Page 147 of The Wrong Groom

The foyer is just like I remembered it. I can hear Peyton in the kitchen, talking animatedly, I assume to Margaret. As Gabriel guides me toward the stairs, Pepper appears from the living room. She pads over to wind her lithe body between my legs, a deep rumbling sound emanating from her throat.

Despite the welcome, I can’t help feeling like a stranger in this house. The last time I stood in this foyer was one of the worst days of my life, and the memory of Gabriel telling me to leave replays in my head as we ascend the stairs.

On the landing, Gabriel starts toward the bedroom we shared while I lived here. The thought of sleeping beside him twists my chest into a knot. That room once held so much intimacy, so much promise. I can’t stand the idea of walking in there and feeling that same foreignness that I felt in the foyer.

I stop at the top of the stairs. “I can’t,” I say, my voice choked. “I can’t sleep there.”

He pauses with his hand on the door, then turns to look at me. The sadness in his eyes is almost enough to break me, but he doesn’t argue. He just retracts his hand as though the metal has burned him, then gestures down the hall, toward one of the guest rooms.

When we reach the door, Gabriel pushes it open and steps aside, allowing me to enter first. The room is understated, comfortable but clearly unused. It feels more like a hotel room than part of the house, which is something of a relief.

As I sink onto the bed, Gabriel murmurs, “You need to rest.”

I can’t argue with that. I’m exhausted. The sleep I got in the hospital didn’t sate my body’s need for rest. I nod and lie back against the plush pillows, letting my eyes close.

“I’ll bring you some food,” he says, and I hear the sound of the door closing.

For a little while, I drift in and out of sleep. The walls in this house are soundproof, so much so that I can’t hear any conversation going on outside this room. I can smell food, though. Gabriel must be cooking something. The hospital meals were more of a necessity than anything satisfying, and the thought of something homemade, something warm, makes my mouth water despite my discomfort.

Around an hour later, the door creaks open, and Gabriel steps inside with a tray in hand. He sets the tray down on the bed beside me carefully, letting me inspect its contents—a large bowl of chicken soup, a sliced panini, and a glass of iced tea. I take a deep breath and catch the scent of vanilla.

I swallow hard. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to indulge in the things I love. I haven’t had the energy to take care of myself, not just physically, but mentally. I don’t know what to make of the fact that Gabriel is clearly trying to do both.

To my immense relief, Gabriel steps back after putting down the tray. He’s not going to hover around me. Good. I need some time to myself.

“I’d go slow,” he advises as he retreats to the door. “Hospital food probably hasn’t been kind to your stomach.”

“Thanks.” The word feels like glass in my throat, but it forces its way out. I can’t deny how grateful I am, even though Gabriel’s every action is a shock to my system. He’s right, of course. Stale sandwiches with dubious bologna haven’t exactly been the nutrition I need.

Once I’m alone, I pick up the bowl of soup and let its warmth seep into my hands. I hold it against my chest, breathing over the steaming surface before taking a sip of the broth. I can tell it’s homemade from the richness of the flavor, the oils that gather along the edges of the bowl. I didn’t know he could make soup. Maybe he learned just for today.

The broth helps settle my stomach. I eat slowly, like Gabriel suggested, punctuating spoonfuls of soup with sips of tea. Eventually, I feel well enough to tackle the sandwich. It’s crispy, perfectly toasted.

After I finish the food, I set the tray on the floor beside the bed, then curl up under the blankets. The feeling of fullness lulls me back to sleep.

I wake up some time later to the sound of voices in the hallway. I recognize Gabriel’s. He murmurs something about how I might be asleep, and it’s Ivy who responds. “We’ll be in and out. We won’t wake her up.”

The door opens, and Chloe and Ivy step inside. To my relief, Gabriel doesn’t follow them.

“Hey,” I murmur, my head fuzzy from sleep.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Ivy says. She’s holding a suitcase, which she drops at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” I shift to sit upright, rubbing my eyes.

“We swung by your apartment to get some of your things,” Chloe says, setting another bag down next to Ivy’s. “Clothes, mostly. If there’s anything else you need, let us know and we can make another run.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.” Ivy sinks down onto the bed. “The guys told us what happened. Well, some of it. We wanted to hear it from you, because I’m pretty sure they got Gabriel’s version.”

“If you’re up to it,” Chloe adds quickly.

“I’m up to it,” I say, pulling the blankets tighter around myself for comfort. “It’s just… a lot.” I take a deep breath, then begin to tell them everything that’s happened over the past few days. The meeting at Vérité. Travis’s attempt to trap me in marriage. Gabriel’s interruption. My stay in the hospital.

They don’t interrupt, but I can see them exchanging concerned glances. When I mention the baby, Chloe reaches up to squeeze my hand.

“God,” she whispers when I’m finished. “That’s a hell of a few days.”