Page 6 of The Wrong Groom

I try to refocus as I approach the setup, to turn my attention to the crew bustling around her, the impersonal mechanics of the shoot: light meters flashing, assistants adjusting reflectors. It’s no use, though. As the photographer’s assistant says something else, she laughs again and pulls my gaze straight back to her.

Then she turns and sees me striding across the sand. All at once, that lightweight, beautiful smile vanishes, replaced by a wary look.

My chest tightens unpleasantly, the warmth gone.

She wants nothing to do with this. With me.

Not for the first time, I’m struck by just how horrible this situation is—not just for me, but for her too. She’s so young, and so beautiful. If things were different, if this weren’t an arrangement forced on both of us by families more interested in legacy than happiness, maybe she’d be smiling at someone she actually wanted to be here with. Someone who made her laugh like that without it costing her anything.

God. This is a terrible fucking idea.

Chapter 2

Alexis

Gabriel Thorne crosses the beach slowly, as if he’s being dragged forward with every step. There’s a scowl on his face, accentuating the hard line of his jaw. His brow is furrowed and his steely gray eyes narrowed as he meets my gaze.

There’s something about him that’s intimidating, even from a distance. It’s not just his height or the intensity of his expression. It’s the way he carries himself. Everything about his demeanor, from the way he holds his shoulders to the sharpness of his gaze, suggests a man who’s been through hell and emerged hardened.

And… yeah, that scares the shit out of me.

He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—I’ve thought that from the moment I laid eyes on him—but he’s untouchable. Distant. We’ve spoken a few times, and each time, it felt like he was removed from our conversation, responding by rote.

Nerves flood me, my momentary good spirits gone. I never know what to say to Gabriel. I never know how to breach the distance he puts up, that invisible wall he seems to have constructed around himself.

I want to look away, before he can see the flicker of fear in my eyes. But I can’t. I feel frozen, my gaze locked on his.

To my relief, his mother steps forward, drawing his attention. He breaks eye contact with me, and I let out a breath, as though I’ve suddenly been released from whatever hold he had on me.

Camille approaches her son, and he stops some distance away from the photographer’s setup. He speaks to his mother in a low, urgent tone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Camille’s lips press thin.

“Not quite sure we’re ready,” says my own mother, off to my right. I glance at her with a frown. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible, and if she starts trying to drag her feet, it’ll be harder than it needs to be.

She’s not talking to me. She’s talking to one of the photographer’s assistants, who did my makeup a few minutes ago. I resist the urge to heave a sigh, knowing what’s coming next.

“I think she could use more of a touch-up,” my mother says, giving me an appraising look—as if I’m not even here. “More foundation. A darker shadow. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” the assistant says uncomfortably. “We generally try to go for a natural look in engagement photos.”

My mother hums in disapproval. “This isn’t about looking ‘natural’—it’s about her looking her best.”

“She looks great,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not sure adding more makeup would⁠—”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, before my mother can snap back at him. “A little bit more is fine.”

I know better than to push against my mother’s wishes. She has a way of making her opinions feel like undeniable truths, and I don’t want to spark a debate here, especially not in front of Gabriel. I can feel his gaze on me, and the last thing I need is a scene that makes this already awkward situation worse.

Besides, I know that this is hard on my parents too, in a different way than it’s hard on me. It was never supposed to be me in this position. I was never supposed to be the one carrying the family’s legacy on my shoulders. That was always going to be Noelle, my older sister.

Noelle passed away when I was ten years old. She was only fourteen, but already, she had a presence that filled the room. Given ten more years to mature, she would’ve stepped into this role gracefully, easily. My sister’s leukemia derailed my parents’ plans, and now I’m the one who has to take on the Beaumont family mantle and the arranged marriage.

Marrying well is an absolute must in our circles, for at least one child in the family. To marry someone else of means is to preserve the family’s wealth, expand our prospects for the future. In these cases, marriage often isn’t about love. It’s about finances. Assets. Business.

Not exactly the easiest thing to look forward to.

Gabriel’s mother leads him over to a clothing rack that the photographers have somehow wheeled out onto the beach, and together, they go through several different options for blazers. Well, not together. Camille rifles through the clothes, and Gabriel stares at the sand, glowering.

One of the photographer’s assistants approaches me. “Would you like something to drink, miss?”