9. Gabriel
Gabriel
When I wake, it’s morning.
Not exactly an earth-shattering realization for most people, sure, but it catches me off guard. Sunlight streams through the windows, there’s birdsong outside, and for a moment, I’m disoriented.
I don’t usually sleep through the night like that. Normally, I can expect to wake up anywhere from two to five times while it’s still dark, my mind racing with thoughts that refuse to settle.
And I feel… rested.
Damn. I must have been completely exhausted last night. It makes sense. Yesterday was a long, stressful day, after all.
The wedding comes crashing back into my mind like the Pacific tide.
Every excruciating minute of it. The Beaumonts, hovering around Alexis with undisguised satisfaction for what they managed to orchestrate.
My brothers’ sympathetic glances, Tristan’s reassurances.
And most of all, Alexis’s discomfort. The way she looked as though she was trapped in her own wedding dress, forcing a smile that was dimmed severely by her nerves.
I glance to the other side of the bed, and—Alexis isn’t there.
I frown, confused, and check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning. There’s no reason for Alexis to be up this early. After everything that happened yesterday, I expected her to sleep in.
Maybe she’s just an early riser.
I slide out of bed and make my way to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. The coolness invigorates me, helping to drive away the last vestiges of sleep.
I head downstairs, the wooden steps creaking slightly under my weight. The house is quiet except for the faint sounds of the city outside. I take a moment to absorb the warmth of the morning light filtering through the windows.
Then I hear a clattering sound, followed by a quiet, hissed “Shit.” It seems to be coming from the kitchen.
“Oh, god,” I mutter to myself, quickening my pace toward the kitchen. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find there—a small fire, maybe—but there’s definitely the smell of something burning.
When I enter the kitchen, to my relief, there’s no fire. Alexis is standing near the stove, a spatula in hand. She whirls around as I enter, a wince plastered across her face like I’ve caught her red-handed committing a crime.
I go still at the sight of her, momentarily taken aback. She’s wearing a cotton robe over the t-shirt and sweats she slept in, and her face is bare of any makeup.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her without makeup on. She was beautiful on the day of the photoshoot, and beautiful at the wedding, but without the makeup… she’s stunning in an entirely different way. There’s something disarmingly honest about her bare face, a softness that wasn’t there yesterday.
She looks older, somehow, as if the makeup was trying to age her up and failing. She looks… more human. Light freckles dot the bridge of her nose. Her hair is slightly mussed, still falling in waves around her shoulders.
I take a step toward her, opening my mouth, then closing it again.
She bites her lip, her nervousness palpable. “Sorry about the mess. I… I’ll clean it up.”
Only then do I notice the stove behind her. It looks as though she was in the middle of cooking something, and it didn’t exactly go to plan.
There’s some spilled milk on the stovetop, a half-cracked egg resting precariously on the counter, and a sprinkle of flour dusting the edge of the sink. Whatever’s in the frying pan, sizzling ominously, doesn’t look all that appetizing.
“What are you doing?” I ask slowly, taking in the scene.
She glances down at the pan, shame burning on her face. “I… I got up early to t-try to make breakfast. I didn’t think you would wake up so soon.”
“I never sleep well,” I say automatically.
That’s not true, though. Now I have one data point to the contrary.
Last night, I got an uninterrupted six hours, from the moment my head touched the pillow to the moment the sunlight came through my window.
And, if I’m being honest, it feels amazing.
I knew my constant sleep-deprived state wasn’t good for my health, but I’d forgotten just how good it feels to be well rested.
She brushes loose strands of hair out of her face, her forehead creased with stress. “It—it d-didn’t turn out how I wanted. Um, I’ll… I’ll clean this up. S-sorry.”
She grabs the frying pan by the handle and lifts her attempted omelet off the stove, moving toward the trash can.
“Wait,” I say, stepping forward before she can throw it away. “Let me take a look.”
She freezes, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. I glance at the slightly scrambled mess, noticing a bit of browned egg along one edge, but honestly, it’s not as bad as it seemed at first sight. Definitely edible. Well, parts of it are edible, at any rate.
“What—what are you doing?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’ll eat it. I want to. My wife made it.”
Her mouth falls open slightly, as if she’s astonished.
I take the pan from her and set it aside.
I watch her expression as I reach up to the cabinets to root around for a plate.
She looks terrified, all the more so because of my scrutiny.
A flash of guilt shoots through me. No matter what I do, no matter what my intentions, I can’t seem to stop making Alexis feel uneasy.
I don’t think that’s entirely my fault, but it does make me feel like shit. I want her to be comfortable, if possible.
I let out a small breath. “Listen… I don’t have any expectations of you in this marriage. I want you to know that.”
“I—” She starts quickly, but I hold up a hand.
“Just—hold on a second. I don’t expect you to cook or clean or… or do other things for me.”
Color rises in her cheeks again, and she looks away. Last night’s tension lingers between us, barely softened by the morning light.
“You shouldn’t feel obligated to fulfill some kind of imaginary role as my wife,” I continue. “That’s not fair to you.”
