Page 107 of Liam
Sloane’s dress, a cascade of handmade French lace and Tahitian pearls, catches the light like captured starlight. But it’s Logan’s face that steals the show. My stoic older brother, the man I’ve seen stare down corporate raiders without blinking, looks transformed.
Beside Logan, our father stands tall, his hand resting onLogan’s shoulder. The pride in his eyes is unmistakable, different from the reserved businessman the world usually sees. For a moment, I glimpse vulnerability in Dad’s expression, a mix of joy and perhaps a touch of bittersweet nostalgia.
As Sloane reaches the altar, her father places her hand in Logan’s, whispering something that has both men nodding. Sloane’s mother lets out a quiet sob of joy, stifled behind her handkerchief.
“If you start crying, I’m legally obligated to mock you for eternity,” I whisper. Logan’s lips twitch, but his eyes never leave Sloane.
In this moment, watching my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law surrounded by the love of both families, I’m struck by the power of love to change us all. Even the most guarded hearts, it seems, are no match for the right person.
The vows are a rollercoaster of emotion and laughter. Logan, in a rare display of humor, promises to “always let you win at Scrabble, even when I have a triple word score.” The crowd chuckles, and I catch Aleria’s eye. The love there makes my heart stutter.
Post-ceremony chaos ensues as Cora, custom tablet in hand, attempts to wrangle the Valeur clan for photos. “If you all don’t cooperate,” she threatens, “I’m releasing the drone swarm.”
My best man's speech has the crowd in stitches. “To Logan,” I conclude, raising a glass of champagne from a virtually extinct vineyard, “who proved that even workaholics with the emotional range of a teaspoon can find love. Sloane, you’re not just a saint; you’re a miracle worker. We’re all in awe.”
The reception kicks into high gear. Ice sculptures melt, revealing vintage timepieces for guests. A world-renowned chef prepares meals.
The soft strains of the orchestra spill into the night air, the first notes of a waltz echoing across the garden. Logan takes Sloane’s hand, their movements elegant, like they were made for this moment. More couples join them, and soon, swirling figures fill the garden.
I turn to Aleria, unable to take my eyes off her. The glow of the lanterns dances across her face, casting a warm, golden light that makes her look like something out of a dream.
I extend my hand. “Dr. James,” I say, my voice low and teasing, “would you do me the honor?”
Her lips curve into a smile that does wicked things to my pulse. “I thought you’d never ask, Mr. Valeur.”
As we step onto the floor, everything else fades away. The cool night air, the soft murmur of the crowd—it’s just the two of us, lost in the rhythm. Aleria fits against me, her body aligning with mine in a way that feels effortless, natural. My hand presses against the small of her back, drawing her closer as we glide across the stone floor, the waltz carrying us in slow, deliberate circles.
“You’ve been hiding talents from me,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I guide her into a smooth turn. “I didn’t know you could waltz.”
Aleria tilts her head back, her breath a soft laugh against my neck. “Just because I spend most of my time with equations doesn’t mean I can’t handle a little footwork, Mr. Valeur.” She lifts her chin. “Fifteen years of ballet. I could out-dance you in my sleep.”
I raise an eyebrow, pulling her even closer, the warmth ofher body igniting something deep and primal. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe,” she teases, her lips brushing close to my ear as we spin. “Though I’m not sure you could keep up.”
I tighten my hold on her, my grip on her waist firm. “Oh, I think I can handle you just fine.”
A challenge glints in her eyes, but her lips part, betraying the effect this closeness is having on her. Her fingers skim up my arm, lingering at the nape of my neck, and it takes every ounce of control not to drag her off this dance floor and claim her here and now.
She doesn’t miss the shift, the possessiveness in my touch, and a sly smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
“You’ve got a tight grip there,” she murmurs, her voice teasing yet breathy, almost daring me to let go.
My hand slips lower on her back, fingers brushing the bare skin just above the edge of her dress. A faint shiver runs through her, a telltale sign she’s not as unaffected as she pretends to be.
“Not letting go,” I murmur, my lips near her ear. “Not tonight. Not ever. I’m done running.”
Her fingers tighten on my shoulder. “You sure about that, Valeur?”
I lean in. “Only thing I’m sure of.”
She exhales. “I guess that means I’m stuck with you.”
I spin her, pulling her right back into my arms before she has a chance to move away. Her soft gasp is almost drowned by the orchestra, but I catch it. Every bit.
“Damn right,” I murmur, my grip firm but full of promise. “No one else gets to dance with you like this.”
Her lips part, eyes flashing with that familiar fire. “Lucky for you,” she whispers, “I don’t want anyone else.”
