Page 34 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

I was warned about the Crawford family.

Correction: I was warned about the sheer size of the Crawford family.

Cam gave me a heads-up on the drive over—his brother’s wedding would be “decent-sized,” which, I’ve come to learn, is British for prepare to be swarmed by three generations of people who’ll call you “love” and insist on feeding you.

Still, nothing prepared me for walking into a venue already buzzing with cousins, aunties, and uncles—and being hugged by a woman I’m 87 percent sure is not entirely convinced I’m not a bodyguard.

I must look like one. The suit’s sharp, black, well-fitted—thank you, Mom, for insisting I buy one—and paired with my visible tattoos, I’m aware I stand out like an ex-military stripper.

But Joel’s grin when he sees me is wide and genuine, and when he pulls me in for a hug and says, “You’ve got your hands full with my brother, haven’t you? ” I know I’m good.

Cam’s family are… honestly, the kindest swarm I’ve ever met.

Loud and warm, they’re the sort who don’t let you stand awkwardly alone for longer than three seconds.

Tasha, the bride, wraps me in a hug that smells like expensive perfume and hairspray and whispers, “He never brings anyone. You must be special.”

Cam hears her and mutters, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath but doesn’t deny it. And that alone makes my chest feel too full.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch. Tasha looks stunning.

Joel’s practically vibrating with joy. Camden, in a dark navy suit and a tie that matches the flowers, stands up beside his brother like the proudest best man alive.

And when he catches my eye during the vows, I swear I see a softness there that’s just for me.

By the time we hit the reception, I’ve had enough champagne to remember I can in fact speak to strangers, and Cam’s hand finds mine under the table. No one’s making a fuss. No cameras. No scrutiny. Just a room full of people who love fiercely and laugh loud.

It’s informal enough that I’ve gotten away with unbuttoning my jacket and rolling my sleeves. Cam, sitting beside me, still looks immaculate—even if I keep catching him giving me that look. The one that makes my brain short-circuit and my pants feel too tight.

But now it’s speech time, and all eyes shift to the front.

Cam clears his throat. “Right, well,” he begins, gripping a pint in one hand and a few crumpled notes in the other.

“For those of you who don’t know me… you’re lucky.

I’m Camden, Joel’s younger brother. Which means, by rights, I’m funnier, better looking, and slightly more traumatised from being forced to watch him lip-sync to Westlife for most of his formative years. ”

The room bursts out laughing. Joel groans into his hands. Tasha cackles.

“But in all seriousness,” Cam continues, tone softening, “Joel has always been there for me. Through school, through rugby, through every injury, heartbreak, and hangover. He’s the one who taught me how to throw a proper punch and how to tie a tie—though clearly, I forgot that part today.”

He tugs his own knot loose to laughter.

“And Tasha…” He looks at her with open affection. “You’ve made him happier than I’ve ever seen him. You’ve made him less of a grump. You’ve even convinced him to start using a calendar. Miracles do happen.”

Laughter again.

“I’m lucky to have grown up with a brother like Joel. And I’m lucky to call you my sister now, Tash.”

There’s a warm hush.

Cam lifts his glass. “To Joel and Tasha—may your days be full of laughter, your nights full of cuddles, and your Netflix queue eternally synced.”

The toast goes up with cheers. Joel’s trying not to cry. Cam sits back down, and I take his hand beneath the table, giving it a squeeze.

“That was… genuinely good,” I murmur, impressed.

He nudges my shoulder. “Thought you might be grading me.”

“I am,” I tease. “You’re currently top of the class.”

He leans in. “Want to celebrate later?”

“Oh, I definitely do.”

His smirk could level a city.

And in this moment—this perfect, golden-lit, champagne-soft moment—I think maybe, just maybe, I’ve found exactly what I came to the UK looking for.

Home. In a tattoo shop. In a rugby pitch. In him.

The speeches are over. The desserts come and quickly vanish like they were never real. And now… now comes the dancing.

Which, apparently, Cam has been waiting for.

The music kicks in—something upbeat and retro, maybe Earth, Wind & Fire or something equally disco—and I make the mistake of thinking he’ll stay seated for at least one song.

He does not.

“Let’s go,” he says, already tugging at my hand.

I blink. “Wait, what?”

“Dance floor. Come on.”

“But I’ve only had four glasses of?—”

“Exactly,” he says, hauling me up with a shit-eating grin. “Perfect amount of coordination with none of the self-consciousness.”

