Page 104 of You Fall First

While Landry and Brock sway to “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” Noah leans down to whisper in my ear.

“He saw.”

“Who? Dex?”

He nods toward the buffet tables.

Oliver.

“Oh.”

He and Amelia are still there, lighting the burners below the warming plates. She appears to be clueless and unbothered, but Oliver lifts his gaze and catches my eye, then he quickly looks away.

“Yep. Definitely saw,” Noah repeats. His breath is warm against my skin.

“You think?”

“His jawline says yes. So does the vein throbbing on his forehead.”

“You can tell all that from here?”

“Twenty-twenty vision.”

I nod. “You’re probably right.”

And with that, Noah blows out a satisfied breath.

I’ll bet he thinks I’m glad Oliver witnessed our little performance. But I stopped worrying about Oliver the minute we walked away from the buffet tables. All I’m thinking about now is the possibility I might be falling for the wrong man all over again.

The rest of the reception passes in a blur with Noah walking a balance beam of opposing roles: attentive boyfriend in front of Oliver and platonic just friends to everyone else. Luckily, the man is polite and chivalrous to a fault, so anyone who knows us would have no idea he’s also sending out big relationship vibes to my ex.

Dutton proves to be the unwitting decoy for the ruse.

Since we’re both taking care of him, Noah sticks close to us throughout the buffet line. We’re our own little happy trio, scooping up pasta, forking over salad, tossing rolls onto each other’s plates.

Dutton’s endlessly amused by the dinnertime antics.

But he likes when we move to the dance floor even better.

That’s when the kids crowd around us for the Cupid Shuffle, then take turns riding on Noah’s feet for at least a half-dozen songs.

I’d say his twirling around the floor with Rowan is adorable, but that would be an epic understatement. Every woman in the room is fawning, so at least I’ve got an excuse to join in.

But I’m not a viable option for him, right?

He’s good friends with my brother. At least seven years older than I am. And over spaghetti bolognese, he told my entire family he doesn’t even have time for a coffee date.

Too bad he didn’t tell that to my heart.

For his part, Oliver lurks in the back of the hall relentlessly, sticking around until every last guest has gone through the buffet twice. Eventually, though, the tables need to be cleared for the cake cutting, and Oliver finally moves back, making way for the dessert to be brought in.

After the photos have been taken and the cake’s been cut, he strides over to our table with extra slices, offering us a second serving.

Dutton takes a piece, forking up a huge bite, then mumbling, “Thank you,” around a mouthful of frosting.

Oliver turns to me, bowing graciously, but I wave the cake away. “No, please.”

“You sure, Jojo?”