The reception moves to the hotel ballroom like a migration of well-dressed flamingos seeking open bar access.
Crystal chandeliers throw rainbow fragments across white tablecloths. A jazz quartet plays something smooth. Guests mingle with champagne flutes, pretending calories don't exist at weddings.
I sit at the head table with Oliver beside me.
We are maintaining careful distance. Approximately eighteen inches of charged air separates my chair from his. I've measured it mentally. Repeatedly. Each inch feels like a battlefield.
The tension between us has only intensified since the rehearsal dinner. Since that morning in the kitchen. Since every loaded glance and accidental brush of fingers. Every interaction adds another layer to the pressure building beneath my ribs.
He hasn't touched me since walking down the aisle. Just sits there, impeccably dressed, making polite conversation with relatives while I slowly combust beside him.
His restraint is somehow worse than his teasing.
I sip champagne and watch the dance floor fill with couples swaying to romantic standards. Mum and Richard are in the center, wrapped around each other like teenagers at prom.
"Beautiful ceremony," Oliver says to Aunt Margaret, who's seated nearby.
"Wasn't it just!" Margaret dabs her eyes. "Helen looks so happy. And you two make such a lovely pair walking together."
I nearly inhale my champagne. Oliver's expression doesn't flicker.
"We're working on our sibling dynamic," he replies smoothly. "Early days yet."
A commotion near the entrance catches my attention. Blonde hair, bold dress, unmistakable energy.
Gemma bursts through the ballroom doors like a fabulous hurricane.
"I'm so sorry!" She rushes toward me, breathless and apologetic. "My train was cancelled and then the replacement bus broke down and I had to hitchhike with a very nice elderly couple who wanted to discuss their grandchildren's achievements for forty-five minutes."
She collapses into the empty chair beside me, flushed and dramatic.
"Did I miss everything? Please tell me I didn't miss everything."
"Just the ceremony. And the vows. And the kiss. And the photographs."
"So basically everything important." She groans. "Your mother will never forgive me."
"She's too happy to notice. Look at her."
Gemma follows my gaze to where Mum is laughing at something Richard whispered. Her entire face radiates contentment.
"God, that's disgustingly adorable. I want to hate it but I can't." Gemma grabs my champagne and takes a healthy swig. "Now catch me up. How's the stepbrother situation?"
I shoot her a warning look. Oliver is right there. Literally eighteen inches away.
Gemma follows my gaze and freezes. Her eyes widen comically.
"Oh my God. Oliver?"
He turns, smile perfectly calibrated. "Gemma. Lovely to see you again."
"You're the stepbrother? You're Richard's son?" She looks between us with growing horror. "I didn't—when I set you two up, I had no idea—"
"Small world," Oliver says pleasantly. "Apparently we were destined to become family one way or another."
Gemma's face cycles through approximately twelve emotions. She mouths "I'm so sorry" at me while Oliver pretends not to notice.
The jazz quartet transitions into something slower. Couples drift toward the dance floor.
Oliver stands.
My pulse stutters. Here it comes. He's going to ask me to dance. In front of everyone. I'll have to refuse or accept and either option feels impossible.
He walks past me.
I blink, confused, as he continues toward Gemma instead. He extends his hand with easy confidence.
"Dance with me? For old times' sake."
Gemma laughs, surprised and flattered. "Why not? Lottie, you don't mind?"
I mind. I mind enormously. But the words stick in my throat.
"Of course not," I manage. "Go ahead."
She takes his hand. They walk toward the dance floor, and I watch them blend into the other couples.
Oliver's hand settles on Gemma's lower back. Just above her hip. Exactly where his hand rested during our wine bar encounter.
Their bodies move close together. Gemma says something. Oliver laughs, leaning in.
The memory floods back without warning. Vivid. Overwhelming. Completely inappropriate for a wedding reception.
His fingers trailing up my thigh. The heat of his breath against my neck. His lips brushing my skin while his hand worked between my legs. The first genuine arousal I'd ever felt.
My thighs press together involuntarily.
I shift in my seat, watching them sway. They look good together. Natural.
My face burns. Something ugly twists in my chest.
I'm jealous. Properly, irrationally jealous of my best friend dancing with the man I've repeatedly told to stay away. The man who's now legally my stepbrother.
The arousal mixes with anger until I can't separate them. Heat pools low in my belly while fury tightens my jaw. My fingernails dig crescents into my palms.
The song ends. Oliver leads Gemma back toward the table, but I'm already moving.
I intercept him near the hallway entrance, grabbing his arm.
"We need to talk. Now."
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he follows without protest.
The hallway is mercifully empty. Wedding noise fades as I pull him around a corner.
"Fine." The word comes out harsh, almost desperate. "I want the deal. The original arrangement. Whatever you called it."
Oliver studies me for a long moment. His expression is unreadable.
Then he smiles. Slowly. Devastatingly. Like a man who's been waiting for exactly this moment.
"No."
The word hits like a slap. I stare at him, certain I've misheard.
"What do you mean, no? You've been pursuing me all week. Making suggestive comments. Touching me during the ceremony. And now suddenly you're refusing?"
"I said I'd give you space until you changed your mind." His smile widens. "I didn't say I'd make it easy when you did."
"This isn't funny, Oliver."
"It's a little funny." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "You spent days telling me to stay away. Insisting the deal was off. Claiming you'd never change your mind."
His fingers brush my jaw, featherlight and maddening.
"And the moment I dance with another woman, you come running."
"I wasn't—that's not—"
"You were jealous." His thumb traces my lower lip. "Watching my hands on someone else. Remembering where they've been on you."
My breath catches. Heat floods my cheeks, my neck, lower.
"Just admit it, Lottie. You want me. You've wanted me since the wine bar. The stepbrother complication doesn't change that. If anything, it makes it worse."
His mouth hovers inches from mine. I can feel his breath warm against my lips. Every nerve ending in my body screams for him to close the distance.
But he doesn't.
"The answer is still no, sis."
The word lands like a bucket of ice water. Sis. Said deliberately. Cruelly. Almost mockingly. A reminder of exactly what we are now. What we became the moment our parents exchanged vows.
I search his face for any crack in the composure. Any sign that this is killing him as much as it's killing me. His green eyes give nothing away.
"Why?"
The question escapes before I can stop it. Raw. Vulnerable. Everything I've been trying not to feel laid bare in a single syllable.
Oliver's expression shifts. Something flickers behind the mask—regret, desire, conflict—gone before I can identify it. His thumb still rests against my lip. His body still radiates heat mere inches from mine.
The silence stretches between us like a held breath.