Page 62 of Accidental Groom
“—when George never bothered to be around enough toseeit?—”
“Stop.” I take a step forward, reaching out to him, but he dodges. “Harry.”
For the first time since I met him, I hear what sounds like a wobble in his voice, his throat working around nothing. “I need air.”
Before I can lunge for him, he’s gone, right out the door with nothing but a lingering silence left behind in the private diningroom. I stare at the door, blinking, confused,rattled. The way he shut me down wasn’t fair, the way he pushed back, the way he snapped?—
I nearly jump as a hand rests on my shoulder.
“Hey,” Grace says softly, leaning into my peripheral vision, her auburn hair tumbling over one shoulder. “Don’t… don’t take it personally. Harry’s never really been great when emotions run high, and he’s a lot worse when it comes to guilt.”
I swallow. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”
“I know,” she sighs. “Geraldine’s death is just kind of a trigger for both of them. One that George knows exactly how to ignite. And once it’s out there, he just kind of shuts down.”
My hand drifts almost unconsciously to my stomach, my thumb smoothing over the fabric of my dress, before I think to move it. “I wasn’t trying to make it worse.”
“Of course you weren’t,” she reassures. Her voice is soft, soothing, like she’s trying to settle a spooked horse — but it doesn’t ease the ache blossoming in my chest, doesn’t take back the shock at seeing him react like that.
And maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the Highcourts in the years leading up to what was meant to be my marriage to George, maybe I should have done my research on the family I was joining before the wedding. But I didn’t.
I came into this marriage not knowing much of anything about the woman who came before me. And until now, it felt like something I could ignore, something I could offer my condolences on and have empathy overwithoutwanting to know more.
But how am I meant to ignore a ghost sitting at the table?
Chapter 20
Harry
The hair at the base of my neck is still damp as I step out of the bathroom of my home gym, a towel slung over my shoulder and my pajama bottoms sitting low on my hips.
Nothing but birdsong trickles in through the open windows behind me, and for once, I’m grateful for a single second of silence before my meeting in half an hour — no texts blowing up my phone about the Switzerland project, no distant sounds of someone moving about in the house, no television playing news I can’t be bothered to listen to.
I’d barely slept last night. I’d kept seeing her face in that private dining room, kept wondering how she’d reacted when I’d gone home without saying a thing, when I’d arranged for a driver to bring her and Grace and Liam back here separately from me.
I hadn’t been able to keep my head when George went nuclear.
I should have expected it. Telling him about any of it—the baby, the inheritance—somewhere public had been reckless, but I’d just hoped it would keep him somewhat in line.
But what’s gnawing at me more than George’s outburst and the mention of Geraldine is how I spoke to Elena. I’d seen thesurprise, thehurt, flash in her eyes like a match strike. She didn’t—doesn’t—deserve that.
So the first thing I did when I woke up was make a call.
A voice, light and exceptionally familiar, laughs excitedly in the garden as I pull open the glass door. Another answers, higher-pitched, softer, and my chest tightens.
She came.
I round the corner on the flagstone path, stopping just far enough not to insert myself as Sarah, fully dressed in a bohemian-esque white set, throws her arms around Elena’s neck, wrenching her in for a hug tight enough to make her wheeze. Elena chastises her jokingly, saying something about squeezing the barely-cooked baby out of her too soon and not giving her time to put on anything other than pajamas, and I bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
It shouldn’t feel this good to see her this happy.
But it does.
Elena’s gaze flicks in my direction, widening slightly as she spots me standing off to the side. Sarah follows it, her cheeks turning pink the moment she realizes I’m hovering in just my pajama bottoms and a towel covering half my chest. She waves, though, and I return the gesture.
Elena’s head tilts, and she murmurs something to her sister before stepping away, toward me, the expression on her face almost…curious?
Halfway, I notice the hint of glossiness to her eyes. “You did this?”
