Page 39 of The Wrong Groom

“That’s strong stuff,” I tell her, amused. “Macallan’s fifty-year single malt.”

“I have no idea what that means,” she says, staring into the caramel liquid as if she’s afraid it’s poison.

“That means it’s been aged for fifty years,” I explain. “And that it’s one of the best whiskeys money can buy.”

“If you say so,” she says dubiously. She takes the tiniest sip, her nose wrinkling at the taste before she swallows. I have to hold back my smile. “Wow. That’s… um, intense.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” I lift my own glass to my lips, savoring the familiar warmth. “It’s worth it once you’re used to it.”

She takes another tentative sip, her expression still apprehensive.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“No,” she admits.

That gets a laugh out of me. “Not a Macallan fan, huh?”

“I’m more of a ‘sweet white wine’ kind of person.”

“You know,” I tell her, “that bottle of whiskey cost fifty grand.”

She makes a choked sound, her eyes going wide for a second. “Seriously?”

“Yup.” I take another sip. “Most people tend to like it.”

She sighs, then shrugs one shoulder, a strange look crossing her face. “My family’s company makes luxury fashion,” she says, swirling the whiskey around in her glass. “Our designers always show up at Milan Fashion Week with models in dresses that cost hundreds of thousands.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s all a waste, if you ask me. It doesn’t matter how expensive the clothes are, or how they look on the runway. What matters is how they make people feel when they wear them.” She pauses, then adds, “I feel good when I wear green. That’s my favorite color. I’d rather wear this”—she plucks at the chartreuse t-shirt—”than a million-dollar black dress.”

I cock my head, not sure how to respond. It’s certainly not a perspective I’d expect from a fashion heiress, and it catches me off guard.

She smiles at me ruefully. “My family doesn’t love hearing me say things like that.”

I liked it, though. I like that she didn’t pretend to enjoy the whiskey just to butter me up or something. I like that she was willing to be honest.

“I don’t know,” I say. I toss back the last of my whiskey, then move to pour myself another glass. “I think you’re onto something.”

She flushes, her freckled cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leans against the desk, her posture relaxing slightly. As she does, her shoulder brushes my arm, and a jolt of awareness shoots through me.

I clear my throat. I don’t want to ruin the moment we’re having, but I know I need to clear the air, get rid of any residual tension before it can fester. “Look, about what I said earlier⁠—”

“It’s fine,” she interjects, shaking her head. She still looks a bit dejected, but she tries to muster a smile. “I get it.”

Silence hangs between us for a few seconds. Frustration gnaws at me. I don’t want her to feel undervalued in my house, but if she’s really going to understand where I’m coming from, I’ll need to talk about things I don’t usually discuss.

My brothers have the decency not to constantly ask how I’m doing or remind me of Melanie without warning, so I don’t tend to talk about her. I don’t know how to articulate my feelings to Alexis without reopening some old wounds.

But if this is going to work, I need to let her in. At least a little bit.

“Losing Melanie…” I trail off for a moment, unsure how to start. Then I try again. “It was an accident. She fell and hit her head. It was just one of those freak things—there one minute, gone the next, and nothing anyone could’ve done.” I swallow. “But losing someone like that, so suddenly? It throws your whole life into chaos. Everything changes overnight. And since I had Peyton to take care of, I had to put my grief on the back burner.”

Alexis is quiet, listening. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts.