Page 30 of Accidental Groom
I gesture for him to go ahead.
“Do you genuinely believe George is going to come back ready to be a husband toanyone, let alone Elena?”
The question I’ve been avoiding settles between us like a sinking stone. George has always been selfish, impulsive,allergicto responsibility. The boy who abandoned his fiancée at the altar isn’t suddenly going to transform into a devoted husband just because I drag him home.
I know that.
“He’ll do what’s required of him,” I say.
“Will he? Or will he run again the first time she snaps at him?”
I don’t have an answer for that, which I guess is an answer in itself.
Matthew checks his phone and stands, gathering his laptop and shoving it in his bag. “Flight leaves in two hours. I should be in Croatia by tonight.”
“Call me the moment you have eyes on him.”
“I will.” Matthew pauses at the kitchen door, looking over his shoulder, his dark hair slipping from its low pony. “Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor while I’m gone,” he says casually. “Think about what you actually want before you make me file a bunch of paperwork you might not need. Don’t consider what the business needs or what makes the most sense on paper. Whatyouwant.”
He leaves before I can respond, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until the front door closes behind him. The house settles into uncomfortable silence, vast and empty around me.
What I want.
As if that’s simple. As if wanting has ever been enough to override duty, responsibility, and the weight of expectation that comes with the Highcourt name.
I drain my coffee and rinse the mug in the sink, trying to focus on mundane tasks instead of the request Matthew left me with, but my mind keeps drifting to the cottage, to Elenaprobably starting her workday, likely making her own coffee in that smaller kitchen.
I let myself wonder what she’s wearing, if she slept well or if she tossed and turned with wandering hands, if she’s thought about that night in the hotel room even half as much as I have.
The memory surfaces against my will. Elena, sprawled across crisp white sheets with rose petals around her, her skin flushed and mouth parted, her back bowing with my head between her thighs. Elena, standing in that bedroom, her hands doing absolutely nothing to cover her as she threw accusations and a pillow at my head like they were weapons.
The way I wanted to step closer instead of walking away.
My phone buzzes with a text from my property manager in Switzerland, something about permits and construction delays, but I can barely focus on the words. Every thought seems to lead back to Elena, to the way she’d looked at me in those charged few seconds before I forced myself to walk out.
Thisis exactly why I established boundaries, why I made it clear that the night in the penthouse was an aberration, not a pattern to be repeated — because left to my own devices, apparently I’m the kind of man who fantasizes about his son’s intended bride.
I should go to my study, review my files, make calls, and lose myself in the familiarity of work. That’s what I’ve always done when personal complications threatened to overwhelm my obligations. Instead, though, I find myself walking through the house toward the main staircase, my feet carrying me toward my bedroom before I’ve actually decided to go there.
The master suite feels too large, too quiet, the king-size bed that once seemed appropriate now justemphasizinghow alone I am in this oversized house. I close the door behind me and lean against it, reluctantly but finally admitting to myself what I’ve been fighting for days.
I want her.
Elena.
My son’s abandoned fiancée, my temporary wife, the woman who should be completely off-limits. I want to know what other sounds she makes, want to learn every inch of skin I haven’t explored yet, want to strip away every insecurity my idiot son planted in her head.
The want is sharp enough to cut, and inappropriate enough to make me hate myself for it.
I push away from the door and walk toward the ensuite bathroom, already reaching for my belt. If I can just… purge the need, maybe I can think clearly again, maybe I can remember why maintaining distance is the right thing to do, even if it feels like torture.
My clothes are off before a single part of me has a chance to consider what I’m doing, but I’m too lost in it already. The shower is on, steam rising from it and fogging over the mirror, and then I’m stepping in, the water hot enough to scorch my skin. I pray that it’s enough to drown out the images I can’t shake.
Elena, draped in nothing but golden light, the curve of her hip barely hidden by that damn comforter.
