Page 120 of The Wrong Groom

I want to take her everywhere.

I close my eyes for a moment, picturing each of these places. Alexis in a swimsuit, enjoying the sun. We could hike up the side of a volcano, and I could work the soreness out of her muscles in a hot spring. We could wander through art museums together, get lost in palatial hedge mazes—and in each beautiful place, I could tell her, I think I love you. I think I’m falling in love with you.

My thoughts are disturbed by a knock at the door. I close my laptop quickly, unable to stop a sigh of irritation from escaping me.

“Come in,” I call, although my tone makes it clear I’m not in the mood for interruptions.

The door creaks open just wide enough for Carl, my new secretary, to poke his head through. His face is a mix of nervousness and apology, the kind you only see on someone still trying to find his footing. I almost feel bad for the kid. Almost.

“What can I do for you, Carl?” I say wearily.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Thorne,” he replies, with the typical nervousness of a new hire. “There’s, um, someone here to see you.”

I frown. I didn’t have any appointments on the books until the investors this afternoon, and it’s not common for someone to show up unannounced. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to will away the headache already brewing behind my eyes. “Okay. Who?”

“A man called Travis Whitaker.”

My fingers curl into fists beneath my desk. Again? How many fucking times do I have to have this conversation? How many times do I have to see that man’s smug face before he gets it through his head that Alexis doesn’t want him?

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, reining in the surge of anger that threatens to burst loose. Maybe I haven’t been blunt enough with him. If he wants to walk into my office, that’s fine. Now’s as good a time as any to tell it to him straight.

“Send him in,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

Carl vanishes, clearly relieved to escape. A moment later, Travis Whitaker enters. He’s dressed to kill in a tailored navy suit cut sharp enough to slice through steel, a crisp white shirt with not a wrinkle in sight, and a tie that probably cost as much as a mid-range honeymoon. It’s clipped in place with a gleaming silver pin. Real silver, if I had to guess. Because of course it is. Everything about Travis is designed to project money, power, status.

Alexis was meant to be his final prize, his most elevating accessory. Marry the Beaumont heiress, expand his network, and secure his place among the elite. Just another calculated move in his endless game of acquisition.

“Gabriel,” he says, his voice smooth and confident as he shuts the door behind him. “Good to see you.”

I don’t bother standing. I don’t offer my hand. I simply lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest and letting my gaze rake over him with the slow, cold disdain he deserves.

These cocky finance guys are all the same. They think they can put power on like a tie. Intimidate through looks instead of genuine presence. Travis doesn’t impress me. Never has, and never will.

“I don’t make a habit of entertaining uninvited guests, Mr. Whitaker,” I say flatly. “So, if you have something to say, get to it. I’m a busy man.”

“Of course you are. I hear FlashUp is doing well.”

The small talk does little to improve my mood. I fix him with a stony glare. “It is,” I say, letting my voice sharpen just enough to draw blood. “Largely thanks to Alexis, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

The shift in his features is subtle as the blow lands, but I catch it nonetheless in the tightening of his smile, the narrowing of his eyes.

“Congratulations,” he says, tilting his head to the side like he’s sizing me up. “Everyone loves a success story.”

My patience thins to a thread. “What do you want?”

If my hostility has any effect on Travis, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes the chair across from my desk with a calm, collected air. “Do you know anything about investment banking, Gabriel?”

“Not really my area.”

“It’s a cutthroat field,” he says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Everything’s a cutthroat field, jackass. You’re not special. “Tough to reach success. You spend a lot of time scraping around at the bottom before you can rise to the top.”

His eyes flash as his gaze meets mine.

“Do you want to know how I did it?”

“Not really,” I reply curtly.

“I always do my research on people,” he says, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Always. Those who succeed know who we’re up against. And those who fail… well. They don’t.”