Page 85 of Full Tilt
18
Brent
I was warnedabout 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 forprepare 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 andhairspray 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 onewho 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.
