12. BAILEY #2
Ceremony over. Nerves settled. Champagne poured. Everyone is drifting around with tiny appetizers.
In theory, lovely.
In practice, it means extended family, an open bar, and Evan appearing in my peripheral vision often enough that I start to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.
Still, it’s not as bad as I expected.
Lily is glowing. Caleb can’t stop looking at her. My mother is enjoying herself, and Aunt Diane has finally lowered her clipboard, which feels like a meaningful step toward peace.
Finn stays beside me without hovering, relaxed in that easy way of his. He talks when conversation comes to him, laughs when my uncle makes a terrible joke, and steps back when Lily and Caleb pass through the room with the photographer.
No performance.
No scene.
Just there.
By the time the ballroom reopens for the reception, the room has been transformed into warm candlelight, gold-rimmed chargers, and tall windows reflecting the city lights back at us. Finn spots our seating cards before I do and hands mine over.
“Table eight.”
“Thanks.”
We find our table near the edge of the dance floor, close enough to see Lily and Caleb laughing with the photographer near the bar. Finn pulls out my chair, then takes the seat beside me like this is something we do all the time.
Dinner moves around us in courses. Music, candlelight, clinking glasses, Lily’s laugh from the head table. Evan drifts through the room, polished and composed as ever, but he doesn’t pull my attention the way I thought he would.
Maybe it’s the champagne, the music, or Finn beside me.
Whatever the reason, I stop waiting for the next awkward moment and start enjoying myself.
After dinner, Lily and Caleb have their first dance.
It’s sweet and a little awkward at first, the way first dances always are when two people suddenly realize everyone they know is watching them sway in formalwear.
But then Caleb says something into Lily’s ear, she laughs, and the whole thing softens.
Finn leans closer, his voice low. “Good dress.”
I glance at him. “Hers or mine?”
His eyes stay on the dance floor. “That feels like a trap.”
“It is.”
“Then hers is beautiful.”
“And mine?”
Now he looks at me. No grin or easy deflection.
“Yours has been a problem since you walked out of the bathroom.”
Heat moves up my neck before I can stop it.
I take a sip of champagne. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“It is,” he says. “I’m handling it.”
Badly, my mind supplies.
Beautifully, says the rest of me.
The song ends, and the room claps. The band shifts into something livelier, and couples start drifting onto the floor. My parents go first, which surprises me.
Then Finn stands and holds out his hand.
I look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Asking you to dance.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a wedding.”
“That’s your whole argument?”
“It’s a strong one.”
I look at his hand. Large. Warm, probably. Capable of too many things I refuse to think about in a room with my parents and two hundred guests.
“Finn.”
“I know,” he says, softer. “Friends. Backup. No weird possessive routine.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” he says, “your ex is looking this way, your mother is pretending not to, and I’d like to dance with you.”
The last part gets me.
Not the ex, or my mother.
The honesty.
He doesn’t tuck it behind a joke. Doesn’t turn it into a strategy. Doesn’t make it sound like a favor.
I set my napkin on the table and take his hand.
His fingers close around mine, steady and warm, and for one second I forget the room.
Then he leads me to the dance floor, and I remember all of it at once.
The music.
The lights.
The brush of his palm against mine.
The way his other hand settles carefully at my waist, high enough to be respectful, low enough to ruin my concentration.
“You’re very focused,” I say.
His mouth curves. “Trying not to step on you.”
“You’re a professional athlete.”
“I’m a professional athlete on ice. This floor has different rules.”
“You’re saying I should lower my expectations?”
“Never.”
He moves smoothly enough that I know he’s lying about being worried. Not showy. Not polished in a way that feels rehearsed. Just comfortable, like he knows his body and trusts it.
Unfortunately, I’m starting to trust it too.
We turn with the music, and the room blurs at the edges. My mother is watching from her table. Evan is near the bar, pretending not to care. Aunt Diane is talking to the caterer with one hand pressed to her pearls.
None of it matters right now.
“You did well today,” I say.
His brows lift. “Past tense? Am I done?”
“No. Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I smile before I can help it. “You were good with my family.”
“They made it easy.”
“They did not.”
“Your aunt is intense, but I respect her commitment to making this the best day of her daughter’s life.”
The song ends, and we start to walk off the dance floor, but then the music changes into something softer.
Neither of us moves.
Finn’s hand tightens slightly around mine, not enough to pull me closer, just enough to ask without asking.
I should step back, but I don’t.
The space between us narrows by an inch. Maybe two. The movement is small enough that anyone watching would think we’re just adjusting to the slower rhythm.
I know better.
So does he.
His hand at my waist stays careful. That’s what undoes me more than anything. Not the heat in his eyes. Not the way his shoulders feel under my fingers. Not even the fact that I’m close enough to catch the clean scent of his soap under the champagne and candle smoke.
It’s the restraint.
The way he could make this easy to dismiss as flirting, but doesn’t. The way he lets the moment be charged without taking more than I give.
I look up at him. “You’re still behaving.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “I know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m many things right now.”
My pulse stumbles.
“Finn.”
“I’m behaving,” he says again, quieter. “Doesn’t mean I’m dead.”
I should tell him to stop. I should make a joke, put the space back, remind him this is pretend, or practical, or temporary.
Instead, my fingers shift against his shoulder, and I feel the warmth of him through his shirt.
His jaw tightens.
Not much.
Enough.
The band plays on. Couples move around us. Someone laughs too loudly near the bar. Lily spins past in Caleb’s arms, flushed and happy, her veil gone now, her feet bare.
Finn dips his head just enough that his voice is only for me. “You okay?”
I nod.
Then, because apparently I am done lying to both of us in tiny ways, I say, “Yes.”
The song ends, but his hand remains at my waist for one extra beat before he lets go. Not long enough to be inappropriate. Long enough for me to miss it when it’s gone.
We step off the dance floor, and my mother catches my eye from across the room, smiling like she knows exactly what she saw.
I look away before she can make it worse.
Across the room, Evan watches us for half a second before turning back to the bar.
I barely notice it.
What I do notice is Finn standing beside me, close but not crowding. The heat of his arm near mine. The way I’m still thinking about his hand at my waist. The way I came here, needing backup, and somehow ended up with something far more dangerous.
I take a sip of champagne and look toward the dance floor.
Finn leans closer, not touching me, his voice low.
“One more later?”
I should say no.
I should say we’ve done enough.
I should remember every reason I listed in the bathroom mirror, every warning I gave myself, every neat little rule meant to keep this weekend contained.
Instead, I glance at him over the rim of my glass.
“Maybe.”
His smile says he knows that isn’t a no.
Mine probably says the same thing.