Page 2 of The Wrong Groom

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dominic nodding.

“But—”

I don’t really feel like letting him drag this out. “But nothing,” I say firmly. “It’s a dead end, man. Nobody wants to be reminded how miserable they are every time they open an app. Besides, how accurate do you really think those mood surveys are going to be? Half the users are going to mash buttons just to get through it faster.”

Dixon’s face reddens as his defense crumbles, and I can tell he’s realizing just how badly this has gone. I lean back in my chair, glancing at Tristan, who gives me the slightest nod of approval to finish it off.

“Thank you, Neal,” he says politely, ever the professional. “That will be all.”

Dixon’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He glances back to me, probably hoping I’ve had a change of heart. I haven’t.

He clears his throat. The silence that descends upon the room is thick and suffocating. Finally, he says, “Well, I appreciate the opportunity. Best of luck.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, the room goes quiet for a moment. Then Dominic, who’s been holding it in, bursts out laughing.

“Fucking brutal.”

“You didn’t have to rip him to shreds like that,” Reid comments, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not like we were going to take any of his advice—you could’ve just let him finish his pitch.”

I snort, shaking my head. “No regrets here. Do you know how much five minutes is worth in this room?”

“Still,” Reid says. “You were way more of a hard-ass than usual.”

“You good, Gabe?” Tristan is gazing at me with narrowed eyes. Well, shit. Now he’s trying to analyze my mood. And it’s every bit as annoying as it would’ve been in the FlashUp app.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Just don’t like having my time wasted.”

“Your time gets wasted all the time,” Beckett pipes up. I shoot him a glare. I’d been hoping that I could nip this conversation in the bud before it gets too personal, but of course my youngest brother has to join the dogpile. “That’s just the cost of doing business.”

“Next person to waste my time, I’ll ream their ass too. Any takers?”

“Yeah, I was right,” Reid says, nodding sagely. “You’re grouchy as fuck today. Something’s up.”

“I’m just tired,” I snap. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“You never sleep well,” Reid retorts.

I choose to ignore that comment, even though it’s true. I haven’t had a restful night of sleep in what feels like years. There are days—most days, really—where I muddle through on autopilot.

“I know what it is,” Dominic says, raising an eyebrow. All eyes turn to him. “You’ve got that engagement shoot with Alexis today, don’t you?”

My shoulders tense at the reminder, my jaw tightening. Fuck. It was only a matter of time before one of them hit the nail on the head. I haven’t exactly made a secret of my distaste for my… situation.

My arranged marriage to Alexis Beaumont is a ticking time bomb, one I’ve been trying to ignore for months. Every step closer to the wedding feels like another chain tightening around me, and this engagement shoot is just the latest reminder of how little control I have over my own life.

I never expected to remarry. Melanie’s death five years ago was all the emotional trauma I needed for one lifetime. Any chances of finding love again died with her.

That’s what I told myself at her graveside on the day of her funeral. It’s what I told my daughter, Peyton, when she asked me about her mother a couple of months ago—in more delicate terms, of course, but essentially the same sentiment. And it’s what I still tell myself every day, especially on days like today, when I’m about to stand in front of a camera with a woman I barely know and pretend that this whole farce is anything but a business transaction.

“I wouldn’t call it an engagement shoot,” I mutter. “It’s a fucking photo op for the company’s Instagram.”

It feels like there’s a collective sigh from my brothers. Frustration from Dominic, not at me, but on my behalf. Resignation from Reid, who’s in the same boat. Dismay from Tristan, who’s in a very different boat. A luxury yacht, really, compared to our shitty dinghy.

After all, Tristan got lucky. He fell in love with his arranged bride, Chloe. She’s wonderful, and they’re great together. Their chemistry has been undeniable since day one, and with each passing day, it seems to grow stronger. I can see it in the way they look at each other, how Tristan lights up when Chloe walks into a room.

I know how that feels. I used to feel that way.

But now, in the aftermath of loss, I know that Tristan isn’t looking at this situation the same way I am. He can’t possibly understand how this is different for me, not fully.