Page 2 of Accidental Groom
I didn’t even know him, hadn’t spoken a single word to him. But my parents had told me it was myduty— Highcourt Hotels needed a distillery partner, and our distillery needed their prestige.
“This marriage will secure our family’s place,”my mother had said, her voice clipped like she’d been talking about acquiring a piece of land rather than handing over her eldest daughter.
I’d agreed.
Not for them, never for them.
But for my little sister, Sarah.
If I went through with it, she wouldn’t have to.
So I never asked myself if I loved him. That wasn’t the point.
I glance desperately into the crowd, needing an anchor, searching for Ross. He’s been my best friend since I was ten, my safe place, my shoulder to cry on, but apparently George isn’t the only man pulling a disappearing act today. The familiar dark hair and crooked grin are nowhere to be found.
Instead, I find Sarah.
She’s in the front pew, a slash of emerald silk against the white and gold backdrop, her big brown eyes wide as saucers. Even with the empty space at the end of the aisle, I can’t bring myself to fully regret doing this, not when it’s for her.
She gives me a tiny shake of her head and a shrug, a silent communication that she doesn’t know where George is, and I swallow hard.
But I keep walking.
Heat creeps up my legs, swallowing me whole under the gown, beads of sweat collecting along my skin and making my thighs rub uncomfortably.
I feel too big, toomuch, the silk clinging to the swell of my hips and the curve of my breasts, every inch of me I’ve spent years trying to smooth and hide.
George likes his women like he likes his wine — slim, dry, nothing lingering.
Maybe that’s why he isn’there.
The murmurs swell like a tide threatening to drag me under as I reach the halfway mark, and the space at the altar shifts.
I blink.
Someone moves into the groom’s position.
Not George.
His—
Christ.His father.
Harald Highcourt.
Harry to the headlines and the family, Mr. Highcourt to everyone else.
He steps forward like he’s claiming territory, his silver hair styled pristinely, his close-cropped beard freshly trimmed.
Dark green eyes follow me like a hawk as I walk down the aisle in the middle of the church, flicking to my father beside me only briefly before turning back to me.
His suit is perfectly cut charcoal, likely nicer than his son’s would have been, and his shoulders are straight, straining slightly as he clasps his hands in front of him like this is some kind of business meeting.
Which, I guess, it is.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him up close, and he’s older now, sharper — not a hint of softness as he stands there. He looks carved from something colder than marble, and the sight of him here, in George’s place, looking likethat, sends a rush of confused heat down my spine.
My steps falter as more confusion crashes over me.
