“Niilo,” I reply. “And congratulations.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
“Niilo is Finnish,” Roman puts in, before adding a small geography lesson, “From Finland, which is in Northern Europe, near Sweden. And Russia.”
Olivia looks amused as she pats his arm. Roman looks embarrassed enough to never open his mouth and speak again.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she says kindly. “What sort of wedding traditions do you have in Finland?”
“There are sometimes games,” I admit. “The guests might steal the bride, and the groom has to perform tasks to get her back.”
Olivia drops her head back and laughs, throaty and loud, the way someone entirely comfortable with themself would laugh.
“Well, shoot. Looks like I’ve blown my one and only wedding—nobody is going to try and steal me,” she says, pouting. “Come on, you. No more hiding. I was promised one dance and I mean to get it. Nice to meet you, Niilo, I hope you’re having a good night.”
She tugs Roman’s arm. He sends a somewhat pitiful look my way, but allows himself to be led. I mouthtomorrowat him and he brightens, sharing another small smile before he’s spirited away.
I stand at the base of the stairs, watching the back of him as he walks away. Skirting the edge of the party, I slide back behind one of the bars and smooth a hand down the front of my vest. For the first time since the wedding started, my smile is genuine.
