Page 105 of You Fall First

“Just Jo,” I remind him.

He ducks his head. “My apologies. Truly.”

A part of me wonders if he’s saying sorry for more than using the wrong nickname. I’d like to believe that. After all, I thought I was in love with the man once. I must have seen something in him, and I always try to see the good in everybody. Still. What he did in the end was rip a rug out from under me. He planted seeds of doubt in my yard that I’m still weeding.

Or something like that.

Either way, I’m not ready to let Oliver Wells off the hook. Not yet. Not completely.

So I nod to indicate Noah. “This man’s appetite is insatiable.” I beam. “I’ll bet he’ll have seconds.”

“I’ll pass.” Noah rubs his washboard abs. “But dessert was delicious. My compliments to the caterer.”

“Chef,” Oliver says.

“My apologies.” Noah arches a brow. “Truly.”

As Oliver turns to go, Noah points at the plates of cake. “Aren’t the servers supposed to hand out the extra slices?”

“Yes, well. I try to drift around the dining room whenever I can, interacting with our guests one-on-one.” He sighs dramatically. “It’s a lot of work, but The Asheville Post ranked us number two in new catering cuisine.”

“Number two, huh?” Noah nods. “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks.” Oliver blinks, like he can’t tell if Noah’s making fun of him or offering a genuine compliment, which makes his extra show of friendliness all the more brilliant.

“I guess that cake’s not gonna hand itself out, though,” Noah says. “Number two’s gotta do what number two’s gotta do, right?”

Oliver presses a smile on his face and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Noah and I wait until he’s finally disappeared through the double doors to burst into laughter.

Dutton joins in, first giggling, then shifting into a legitimate cackle. His mouth is full of frosting, which makes Noah and me laugh harder.

The adults are breathless, and the kid is sticky and happy, but also probably a tiny bit sick to his stomach.

We’ll deal with that later.

The DJ puts on some old Frank Sinatra classic, and couples move onto the dance floor. In no time, the bride and groom are joined by their siblings, my parents, and Brock’s parents. Various aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends pair up and drift out onto the floor. Noah looks at me, his face merry, and extends his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

“We can’t,” I say under my breath.

“Maybe you and I can’t,” he says, pointing between the two of us. “But the three of us can.” He circles his finger to include himself, me, and Dutton.

“Let’s do it.” I smile.

He scoops up Dutton the Sticky and hauls me from my seat. And as he leads us to the center of the room, I convince myself this is all totally normal and within the normal boundaries of friends. He sets Dutton down, and we each take one of his hands to swing him around the dance floor. To anyone else, we’re a couple of temporary caretakers looking after a four-year-old.

To me, we feel like a family, which is bordering on dangerous.

Oliver’s not even out here right now, but Noah’s commitment to our game allows me to extend the fantasy a little longer. And I like that a little too much.

“You seem better,” he says, moving in close, under the guise of spinning Dutton.

“Do I?” I puff out a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Better than what?”