Page 5 of The Wrong Groom

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Could’ve been worse. It could’ve been a puppy. At least kittens can learn to use a litter box.”

Beckett opens his mouth to say something—probably to mock me some more—when a knock at the door interrupts him. I shift in my seat to see my secretary, Jennifer, leaning into the room.

“Mr. Thorne,” she says.

“Which one? You’ve got to be more specific when we’re all here,” Reid points out with a chuckle.

Jennifer rolls her eyes lightly. “Right. Gabriel. I just wanted to swing by to remind you about your four o’clock.” She gives me a sympathetic look as she says it, like she knows exactly how I feel about where I have to be.

Immediately, the tension that left me with Peyton’s call comes rushing back. Fuck. My four o’clock appointment is the engagement shoot.

“You need to head out soon, or you’ll be late,” Jennifer reminds me.

“Right,” I choke out through a clenched jaw. “Thank you, Jennifer. Can you call a car to the front for me?”

“Of course,” she says. She disappears, closing the door behind her. I turn back to the others, scowling.

“So… are we postponing?” asks one of the FlashUp guys, shifting his weight awkwardly.

“Looks like it.” Tristan sighs. “Everyone, sleep on it. We’ll meet again tomorrow, same time, and hopefully we’ll make a little more headway.”

I’m the first one out of the room, my laptop tucked beneath my arm. Behind me, I can hear Tristan’s voice carrying as he calls out, “Good luck with the shoot!”

“You should practice smiling on the way over and make sure you don’t actually look pissed!” Beckett adds. “Historically, that’s been a problem for you!”

“Ha, ha,” I reply dryly, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the advice.”

In fairness, it’s probably advice I’ll get from the photographer too. I’ve been told more than once that my resting face could use a little work.

There’s a car waiting at the curb outside the lobby, a sleek, silver Mercedes. I take a moment to collect myself before sliding into the back seat. The driver gives me a nod, then the plastic partition slides up between us, leaving me alone with my still-churning thoughts.

Alexis Beaumont. Since the moment my mother said that name, my life has felt like a complete and total joke.

She’s twenty-five years old. Just out of college, honestly. Twenty-five feels like it was a lifetime ago for me. In the decade since, I’ve loved and lost and navigated the tumultuous waters of parenthood alone. Alexis is fresh-faced and full of dreams, while I feel like a fossil.

I know from experience what a successful marriage requires—trust, intimacy, vulnerability. But Alexis doesn’t need to be tethered to me and Peyton, and I certainly don’t want to crack my calcified heart open all over again, let another woman pick over the pieces that Melanie left behind when she died.

Honestly, this whole thing is beyond laughable. It’s… wretched. Like my father went out of his way to hurt me, and my mother is standing idly by, letting him do it.

The photoshoot is scheduled to take place on a private beach a few miles north of Los Angeles, which, like everything else, is ridiculous—whimsical, fairy-tale-like, as if this isn’t a business transaction, but rather an engagement straight out of a doe-eyed teenager’s fantasies. I didn’t have any say in the choice of location. As far as I’m aware, that was all my mother or the Beaumonts’ decision.

My driver drops me off at the dunes, and I step out, the salty breeze whipping around me and tousling my hair. Down on the sand, I can see the photographer and a couple of his assistants setting things up. There’s a small marquee, and a van parked on the beach. The photographers aren’t alone, either. My mother is there, as are Alexis’s parents.

I trudge down toward them, biting back a curse as sand slips into my Oxfords. I breathe in deeply, begrudgingly savoring the salty tang of the sea. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the beach. I only wish I were here under different circumstances—and wearing different footwear.

In front of me, the scene is set: white sand, a beautiful backdrop of the ocean, a trellis archway decorated with glittering fairy lights that hang down in delicate, shimmering strands.

Beneath the archway stands Alexis.

She looks stunning, her copper-red hair catching the sunlight in flowing waves. Her pale green dress flows around her legs, accenting the sharp emerald of her eyes.

For a moment, I almost forget the weight of the situation as I watch her. She’s chatting with the photographer’s assistant, her head tilted slightly to the side as she listens to him speak. Whatever he says makes her break into a laugh, her face lighting up with an easy, bright grin.

That laugh is magnetic. I feel a tug of curiosity, a flicker of warmth. It unsettles me more than I care to admit.

Because this—this ease, this brightness—isn’t what I expected when I agreed to this whole arrangement. We’ve only met in person briefly before now, and I always assumed Alexis Beaumont would be like her parents: polished, distant, and cold beneath all that glossy perfection. But watching her now, radiant and so alive against the backdrop of the sea, throws me off balance.

She’s not detached from this, even if she pretends to be. She’s not detached from anything. That much is clear. But detachment is, in many ways, necessary for situations like these. Without it, people get hurt.