Page 91 of Accidental Groom

But it’s his, too.

Chapter 32

Harry

“Where thefuck,” I spit, “is my wife?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, the kind of pause that means something is clearly wrong. “I… I assumed she told you,” Matthew says carefully.

I pace the back porch of the east wing in nothing but a t-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms, my bare feet stomping on the freezing wooden deck. I’ve already exhausted all of my options — the house, the cottage, all devoid of her presence. I only thought to call Matthew once I realized some of her clothes and a suitcase were missing. “Youassumed? You didn’t check? Where the hell has she gone?”

“Philadelphia,” he says. “Shit. I’m sorry. She called me around seven this morning, asked me to get her on a jet. She flew out a few hours later. I didn’t realize?—”

I choke. “You’re telling me she’s been gone all fucking day?” I snap. “You can hunt down my son across the entire globe, but can’t inform me that my wife got on a plane? Aplane?”

“She seemed calm! I just assumed she had an event to handle,” he explains.

I resist the temptation to crush my phone. “Did she tell you,” I say through gritted teeth, “where she was staying?”

“No.”

“Did she tell you what she wasdoing?”

“No.”

“Do you have tracking on her phone?”

“No.”

“Fuck!”

“Harry, calm down.”

“My goddamn wife is missing an entire state over and you’re telling me tocalm down?”

“I’m telling you to take a breath,” he insists.

I hang up before he can say anything else that makes me lose my mind any further. I scroll through my recent calls, find her name, and call her.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Voicemail.

I end the call so I don’t inevitably leave something angry on the other end, my breathing heavy, panic lacing through my system.

Philly. It’s three and a half hours away. I can drive down there, I can try to find her — but I have no idea where she is. No tracking, no leads. I shoot Matthew a text to tell him to check any transactions on the card I’d given her, but I know damn well that she has her own money. She doesn’t need to use that one. She’ssmart, too. Smarter than George, at least.

I’m an idiot.

I thought waiting until evening, giving her the space she’d asked for after what I’d said, what I’dasked, was the right call. I’d spent all day thinking through what I’d tell her, how I’d apologize, how I’d try to explain the impossible tangle of an emotion I haven’t felt in decades — jealousy — had crashed into the fear and the lingering guilt of last night. And now I can’t.

The glass door behind me slides open, and I jump so badly I nearly trip down the stairs onto the flagstones.

Grace stands there in her robe, her brows knit, her auburn hair a mess. “What on earth are you shouting about?” she hisses. “I’m trying to watch Grey’s Anatomy and you’re out here screaming like a psychopath.”