Page 107 of Accidental Groom
I press a kiss to her forehead and stand back up to my full height. “Come on, get up.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got somewhere to be,” I grin, holding out my hand.
Her brow raises as she takes it. I lift her carefully, enough that she’s sitting up. “Business?”
I shake my head. “Nope,” I say. “No suits, no handshakes. Just you and me.”
“That’ssosuspicious,” she grumbles, shifting her legs off the side of the bed, sitting there in all her naked glory as she stares up at me. “Should I be scared?”
I shrug, taking a step back, baiting her to actually stand. “Probably.”
————
The ride to Boyds is quiet — the kind of comfortable silence that feels earned. Her fingers are laced with mine as she sits in the passenger seat, her other hand resting over her belly. I don’t tell her where we’re going. I just let her figure it out as I slide into the private parking spot in front of the store, her head turning toward the well-dressed staff member opening up the front door with a grin directed at my car.
“Harry?” she asks, her voice wavering.
I don’t answer. Instead, I push open my door and get out, round the hood, and open her door for her. “Come on.”
“What did youdo?”
“You were complaining last week about your dresses not fitting right anymore,” I say casually. “Got you a private styling appointment.”
She blinks at me, still sitting in the passenger seat, slowly undoing her seat belt. “Are you serious?”
I lean on the hood. “Darling,” I say, chuckling softly. “I’m entirely serious. The store’s shut down just for you.”
She turns, kicking her feet out and onto the curb. “You’re kidding. Why would they do that? That’s terrible for business.”
I snort. “I paid them enough that it wouldn’t hurt them.”
“You’re insane,” she mutters, hoisting herself out with one hand in mine and the other gripping the handle above the window.
“Probably.”
She gives me a look like she might cry, or punch me, or both.
Inside, the showroom is warm and glowing with curated lighting, racks of maternity wear waiting in neat lines in her private dressing room. There’s a spread of refreshments on a table, everything from juice to water to soda to sparkling apple juice imported from god knows where, and at the center of it, a jar of pickles, sans the pickles.
She blinks at it. “Oh my god,” she says, a laugh creeping up on her until she’s fully cackling. “You didn’t.”
“Ross might’ve mentioned it when you were packing your bag.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes shining, grinning like crazy. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“I didn’t say that,” I say, giving her a look. “But I’m not going to judge you.”
I don’t say a goddamn word as she gets to work making some kind of hideous concoction of pickle juice and lemonade. Instead, I look through the rail of clothes, taking stock of what they’d brought up for her. I’d given them a vague description of the things she likes to wear, and they’d pretty much nailed it, especially for the season.
“I hate how good this is,” she mutters, sucking her poison through a straw.
Stylists flutter around her when she finally abandons the drink and starts looking through the clothes. I sit down in the armchair, letting them take their measurements as she stares at me in slight discomfort. I mouth a,You okay?to her, and she nods, then flinches as a measuring tape wraps around her breasts.