And he’s right. About all of it.

The second we’re on the floor, Cam becomes a menace in human form.

A tall, overconfident, rugby-playing menace with rhythm I wasn’t prepared for.

He’s not even trying to be sexy. He’s just…

having fun. Fully committed to every hip thrust and overexaggerated arm move.

The man looks like a cross between a backup dancer for a boyband reunion tour and a dad who peaked in 2003—and somehow it works.

I’m doubled over laughing before the chorus even hits. “Cam, what the hell are you doing?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Bringing sexy back.”

“Pretty sure that’s illegal in at least four counties.”

“You love it,” he says.

And he’s right again. But it’s not just Cam tearing it up. His family? Oh, they’re bringing it.

There’s an aunt—Nessa, I think—who’s doing a dead-serious cha-cha with a man I’m fairly sure isn’t her husband.

And on the far side of the floor, Cam’s cousin Gracie is doing the worm in a dress that absolutely wasn’t designed for floor-based activity.

She pulls it off anyway. To cheers. And possibly a pulled hamstring.

A cluster of small children are rotating in a sugar-fuelled circle of doom nearby, led by an enthusiastic uncle who’s somehow managed to affix glowsticks to his ears.

I lose Cam for half a second when he gets swept into a line dance next to an older lady who insists he’s “too pretty to be single” and that she’s got a granddaughter “built like a pin-up and a certified beautician.”

Cam just laughs and points at me across the room. “Taken.”

The lady gasps. “Well, damn. Lucky him.”

I waggle my fingers.

“Flirt,” Cam mouths.

“You love it,” I mouth back.

We dance through three more songs, one dangerously close to a mosh pit, before I finally grab him by the collar and drag him off the floor.

“Hydration,” I say.

Cam’s sweaty, pink-cheeked, breathless, and still smirking. “You just want to make out behind the marquee.”

I sip my drink. “No comment.”

“You totally do.”

“Still no comment.”

“You’re very predictable.”

“Says the man who just did the Macarena and made it look like foreplay.”

He leans in, brushing his mouth against mine, voice warm and low. “You’re welcome.”

Jesus Christ.

We break apart just as Tasha strolls over, make-up slightly smudged and heels dangling from one hand. “You two are disgusting. And adorable. But mostly disgusting.”

Cam raises his glass. “It’s a gift.”

Joel appears behind her, grabbing her waist. “They’re in their honeymoon phase. Let ’em have it.”

“You’ve been married four hours,” I point out.

Joel shrugs. “Time flies when you’re already perfect.”

Tasha snorts. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

They bicker lovingly for a moment before wandering off again, and Cam turns back to me, all warmth and mischief. “You good?” he asks.

I glance around at the dance floor, the lights, the people—this riot of laughter and colour and comfort. Then I look back at him.

And yeah. I’m good.

I nod, tugging him in by the front of his shirt. “The best.”

We don’t make out behind the marquee.

Not yet anyway.

But that look in Cam’s eyes says we will.

The song shifts. The drums fade, a gentle piano kicks in, and before I can process the transition, Cam tugs me onto the dance floor and pulls me in close. He gives no warning, no words—just strong arms around my waist and the slow sway of his body inviting mine to follow.

I stumble for a beat—not because I mind, but because I’ve never slow danced before.

Not once.

But Cam makes it easy. He always does.

His hand spreads firm and warm across my lower back, the other clasping mine with surprising gentleness for someone who could probably throw me across the room if he wanted to.

My other arm hooks instinctively around his shoulder.

He’s taller than me, so broad, and his chest is solid heat against mine.

It’s like dancing with a furnace wrapped in a tailored waistcoat and the scent of cedar and spice.

I breathe it—him—in, letting myself settle into the rhythm. We’re just swaying a little, side to side, but it doesn’t matter. I’m moving with Camden fucking Crawford in the middle of a wedding reception, and nobody’s staring. Or if they are, I don’t care.

“Still with me?” he murmurs against the top of my ear.

I smile into his shoulder. “Barely. But yeah. You’re an excellent dance partner for a first-timer.”

His laugh is a rumble in his chest. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

The music curls around us, soft and sweeping.

There are lights strung up around the garden, casting everything in a warm gold.

Kids run past barefoot, a grandad spins one of the bridesmaids like he’s in a Fred Astaire film, and somewhere across the lawn, someone’s grandmother is telling a group of cousins about her fourth marriage.

It’s perfect. Odd, hilarious, chaotic—but perfect.