Page 93 of Accidental Groom
I swallow. “I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with not knowing where she is.”
“Yeah, I know, because you love her,” she says, her voice deadpan as she drops a bomb on me.Is it that obvious?“You pushed her, but she’ll come back. You have to give her space, let her be angry, let her figure this out for herself. I’ll text her, see if I can get some information or try to make sure she’s safe, but in the meantime, you need to stay here.”
My jaw physically aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“What if she’s—” I cut myself off, taking a ragged breath. The wound is still fresh from reliving it last night. I can’t go through that again.
“She’s not.” Grace reaches out, gripping my shoulders. She looks me in the eye, seeing what I can’t say written on my face. “She’s not. She’s fine, I promise you. Just give her time.”
I swallow, forcing myself to hear the words, forcing myself to believe them. She has to be fine. Sheisfine. She goes to Manhattan all the time — she knows what she’s doing. “Okay,” I rasp. “Okay. A few days. That’s all I can do.”
She nods. “That’s fine. That’s plenty.” Her hands squeeze tight on my shoulders before she drops them. “I’ll send her a text and I’ll call her in the morning. It’ll be okay, Harry. She’ll come back.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not entirely sure if I believe it. “Yeah, okay.”
She pats my cheek before taking a step back toward the door and pulling it open. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” she adds.
I nod, already slipping my phone out as she shuts the glass behind her. I shoot another text to Matthew, forcing myself to breathe through it all.
Me:
Look into anyone named Ross that might be connected to her while you’re at it. Quietly.
I hit send and turn my volume on before locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket. The house is warm as I force myself back inside, casting a final glance at the dark cottage, trying not to wonder what she’s doing or who she’s with or whether she’s thinking of me at all.
Chapter 33
Elena
Philadelphia’s colder than I expected. It’s wetter than the Hudson Valley, the damp clinging to everything and making the chill that much worse.
I stand outside the private terminal, taking in mouthfuls of fresh air, one hand on the handle of my suitcase, my coat unbuttoned. I feel like I’ve been in fight-or-flight mode for hours, and I’m desperate to breathe, to take a second, to relax. The weight of what I’ve done has been sitting heavy for too long.
I left.
I didn’t slam a door or scream or cry or make a grand speech. I just walked out, asked Matthew to book the flight, took my bag, and told myself I was doing the responsible thing, the adult thing — giving myself room to breathe after asking for space. But my chest aches. I know too well that he’s going to be upset.
A car horn chirps.
Across the drop-off and pick-up bay, Ross leans against a silver SUV, one foot kicked up behind him on the bumper and his fingers on his key fob. His arms are folded like he’s been waiting for forever, his lips tilted up at the corner in amusement. His dark brown hair is longer than it used to be, curlier and overgrown, but the last time I’d seen him, he’d still had hisbuzzcut. He’s dressed exactly the way he’s always done when he wasn’t at work on base — a hoodie, a pair of dark wash jeans, and black boots. Docs, now, apparently. Constantly incorrectly dressed for the temperature.
He grins fully as I wheel my suitcase across the road. “You look like hell, White.”
I let out a sharp breath of a laugh. “It’s Highcourt, now.”
“Still weird,” he says, pulling me into a hug before I can collapse the handle on the suitcase. His arms are warm, familiar as they wrap around my shoulders and waist. It’s not romantic — never that with Ross — but steady in a way I hadn’t realized I needed until right this second. His chin drops onto the top of my head as I refuse to let go of him. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit.
He squeezes me once before peeling me off him. “You will be,” he says. “Come on.”
We don’t talk much on the drive. It’s a quiet kind of silence — the good kind. Ross isn’t really a talker by nature, not unless he’s had two beers or three cups of coffee, and he lets me stare out the window while he navigates through the sprawl of South Philly traffic, the clouds hanging low over the skyline.
The smell hits me as he makes a quick turn into a strip mall. He parks in front of a diner tucked between a nail salon and a shuttered dollar store. My stomach growls so loudly I’m almost embarrassed.
“You’re hungry,” Ross says, already grinning as he shuts the car off.
