Page 49 of The Wrong Groom

I wonder, watching Peyton playfully splash water at Gabriel, whether that was a mistake of my parents’—to make me feel like there was something fundamentally wrong with me, something I needed to fix.

I get the sense that if anyone implied that about Peyton—that she’s broken, or that she needs to change—Gabriel would tear them to shreds.

There’s a lump in my throat that no amount of iced tea can wash down. Gabriel is a good father. The more of his parenting I witness, the more I realize just how shitty my own parents were. They were the exact opposite of him, in every way, and the thought makes me bitterly sad.

“Alexis!”

Gabriel’s voice draws me out of my thoughts, and I blink rapidly. He stands knee-deep in the water, Peyton clinging to his legs.

“Come join us!” he calls, waving.

I hesitate for a moment. It’s the beating sun that ultimately makes my decision for me. I could use the chance to cool off.

I push myself up from the chair and make my way toward the water, my bare feet stinging on the hot sand. Peyton lets out a squeak of laughter as I reach the water’s edge and recoil at the cold.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Gabriel assures me, grinning.

I’m not so sure about that, but there’s enough warmth in his eyes that it feels worth it to take the leap.

I brace myself, holding my breath, and jump toward Peyton and Gabriel, letting myself fall sideways into the shallows. The cold water is a shock to my system, but a much-needed one. I gasp and splutter, playing up my reaction a bit for Peyton’s benefit. She giggles wildly, splashing water over my head.

“You’re splashing me?” I say in mock disbelief. I prop myself up on one arm to see her, my fingers digging into the sand. “Splashing me while I’m down?”

Peyton scurries to hide behind Gabriel, peeking out at me with a shy, mischievous smile. He glances down at her, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says. “You’re not going to make me an accomplice. Not today.”

He flops down into the water, sending up a wave that douses Peyton. She tries to dodge, but the water’s up to her chest, and she can’t move quickly enough to avoid getting wet. She lets out a squeal and shakes herself. The seawater weighs down her curls.

“Daddy!” she shrieks. “You were supposed to be on my team!”

“Sorry, Bug,” he says. “You have to double-check about this sort of thing.”

Peyton aims her next splash attack at him. This time, she gets him good. He’s completely soaked, his hair flattened and sticking to his forehead. She laughs at the look of indignation on his face, and so do I, unable to help myself. It’s so disarming to see Gabriel, a man who usually carries himself with such control and authority, at the mercy of a six-year-old.

He shifts to his knees, wiping water from his eyes, and glares at his daughter sternly. It’s the sort of look that must make investors and powerful people quail in the face of his intensity.

It doesn’t work on Peyton. She giggles, then lunges toward him. The stern look melts from his face, replaced by a tender smile as he catches her, bouncing her in the water.

“You’re really going to do me like that?” he asks.

“Yes!” she shouts, wriggling in his arms. “Everyone has to get splashed!”

“Of course,” he says, shooting me a wry smile. “It’s not a beach day if I’m not getting splashed.”

Then Peyton makes a sudden effort to escape his grasp, and Gabriel’s distracted for a moment as he stands, scooping her out of the water despite her protests. I smile, leaning back into the now-comfortable ocean and watching them.

Maybe I’m not fully part of this, sure, but I can appreciate what’s in front of me. And maybe that’s enough.

The sun is setting by the time we leave the beach, all three of us salty and sandy and pleasantly tired. Peyton, in particular, has managed to get sand absolutely everywhere—in her hair, on her feet, somehow even behind her ears. In the car, Gabriel teases her lovingly about it, marveling that one small person could carry half the beach home with her. Peyton just grins and shows him a fistful of seashells she smuggled into the cupholder, completely unbothered. She yawns three times on the drive, clearly worn out from a day of fun.

When we arrive back at the house, Gabriel takes her to the pool deck to rinse the sand and saltwater off her, then whisks her upstairs to get ready for bed. I wander into the bedroom and peel off my damp bathing suit, showering quickly before changing into comfortable pajamas. I pick up my book from the side table and head back downstairs to the living room.

I settle into the couch, curling my legs underneath me, and open my book, although I find myself not really focusing on the pages. I’m more preoccupied with my hair, tangled from the seawater. It’s not going to be in good shape again until I shower, but I’d rather not have it irritating my neck while I’m trying to relax, so I fumble with a hair tie and start trying to braid it.

It takes Gabriel around fifteen minutes to get Peyton to bed. That must be record time. She was probably too tired for her usual bedtime story. He comes down to the living room, his quiet footsteps warning me of his approach. I nudge my book closed and set it to the side, still struggling with the braid. It’s impossible to manage my hair sometimes, especially without a mirror.

“Hey,” I say in greeting as he sinks into the nearby armchair.