Page 100 of Accidental Groom
I turn the phone facedown and leave it there. I don’t know what to say.
“Ross!” I croak, my voice breaking on the only word I manage to get out before the tears hit me.
Chapter 36
Harry
I’m three hours and forty minutes deep into a drive that should’ve been four and a half, and I don’t remember half the road.
The highway blurred out after Jersey. I’ve been white-knuckling the wheel in silence ever since, no music, no podcasts, no phone calls. Just the low whine of the engine and the sound of my own thoughts spiraling again and again down the same drain.She left me to see him.
I’d told myself I’d give her space. Three days. Just three. But when she finally texted this morning — the barest breadcrumb of an apology, no real explanation — something snapped. I couldn’t wait any longer. Not knowing. Not wondering. Not sitting there like a fucking idiot in a too-big house, scrolling back through messages and imagining how many nights she’s spent curled up on another man’s bed.
So I got in the car the moment I finished working at three in the afternoon.
I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t tell Grace.
Matthew picks up on the second ring. “Let me guess,” he says, his voice coming through the speakers in my Bentley. “You need Ross’s address?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
I can hear the exhaustion in his sigh. “That’s private information, Harry.”
“But you have it.”
His silence is an answer on its own.
“Matthew,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” he answers. My phone dings a moment later. “Just don’t beat him up.”
“I’m not going to beat him up,” I mutter, tapping once to set the satnav to his address. “I’m going to speak to my wife.”
“I still don’t feel right about it.”
“What else is having this much money good for if not paying you to feel fine about it?”
“It’s not about the money,” Matthew retorts.
“Make it about the money. I’ll give you a bonus.”
I hang up before he can make me doubt myself.
By the time I pull up in front of the building, the sun is setting behind the Philadelphia towers in the distance, painting the sky in blues and pinks that feel too soft for what I need to handle. The building itself is a clean, brick square with a security door and a callbox out front. I nearly slam my fist into the brick beside it before catching myself and hitting the buzzer next toEmery, R.
A beat passes, then the intercom clicks.
“Hello?” The voice is tinny, grainy, and unmistakably male.
“Harald Highcourt,” I say. “I’m here to see my wife.”
The door buzzes and clicks open.
I move past the mail room and up the narrow stairs, double-checking the apartment number on my phone. By the time I get to the top floor, the door to his apartment is already open, a man standing in the doorway.
Tall. Athletic. Tanned. Blue eyes and wavy, overgrown brown hair. He’s wearing a State University of New York hoodie, a pairof joggers, and slippers. Comfortable. Settled.Fucking hell.He’s significantly younger than me, and I hate it.
“Mr. Highcourt,” he says. His voice is low, but it’s measured and calm. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
