Page 8 of The Wrong Groom

We start toward the photographer. The shutter clicks with a light snap-snap, snap-snap as he takes a couple of pictures. The photographer glances down at his camera’s screen again, then frowns. He shakes his head, gesturing for us to move back toward the archway.

“No, no. Go again. And this time, actually look at her.”

I dare a glance up at Gabriel, catching the edges of his profile in the sunlight. His jaw is set, his expression focused. Sure enough, he’s not looking at me—he’s looking ahead, as though forcing himself to stay detached.

“Come on, Mr. Thorne,” the photographer says, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. “Look at her, please. As though she’s the most important person in the world.”

Gabriel breathes in deeply through his nose, his chest rising before his gaze slowly drops to meet mine. His gray eyes soften, just barely, as if he’s making a conscious effort to follow the photographer’s instructions.

“There we go. Hold that. And walk toward me… beautiful.” Snap-snap, snap-snap. “Give me more.”

Gabriel reaches down, his fingers coming to rest on the side of my face, cupping my jaw. He tilts my face up toward his.

“Oh, hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about!” The photographer sounds excited now, and the snap of the camera’s shutter becomes almost constant.

We take another step forward together, and I’m so distracted by all of this—by the noise of the camera, by Gabriel’s touch, which feels like it’s electrifying my nerves—that I slip, losing my balance on the sand.

In response, Gabriel’s arm snakes around my waist once more. He tightens his grip, holding me upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says in a low, serious voice.

For a split second, I cling to him, steadying myself. He feels solid, unyielding. A temporary anchor.

I look up at him, and our gazes lock. At this distance, it’s even more impossible to turn away from him. I’m caught up in the intensity of his gaze, the way his gray eyes seem to darken with something I can’t quite decipher. There’s a depth there, a flicker of something beneath the surface.

The photographer is still shouting instructions, but his reedy voice seems to fade into the background, muffled by Gabriel’s closeness. He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers ghosting across my face. There’s a softness in his expression that wasn’t there before, and it makes my breath catch in my throat.

“Yes!” The photographer is practically hopping up and down with excitement. “That’s it, that’s looking great! Now kiss her!”

All at once, like sand scattered by the wind, the moment evaporates. Gabriel pulls back, his whole body suddenly stiff.

“That’s enough,” he says—growls, really, his voice low and gruff. The softness is gone, replaced by the steel I’m more accustomed to from him. He steps away, his arm falling from my waist as though it was never there at all.

But it was. I can still feel the warmth of his touch lingering on my cheek, like an imprint that won’t fade. The absence of it leaves me feeling strangely empty, as though something important has been taken away.

I didn’t expect that—that intimacy, that brief connection. It felt so real. There was something there, something more than the careful, cordial distance that always sits between us.

I shake off the dazed feeling, my surroundings coming back into focus.

The photographer is speaking, clearly taken aback by Gabriel’s sharp tone. “Uh, okay,” he mutters, glancing down at his camera. “Let’s move on, then. We’ll head over to the cliffs.”

“Give me a moment,” Gabriel replies. He steps away from me, toward his mother and my parents, who are off to the side. He begins to speak to them in low tones—too quiet for me to hear over the roar of the surf and the chattering of seabirds.

Gabriel stands with his back to me, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the conversation he’s having with our parents. I can’t make out a single word, but from the way Camille occasionally nods and my mother’s lips purse, it’s clear that whatever he’s saying isn’t trivial.

I shift my weight, uncomfortable. Was I imagining that intimacy? Did I somehow overstep, or misread him? A growing knot of uncertainty settles low in my chest.

I shuffle toward them, trying to hear what they’re saying without making it too obvious that I’m eavesdropping.

“—told you from the start that this was a bad idea,” Gabriel mutters to his mother. “We need to call it off now. Before it becomes catastrophic.”

Camille’s response is lost to the wind, swept away by the crashing waves and salty air, but I don’t need to hear her words to understand the gravity of the situation. Gabriel is trying to convince them to call the whole thing off. Based on his tone and the tight set of his jaw, I can tell he’s serious, maybe more serious than I’ve ever seen him.

My heart races as the knot of anxiety tightens even further. Call it off?

My suspicions were right. That intimate moment was one-sided at best, entirely in my head. My stomach tightens, and I drop my gaze to the sand, unsure whether to be embarrassed, disappointed… or both.

He doesn’t want me. How could I have failed him already, before we’re even married?