Page 22 of Accidental Groom

I cover my mouth with my hand, desperately trying to swallow the lettuce without choking. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he repeats, standing up as if it's the most casual thing in the world. He extends a hand to me, palm up, waiting. “They already think we’re crazy. It won’t hurt anything.”

The challenge in his tone sounds more playful than an order, and I stare at his outstretched hand, trying to work out if he’s joking or just not at all the man I expected. “It’ll reinforce that idea.”

He shrugs.Shrugs. “So?”

The breath that loosens from my lungs is shaky.

I take his hand anyway.

The space near the piano is small, intimate, andempty, not a single other person swaying to the music. Harry’s hand settles at the small of my back, his fingers spreading wide as he pulls me against his chest. His other hand engulfs mine, warm and surprisingly soft, and I have to focus to steady my breathing.

We haven’t been this close since last night, and it’s like my brain won’t let me forget that little tidbit.

We move together slowly, small steps in time to the music, and I’m hyperaware of every inch of contact. The heat pulsing through his shirt and suit jacket only makes my head spin worse, his cologne invading my senses, his thumb tracing small circles against my spine.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, leaning toward me just enough to breathe the words against my ear.

“People arewatching,” I retort.

“Let them.” His fingers dig into my back through my dress, just enough to remind me they’re there — as if I needed it. “You’re my wife. We’re allowed to touch each other, Elena. Might be weirder if we didn’t.”

The wordwifesends a shiver through me that has little to do with the air conditioning pumping from the vent above and everything to do with the way it sounds coming from his lips. “You say that like you didn’t touch me all night,” I swallow, tilting my head back to look up at him. The intensity in his eyes makes my breath stutter.

His jaw ticks. His gaze narrows. And for a moment, just briefly, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again like he did yesterday on the pulpit, brazen and public and far too heated.

The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends heat right down between my thighs.

“Careful,” he says quietly. “Keep reminding me of that and I’ll forget we have an audience.”

My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away. There’s something almost magnetic about the way he watches me, something that makes ridiculous assumptions roll through my head — like ones where I think I’m the only person he sees in the room, ones where I matter.

————

The eyes still linger on us as we finish our meal, but strangely, I care less than I did before. Maybe that was the point — maybe he wanted me to do something thatdaredpeople to look so it would feel less invasive when they did over something trivial, like eating a meal.

Or maybe he just wanted to get under my skin.

But as we walk back through the lobby, the playfulness leeches from him. A bellhop steps out of the private elevator across the room, carrying the same leather bag I’d seen up in the penthouse, and before the confusion can sink in, Harry’s stopping, turning to me.

“I need to head back to Highcourt Hall,” he says, glancing at the ceiling before locking eyes with me. “There are a few things I need to handle at the estate, and I need to get back to work.”

The words hit me like cold water. “Oh.”

I don’t know why a part of me assumed there would be a honeymoon, or even a honeymoon period, to an arranged marriage. I don’t know why it disappoints me that thereisn’tone.

“I—”

“My assistant, Matthew, will arrange whatever you need. You can stay here as long as you want before heading to Manhattan.”

I blink. “Right.”

“You’ve got a few events coming up, right? You’ll be able to keep busy. You’ll be fine,” he says, each word measured, careful, deliberate.

The wordfinesits heavy in my chest.Maybe Sarah was right.

“I’ll let you know when George surfaces,” he continues. His expression hardens. “Don’t hold your breath that it’ll be anytime soon.”