Page 58 of Jack

She’d never thought of herself as a klutz, but this felt?—

“You’ve got this.”

She looked over, and Jack glanced at her, a surety in his expression.

“I’m going to fall on my face.”

“Step kick, look back, step, hip thrust . . .” Julian at the front.

Hip what?

She glanced over at Jack, who looked just as traumatized. Still, she attempted the moves.

Anything for Boo. Who was letting her write about her wedding.

“Repeat, and this time end with a spin,” Julian said, moving ahead, but now Shep, and maybe London, had started to laugh, and that sent Boo doubling over as she watched from the side, and then Steinbeck and Austen, and finally even Jack grinned.

Julian stopped the music.

“I think we can just improvise,” Jack said.

Julian gave him a withering look. “Let’s at least try the angel lift. Jack and Steinbeck will run over, grab Brontë’s arms, and pull her toward Oaken.” He turned to the groom. “Remember to brace your legs, one in front of the other, solid stance. Find her hip bones, press up through your core, keep it strong. And Brontë, keep your arms wide, your back arched. You’re flying. Ready?”

“Let’s do this.” Oaken walked over to his position, and Boo grinned at him, her eyes shining.

Maybe that’s what love did. Made you sparkle, gave you courage to . . . what? Run into a man’s arms, trusting he’d hold you up?

Apparently, because as Julian hit play, and as Jack and Steinbeck drew their sister onto the floor, she broke out into a run, her arms out, leaping into Oaken’s arms.

And he lifted her perfectly above his head.

“Holy smokes,” Steinbeck said. “Way to go, Boo.”

Oaken held her there, his gaze on her face, and maybe it would be nice to find someone who looked at Harper that way, as if she might be his whole world.

They twirled around, and then Oaken let her go and Boo laughed.

And only then did Harper realize she’d been holding her breath.

Julian let the music play, and maybe it contained a little magic, because Shep pulled London onto the dance floor, and Boo and Oaken started to sway.

The words sang in her head.

In the golden glow of the reception hall, under a canopy of twinkling fairy lights, Brontë and Oaken find themselves at the heart of their own love story, dancing as if the world has melted away. As the iconic opening notes of “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” fill the air, the newlyweds step onto the dance floor with an air of excitement and a hint of mischief in their eyes.

The chemistry between the couple electrifies the atmosphere, turning their performance into more than just a dance—it’s a celebration of their journey, their challenges, and their victories. Oaken, with a confident smile, guides Brontë through each step, his support unwavering as she leaps into the iconic lift. Time seems to pause, their friends and family holding their breath as Brontë soars above the dance floor, radiant with joy.

“Harper?”

Jack stood in front of her, and for a second, she thought he might be asking to pull her onto the dance floor, to wrap her in his arms, hold her close, maybe mimic some of the moves?—

“Let me show you what I found.”

Oh. Right. She nodded and followed him away from the studio, into the hallway. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a phone. “This is Ty’s phone.”

It took a second. Alongsecond to pull herself back, to hear his words, to plug them into today’s events.

Ty’s. Phone. “Wait—what?”