I lean my head against him, and he folds me in his arm. “Is that why your granddad couldn’t make it?”
“I think Dad may have uninvited him.”
“Good for your dad.”
Oliver looks around the room and points out Evan and his new wife near the head table. Evan looks more like his mom than his dad, but he and Oliver share the same deep blue eyes that crinkle when they smile.
Evan grabs his wife’s hand and pulls her across the room.
“You brought a date to my wedding?”
“I brought a date to your reception,” Oliver clarifies, but there’s pride in his voice as he introduces us, his arm around my shoulders. “She means a lot to me.”
Evan’s smile grows bigger. “Then welcome to the family.”
I blush, feeling like everyone’s getting ahead of themselves a little here, but the fact that Oliver doesn’t argue or correct anyone tells me he doesn’t.
I think I’m okay with that.
After a few more introductions, Oliver spots Darren across the room with his family. He hesitates, then squares his shoulders before leading me over.
“Hey, Darren,” Oliver says when we reach him. “I owe you an apology. A real one.”
Darren looks more surprised than I am. “What for?”
“I blamed you for a lot of things that had nothing to do with you.”
“No, I hurt your family,” Darren insists. “You were justified.”
“You don’t have to say that, Darren. I forgive you.” Oliver clears his throat, and the emotion in his words makes me squeeze his hand. “I need to ask you to forgive me.”
Darren studies Oliver for a minute, the goodness I saw in him all those years ago so much bigger now that he’s worked so hard on himself. He gives Oliver a shrug. “Yeah, of course, man.”
Then he throws his arms around Oliver, who has to let go of my hand to hug Darren.
“Sorry, I’m a hugger,” Darren says, and Oliver laughs. “We’re good, Ollie.”
They pound each other’s backs, step back, and share a smile.
Oliver takes my hand back in his, and after we say goodbye, he pulls me onto the dance floor.
“Can your ankle handle this?” he asks when we stop.
“I have it taped up. It’s good,” I say.
“But you’ll tell me if it hurts.”
I narrow my eyes at his insistence. “Fine. It hurtsa little.” He pulls me closer, and I have to tilt my head way back to look up at him. Even in my boots, the height difference is ridiculous.
“You know, this would be easier if you were shorter,” I say.
“Or if you were taller,” he says, but then he solves the problem by pulling me flush against his chest so I can rest my cheek there instead. My arms loop around his waist, and his hands settle on my lower back.
Much better.
The band shifts to something slower—the piano taking the lead—and the lights dim to amber. Around us, other couplessway, and I catch glimpses of Evan spinning Sloane, his parents dancing close, even Darren with his wife.
But mostly I’m aware of Oliver’s hands warm on my back, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of snow still clinging to his tux, and the steady thump of his heartbeat under my ear.
