Page 31 of Marrying the Accidental Groom
“Same,” he said. “I keep coming back to the ceremony. Not the orchids or the leis or the very aggressive ukulele solo. Just...the vows.”
She looked down at her hands. “We didn’t know they were binding.”
“But we still said them,” he replied. “We still stood there and promised things. That has to mean something, right?”
Juliana shifted uncomfortably, more from the conversation than her stomach. Maybe.
“I believe marriage matters,” she said, eyes still trained on the window. “I believe it’s sacred. I just...This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
“I know.”
“I was supposed to get married with spreadsheets and signature cocktails and a harpist in the corner. Not with my hair frizzed out and a reckless stranger by my side. No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, that same gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I happen to think you frizzed out and unscheduled is kind of stunning.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed.
He let a beat pass before he spoke again. “We don’t have to rush anything. I’m not asking you to make some forever decision today.”
Juliana blinked, surprised by the relief that washed over her. “You’re not?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I’ve seen what happens when you make decisions under pressure. You end up eating level-four spicy curry in a parking lot.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You really know how to romance a girl.”
He turned to face her more fully. “I’m willing to give it a real shot. Not out of obligation. Not because some island paper sayswe should. But because I like you. I respect you. I want to know what happens if we actually try.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her stomach was doing somersaults, but this time she wasn’t entirely sure it was the curry.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, voice low.
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to make the wrong choice just to prove I can follow through.”
“Juliana,” he said gently, “not every plan needs a five-year projection and a forty-item checklist. Some things you learn by walking through them.”
“I don’t walk into things blind.”
“Then don’t,” he said simply. “But maybe hold my hand while we figure it out.”
She laughed once, soft and almost sad. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still sitting here.”
Her hand found her stomach again, the ache sharper now. She winced.
“You okay?”
“Yup,” she lied. “Is it a little warm in here?”
Gideon shrugged. “No, I don’t think so.”
She should have known the second Gideon flashed that stupid grin and said, “Gas station Indian food,” that her stomach was going to file a formal complaint. Now, sitting in the passenger seat of his ancient truck, Juliana was sweating through her blouse, trying to remember if it was possible to die from food poisoning.
“Are you sure it isn’t hot in here?” she asked, voice dangerously thin.
Gideon gave her a sideways glance, unfazed. “No, it really isn’t. Are you sure you’re okay?”
