Page 20 of The Wrong Groom

We both know this isn’t how we imagined things would be, and yet here we are, playing our parts in a script written long before either of us could protest. There’s a camaraderie in that—we are, for better or worse, in the same boat.

“The union of husband and wife is intended for their mutual joy,” the priest says, his voice ringing out in the stillness. “For help, for comfort, and for security. Marriage is not to be entered into lightly, but rather reverently.”

There’s a spark of uncertainty in the depths of Alexis’s eyes, and I swallow, wishing I could reassure her. Even if I could speak, I know there’s nothing I could say that would take away what she’s feeling—guilt, possibly. Anxiety.

The priest’s voice drones on, and I barely hear his words, each one feeling more hollow than the last. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she steels herself with each line, and I can almost feel the silent apologies we’re exchanging.

“Into this union, Gabriel Thorne and Alexis Beaumont now come to be joined. If anyone present knows a reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

A quiet stillness falls over the room, and for a brief moment, the air feels thick with possibility. Alexis stiffens, as if she’s bracing herself.

No one speaks. The silence stretches. My brothers shift awkwardly, as do Alexis’s bridesmaids, lined up behind her in pale blue dresses.

And then the priest clears his throat, breaking the tension with a well-timed cough. “Very well. Let us proceed.”

As he begins to speak again, I can see Alexis’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, as if his words have given her permission to exhale.

From our rehearsal, which felt very much like preparing to put on a performance, I know what comes next. My throat constricts as I reach out to take Alexis’s left hand, the eyes of the audience burning me.

“I, Gabriel Thorne, take you, Alexis Beaumont, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…” I have to force the next words out. “Until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.”

When we were preparing for the wedding, our parents asked us if we wanted to write our own vows. The idea made me feel sick to my stomach. Even the standard vows feel wrong on my tongue, weightier than I can handle.

Now it’s Alexis’s turn. I can sense her nervousness, a subtle tremor in her hands as she clutches her bouquet tightly. I can see her lips moving slightly, as if she’s rehearsing the words in her mind, and a knot of sympathy twists in my stomach.

Then she speaks. “I, Alexis Beaumont, take you, Gabriel Thorne—to, to be my husband. To have and t-to—to⁠—”

She freezes, her gaze flitting out to the audience and back to me. There’s panic on her face, and her expression contorts.

My grip tightens on her hand, as if I can anchor her in place. “Focus on me,” I murmur to her. “You can do this.”

She swallows, then continues, “To have and to hold from this day forward. For better, f-for worse… for richer, for—for poorer. In sickness and… and in health. To, to love and t-to cherish. Until we are parted by d-death.” She stumbles over the words in her haste to get them out. “This is… this is…”

“I’m right here with you,” I whisper, quietly enough that only she and the priest can hear.

She meets my gaze. “This is my solemn vow.”

The priest nods as he speaks again. “By the power vested in me by the church and the state of California, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

I step forward to press my lips to hers, keeping the kiss as light and chaste as I can manage. Still, the plushness of her mouth against mine stirs something deep within me—warmth, unbidden. Her scent, honey and vanilla and amber, wraps around me, mingling with the earthy smell of the soil.

I pull back before my instincts take over and deepen the kiss.

She looks up at me, her lips slightly parted, and for an instant, I feel the urge to kiss her again. For real, this time. To cradle her face in my hands and really taste her.

But I don’t.

The audience applauds, and Alexis and I step down from the altar, retreating down the aisle toward the arboretum’s exit. Sunlight spills through the vaulted glass above us, catching Alexis’s copper hair.

After what feels like an eternity, the doors are closing behind us, and we’re alone in the interior hallway. Alexis exhales, her breath shaky as she leans against the wall. Her expression is a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety.

“Wow,” she whispers, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if trying to process everything that just happened. “I can’t believe we did it.”

I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “What, did you think I was going to leave you at the altar? After all that preparation?”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” she admits, pushing off the wall and turning to face me fully.

Before I can respond—not that I have any idea what to say—the door opens again, and a rush of warm, earthy air floods the corridor. Peyton runs toward me, beaming, and I scoop her up in my arms instinctively.