Page 55 of Accidental Groom
Elena stiffens in the passenger seat.
My jaw clenches as I pull the car slowly up the gravel, the tires crunching on it like bones beneath the Bentley.
“Well,” I grumble. “Look who finally decided to come home.”
Chapter 17
Elena
Ican’t move.
The second I spot George standing in the driveway, leaning against the wall by the front door like he owns every inch of Highcourt Hallandme, my stomach lurches for reasons unrelated to my pregnancy for once.
He looks tanned in the headlights of Harry’s car, cocky and annoyed, as if he isn’t the one who left me in a silk gown and heels at the altar two and a half months ago. As ifheisn’t the reason my life detonated and reshaped itself into something unrecognizable.
Harry’s hand grazes the small of my back as I stand frozen halfway out of the car, one foot on the gravel, the other still on the floor mat like I might claw my way back inside if I try hard enough.
I almost ask him to drive us back to Manhattan.Almost.
“Let me walk you up,” Harry murmurs, not giving me a choice. I want to tell him to walk me around the back to the cottage instead and avoid George at all costs, but I don’t.
Instead, I nod.
My pulse pounds louder than the crunch of our boots on the gravel. George doesn’t even flinch when we approach, not aflicker of shame or discomfort — just stands there in clothes that look like he just stepped off a flight from somewhere tropical.
“George,” Harry says, his voice clipped,cold.
“Dad.” George nods as if they’re tradinggood mornings.
Harry keeps his hold on me for a second longer, then sighs, leaning down to my ear. “Find me after you talk to him,” he whispers before straightening back up and shooting George a glare. “You’d better have a damn good explanation for her.”
He disappears inside the house before I can protest, leaving me alone with George on the porch.
Bastard.
I turn to George, my arms folded across my chest tight enough that I wonder if I could snap my own ribs.Does he know?
I raise my brows, inviting conversation as best as I can. “Say whatever it is you want to say.”
He glances at the front door where Harry vanished, then back to me with a crooked grin. “You look… good.”
Good? That’s what he opens with? Not,I’m sorry.Not,you deserve better.Not even,I didn’t mean to make everything spiral out of control.
His tongue rubs against his gums. “You’ve been busy,” he says, shrugging like he’s unbothered. “The tabloids had a field day with the wedding. You and myfatherplaying house here like some sort of twisted royal couple.”
“Playinghouse?” I laugh, sharp and humorless.He doesn’t know. If his information is from the tabloids, there’s no chance.“You think I planned for any of this?”
“I think,” George starts, pushing off the wall with infuriating ease, “that if you really didn’t want this, you’d have walked away. But youdidn’t, did you? You married him. You wore the dress, smiled for the cameras, let him put the Highcourt name on you like it washisto give.”
I take a single step toward him. “What the hell was I supposed to do, George? Let my family crash and burn becauseyoucouldn’t get your ass to the church? Ibeggedhim to take your place because I had no other choice. That’syourfault.”
“I wasn’t ready,” he says. Simple. Easy. Like that makes any difference.
It’s like pouring gasoline on an open fire.
“Notready?” I balk at him, anger rising in me, burning my veins. “You had fourteen years to get ready. Fourteen years to grow up, to stop partying, to stop playing jet-set prince and get your act together. But no. You waited until the day of our wedding to figure out your life wasn’t a goddamn vacation.”
George sneers at me, his lip curling. “So you figured screwing my father was the answer?”
