Page 74 of Accidental Groom
I curl tighter into the velvet chaise in the sunroom, an open book half forgotten on my lap. I’m barely reading, have been struggling for the last thirty minutes. My eyes, instead, have been focusing on the woods outside the glass, where the shadows move as the sun slowly lowers in the sky.
Part of me wants to go sit in the corner chair of Harry’s office instead of hanging out in here. But he’s mid-meeting, bogged down with work, and I don’t want to cause more problems by walking in unannounced.
For days now, I’ve had the uneasy sense that I’m being watched. Not by staff, not by Matthew, not Grace or Liam or even Harry. The feeling slithers along my spine, lingering just long enough to make me scan over my shoulder constantly. And it started the morning that person was in my cottage.
I haven’t seen George since, at least not really. I’d seen him outside the west wing two weeks ago, far enough away that hecouldn’t bother me, leaning over the back deck and smoking something. Last week, I caught the scent of his cologne in the kitchen when I walked in, but the house was silent and there wasn’t a sign of him around.
But he hasn’t spoken to me. He hasn’t said a word.
I can’t work out if he’s waiting.
I close the book and push myself up out of the chair, tossing the throw blanket over the back of the chair. I should eat, at least — take my mind off things so I don’t inevitably annoy Harry before he’s finished with work.
I’m halfway down the corridor, my bare feet silent on the floor, when I feel it again. That prickling sensation, like breath on my neck. Oreyes.
I turn.
The hallway is empty behind me, but the hairs on my arms don’t settle.
The kitchen is just ahead at the end of the hallway, and I march on, just wanting to get somewhere I feel comfortable. I step through the archway?—
“Jesus—”
George leans against the kitchen counter like he’s been waiting hours, like he belongs there, in a pair of plaid joggers and a white t-shirt. I startle badly enough that I have to grab the doorway, my hand coming to my chest.
He’s holding a half-empty glass of something clear and brown, maybe whiskey, maybe rum. His hair is neat, but his shirt is rumpled, stained at the collar. He stares me down, his eyes bloodshot.
“Boo,” he says, a grin spreading across his cheeks.
I don’t move. “You scared me,” I grumble, my hand sliding down my stomach. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be on this side of the house.”
“Whatever I want,” he says, tilting the glass like he’s giving a toast. “Existing. Breathing. Watching my ex-fiancée play house withDaddy.”
He takes a sip, smirking.
“Am I supposed to call youMomnow?”
I shift my stance, my heels firm on the floor, stabling. I don’t let his ridiculous question make me shiver — but my heart hammers like a drum. I don’t let it show. “You’re drunk.”
“No shit. Wanna join me?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he mutters, pushing off the counter.
I take a step back instinctively. “Don’t.”
His grin falters. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t come any closer. Just… sleep it off somewhere. Please.”
“Sleep it off?” he echoes, rolling his eyes. “You sound like him. Next, you’ll be handing me a glass of scotch and talking aboutreputation.”
My jaw steels. “I’m asking you nicely?—”
“Nicely?” he mutters, his brows knitting. His voice rises. “Nicely?”
He throws the rest of his drink into his mouth, swallows, anddropsthe glass onto the floor. It doesn’t shatter — just bounces off the tile before rolling to a stop near my foot.
