.
I stare at him. He stares at the doors.
“Harry—”
“Don’t.”
I swallow down the rising unease threatening to take hold of me. I’ve seen him annoyed, have heard him angrily shout down the phone one morning when I’d slipped into the house while he was working, but this is different. Tense. Boiling.
We ride in silence until the doors chime, drawing open to reveal another set of doors, this time locked with a traditional padlock instead of a keycard.
He slips a keyring from his suit jacket’s inner pocket and unlocks the door, holding his hand out to gesture me through. Every click of my heels feels like I’m walking to my execution, stepping into the dark room on the other side, even my breath echoing in what must be a massive space?—
The door shuts behind us. The lights switch on in an instant, and the curtains I couldn’t see before follow suit.
With a soft mechanical hum, the blackout drapes draw back from floor-to-ceiling glass on my right, revealing the unfiltered, glittering sprawl on Manhattan below us. Every light in the city seems to pulse, drawing my attention, making the air in my lungs go static. From this height, even the chaos of Midtown shrinks into something manageable and quiet, like a toy city behind the glass.
The ceiling above is almost as tall as the one in the sitting room in Highcourt Hall, ribbed with crown molding and softened by warm lighting in golds and ambers. Everything gleams — from the high-polished deep wood floors beneath my heels to the brushed brass fixtures arcing overhead. A massive cream sofa, L-shaped and plush, anchors the space, facing a marble fireplace that apparently lit when the lights flicked on, crackling quietly.
It’s not sterile or cold like Highcourt Hall seems to feel. It’s warm, rich with texture and the scent of him. A curved staircase sweeps up to a mezzanine level above, lined with glass panels and overlooked by a chandelier that looks far nicer than the ones in the lobby downstairs.
I blink, stunned. This isn’t the hotel’s penthouse. This ishis, and it feels far more like him than Highcourt Hall does.
Still, he says nothing.
He walks forward, his footsteps turning muffled by the plush rug beneath the main seating area. His suit jacket slips from his shoulders in a smooth, practiced shrug, and he tosses it over the back of the nearest chair like this is normal, like he’s taken me somewhere I should have expected. And I’m still standing just inside the doorway, unsure whether to move or breathe.
He turns to me, his fingers hooking in the knot of his tie, and pulls. It slides free from his collar, a slow, deliberate motion ashis dark green eyes pin me in place, unreadable, unknowable. My breath catches — part panic, part heat — as he holds my gaze for the first time since the restaurant.
“Harry,” I say warily, my voice barely more than a whisper. Ihatehow weak it sounds. “I—I shouldn’t have said that. At the restaurant.”
His nostrils flare.
“I had too much to drink. I don’t really drink that much, and I wasn’t thinking. I know that was—”Inappropriate. Reckless. Insane.The words die in my throat as he takes a slow step toward me.
And then another.
And another.
