Page 85 of The Wrong Groom

“I’m not sleepy,” Peyton objects, but her point is undercut by another yawn.

“Well, everyone’s waiting in the sitting room. Come on in.”

I follow Ivy into the house. The foyer is warm and inviting, with yellow light spilling from the antique chandelier above our heads. Alexis trails in my wake.

When we reach the living room, the conversation stalls, and everyone glances toward us. I can tell it’s taking all of Alexis’s courage not to shrink behind me.

“About time you guys showed up,” Dominic says. He’s sitting in an armchair nursing a short glass of whiskey. On the loveseat opposite him, Tristan is curled up with Chloe, his arm draped around her shoulders. Reid and my mother are both on the longer couch. I set Peyton down, and she rubs at her eyes, already looking more alert now that we’re in a room full of people.

“Blame the traffic,” I say. “And besides. Beckett isn’t here yet, so we’re not technically late.”

“That’s not what my watch says,” Reid chimes in. “Mom, what time did you say we should get here?”

“Six,” my mother says, a smile curling her lips as she offers my brothers ammunition for their teasing.

“And, Gabe, what time is it right now?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, pointedly ignoring the large grandfather clock on the other side of the room, just within my field of vision.

“It’s six-thirty,” Tristan says. He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “My chief content officer is less than prompt.”

“Listen, none of the rest of you have to wrangle a kid out of the house. That adds at least fifteen minutes. Then you factor in the highway⁠—”

Tristan pulls a face. “Oh, and now he’s making excuses. Get a load of this.”

“That’s a bad look,” Jackson comments with a smirk from across the room, where he’s in the midst of pouring himself a drink.

“Well, Beckett⁠—”

“We’ll lay into Beck when he gets here,” Reid says. “Right now, you’re the latest to the party. Sorry, bro. It is what it is.”

There’s a chorus of agreement and laughter. I glance at Alexis, feeling simultaneously exasperated and amused by the playful jabs. The smile melts from my face the second I see her expression. She looks overwhelmed, her eyes wide.

Shit, I think to myself. I didn’t think I would have to warn her before we came in. My family is big, and when you get all of us in a room, it can be a lot. I think about what I’ve seen of the Beaumonts. Just Alexis and her parents, drifting past each other like ice floes in the ocean, the occasional collisions sharp and dangerous, the atmosphere twice as cold.

By contrast, this must be like a fucking circus. My family is loud, full of inside jokes, and impossible to ignore when we’re all together. It wasn’t always that way, but since my father’s death, we’ve been more open with each other, closer.

I clear my throat, extending a hand to her. “Guys, you’ve all met Alexis.”

“Met might be generous,” Dominic says. “We had to fight through about three hundred people just to see you two for a second at the wedding.”

Reid nods. “Yeah, there was so much going on we barely got to say hi. It’s good to get a do-over.”

“Well… Alexis, you’ve seen my brothers. That’s Dominic, Reid, and Tristan.” I point to each of them in turn. “Tristan’s wife, Chloe. And over there is Jackson, who’s not technically my brother but might as well be at this point, and his sister Ivy. I’m pretty sure you met them both at the wedding too, albeit briefly.”

Alexis nods silently. She still looks too nervous to speak.

“Hey,” Reid says. “Nice to finally meet you properly.”

“Yeah, glad you guys could make it,” Dominic adds. “Pleasure to see you again, Alexis.”

“And of course, you know my mother,” I say, turning toward the woman in question.

“It’s great to have you,” my mother says warmly. She sets her wine glass down and extends a hand for Alexis to shake. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Alexis takes my mother’s hand. If her nervousness is palpable through the tremor of her fingers, my mother doesn’t show any reaction to it. Alexis opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. She bites her lip, then tries again.

“You h-have a l-lovely home,” she says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Her stutter is out in full force, and my stomach clenches. I know that’s a sign of how stressed she is.