Her eyes meet mine again, and I’m not surprised to see them glistening with a few unshed tears. Alexis sniffles and swipes at them hastily before they can fall. There’s an air of impatience to the action that makes my heart sink.
“I’ve known for a long time that an arranged marriage was in my future,” she admits. “Since I was a kid. I… I don’t want to be bad at it.”
I step closer to her, reaching out to tilt her chin up. “You could never be bad at it.”
She gives me a dubious look, like she doesn’t quite believe that. I feel a flicker of irritation, this time not directed at myself, but instead at her family. If I had to guess, that’s where this is all coming from: her parents’ shitty expectations.
I could already tell by the way her father spoke to me at the wedding.
The Beaumonts, at least to a certain extent, see their daughter as a resource, an asset to be managed rather than a person with her own mind and heart.
They wanted to find the perfect arrangement, not for her, but for themselves.
Hand her off to some man they want to do business with.
Expect her to cook for him, and clean for him, and whatever other stereotypical nonsense he decides to impose on her.
It’s insulting, really.
The frustration briefly boils into anger, then gives way to sadness as I meet Alexis’s wavering gaze. I sigh, letting my hand fall.
“I’m worried I’ll be bad at it too,” I admit.
She blinks, startled. “You… what?”
“I’ve been on my own, just me and Peyton, for a long time. There are a few instincts that might have dulled over the years.”
“You don’t have to change anything,” she protests.
I shake my head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Even if this isn’t a marriage based on love, I want you to feel comfortable in this house.”
“I…” She trails off, frowning.
“That means cooking or not cooking, whatever you want to do—and never feeling bad about making a mess.”
She nods, but I can tell that my words haven’t quite undone her worries. She fidgets a little, her gaze wary. Before I can press the issue further, I hear a quiet shuffle from behind me.
I turn to see Peyton in the doorway, her favorite stuffed animal—an orange tabby cat named Mr. Whiskers—clutched to her chest. At the sight of Alexis, she shyly lifts Mr. Whiskers up to hide her face, and my heart twists.
I think I could almost stomach this entire arrangement if it weren’t for Peyton, for the turmoil this is bringing into her life.
Peyton has never been good at interacting with strangers.
Her teachers have talked to me about her shyness since she first learned to talk.
She’s so bubbly and cheerful around me and my brothers that it never even occurred to me, but once they pointed it out, I began to see it manifest everywhere.
The way she clings to me at the grocery store, hiding behind my legs in checkout lines.
The way she avoids looking our driver in the eye, even after years of seeing him every morning.
And now, there’s a stranger in her house. In her life.
Peyton sees the mess around the stove, and her head tilts to one side. “What happened?” she asks in a small voice.
I almost smile at that, but manage to school my expression into neutrality. “Alexis was doing some cooking.”
Alexis cringes, visibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
Peyton blinks at her, then lowers Mr. Whiskers just a little, tucking him beneath her chin. “That’s okay,” she says in a small voice. “I made a mess with the glue in school.”
“Oh,” Alexis says, taken aback. “You did?”
Peyton nods solemnly. “Ms. Nichols said it was good to make a mess sometimes. She said it helps you to learn and get better at things.” Her little face is serious, earnest, like she’s offering the kindest truth she knows. And somehow, it feels profound. The kind of wisdom only a child can give.
Alexis looks relieved, and her shoulders relax a little more. “That’s… that’s a good point.”
As I watch this interaction, my throat constricts, and there’s an unexpected swell of emotion in my chest. I swallow hard to force the feeling away.
I reach for Alexis’s attempted omelet. “Who wants breakfast?”
“Me!” Peyton says, her earlier shyness diminished now that she’s talked to Alexis a bit. “But I want to eat something else! Not that!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexis flush bright red. I grin despite myself and set to work chiseling the omelet out of the pan, depositing it on my own plate.
“How’s this sound? I’ll eat the omelet, and I’ll also whip up some waffles for the two of you.” I gesture to the waffle maker on the counter. “And, Alexis, if I’m ever slow to get up and you’re hungry, waffles are much easier than omelets.”
“Thanks,” she says. There’s a dry bite to her voice, like she’s getting past her embarrassment and working her way toward sass. Good. I’d rather she be annoyed at the teasing than at herself.
I chuckle under my breath and finish scraping the last of the omelet from the scorched pan. “I’m serious. Waffles are foolproof. And Peyton’s a fan.”
Peyton climbs onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, Mr. Whiskers now propped in her lap like an audience member awaiting the show. “With strawberries,” she adds, watching me with wide eyes.
“And whipped cream,” I reply with a wink. “Of course.”
Alexis tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still flushed but smiling now. “I think I can manage waffles next time. Maybe even without burning the kitchen down.”
“There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink, if all else fails,” I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement there. “Good to know.”
As I pour the batter into the waffle iron, the kitchen starts to fill with the warm, comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon. The tension that had crackled in the air earlier is slowly dissipating, replaced by something tentative, fragile, like the first cautious rays of sun after a storm.