BEST MAN

Harper didn’t usually dread weddings — she liked the energy, the dancing, the excuse for good champagne — but this one had her nerves prickling before she even arrived.

Because he was going to be here.

The best man.

The man her best friend had warned her about.

The man she’d met once and immediately wished she hadn’t… because forgetting him afterward was impossible.

Jackson Cole.

When she stepped into the reception tent, the glow of string lights warming the fabric overhead, she saw him almost instantly. He stood near the head table, bow tie undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked like trouble wrapped in charm, with a smile that suggested he knew exactly how much attention he drew.

He saw her, too.

And his smile changed — slow, recognizing, edged with something unspoken.

Great.

Just great.

Harper forced herself to look away and headed toward the bar.

“Champagne?” the bartender asked.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please.”

She took a sip, letting the bubbles settle her nerves. She could blend into the crowd for the rest of the night. No need to interact with—

“Harper?”

She stiffened.

Jackson stopped beside her, hands in his pockets, expression maddeningly casual.

“I thought that was you,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“You’re the best man,” she replied. “It would be weird if you weren’t.”

He laughed softly. “Fair. Still… nice surprise.”

She lifted her champagne. “To the happy couple.”

He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “To surviving weddings.”

She rolled her eyes but hid a smile behind her sip.

The band switched to a soft, romantic melody, couples drifting to the dance floor like they’d been waiting all night for it. Harper’s stomach tightened.

Please don’t ask me to dance.

Please don’t—

“Dance with me?”

She nearly choked on her drink. “What? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, flustered, “we don’t… dance.”

“We’ve never tried,” he countered.

He extended a hand. Not pushy. Not smug. Just there.

Like he already knew she’d say yes.

She shouldn’t.

She knew she shouldn’t.

But her hand lifted anyway.

He led her onto the dance floor, guiding one hand to his shoulder and resting his palm gently against the small of her back. The warmth of it seeped through the fabric, unsettling her focus.

“You tense,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

She shot him a glare. “You don’t know me.”

He smiled — slow, devastating. “Don’t I?”

The music swelled. They moved in easy rhythm, almost like their bodies had rehearsed it without their permission.

She felt his breath near her temple.

Felt the strength in his hands.

Felt something shift — something she’d pretended wasn’t there.

“You keep your distance,” he said softly, “and I’ve always wondered why.”

“Maybe I don’t like trouble.”

“And maybe,” he murmured, “you do.”

Her heart thudded.

She tried to step back, but his hand tightened slightly — not enough to trap her, just enough to ask her to stay.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s a dance. Not a contract.”

“Feels like more than that.”

His eyes flicked to her lips, just for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

The music dipped into silence, the song ending. But Jackson didn’t move away. He stayed close, breath mingling with hers, like the world around them had faded into background noise.

“Harper,” he whispered, “if I kiss you right now… would you hate me?”

She exhaled shakily.

“No,” she whispered. “But I should.”

And then — slow, asking permission with every inch — he leaned in.

 

Jackson didn’t kiss her immediately.

He hovered — inches from her mouth, breath warm against her skin — long enough to give her every chance to step back. Long enough for her pulse to pound so loudly she wondered if he could hear it.

“Harper,” he whispered again, voice low, almost hesitant, “tell me to stop.”

She should.

She knew she should.

But the way he was looking at her — like she was the most unexpected thing to happen to him all night — unraveled her defenses one by one.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathed.

And that was all it took.

He kissed her, slow at first, deliberate, like he was memorizing the moment. His hands framed her waist lightly, not pulling, not demanding — just holding her steady. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he deepened the kiss by a fraction, testing the waters, testing her.

It was soft, warm, and impossibly gentle for someone who looked like trouble incarnate.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads brushed, breaths uneven.

“That…” he murmured, “wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Definitely not.”

Her voice wobbled.

“Do you regret it?”

She hesitated — just long enough for his expression to flicker.

“No,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.

“Come outside with me,” he said. “Just for a minute.”

Before she could talk herself out of it, she nodded.

⸻

Outside the Reception Tent

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the wooded edges of the venue. String lights flickered against the dark sky, creating a cocoon of warm gold around them.

Harper rubbed her arms, suddenly aware of the cool breeze.

Jackson shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and draped it around her shoulders without a word. The gesture was oddly intimate — not dramatic, not showy — just natural, like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He stood in front of her, hands tucked into his pockets, studying her quietly. For once, he didn’t look like a man with jokes lined up on his tongue. He looked… unsure. Vulnerable, even.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’ve tried not to think about you.”

His voice was quiet, but direct.

“I’ve failed every time.”

Her breath hitched. “Jackson…”

“I know I’m not your type. And I know you think I’m reckless and impulsive and… probably kind of an idiot.”

“A little.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair.”

“And this is your best friend’s wedding,” she added. “Not exactly the ideal place for—”

“For what?”

He stepped closer — not touching her, but near enough that the cold stopped reaching her.

“Jackson—”

“For what, Harper?” he asked again, voice low.

Her words tangled in her throat. Because she knew.

They both did.

This wasn’t a fling born from champagne bubbles or wedding romance.

This was something they’d been dancing around since the moment they met.

Finally, she whispered, “For making a mistake.”

“What if it’s not a mistake?”

Her heart jumped painfully.

He cupped her cheek gently with one hand — a slow, careful movement, nothing like the confident man she thought she knew. His thumb brushed just under her eye, tender and almost hesitant.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked.

She nodded once, breath trembling.

This kiss was different.

Still warm, still slow — but deeper.

Like he wasn’t asking for permission anymore, but offering it.

When they finally broke apart, the noise of the reception carried faintly through the plastic walls of the tent. Laughter, music, glasses clinking — the world kept going, unaware of the fault line shifting under their feet.

“We should go back in,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Before someone comes looking for the best man.”

She smiled. “Or the bridesmaid.”

He slipped his hand down her arm, fingers briefly brushing hers — a quiet promise — before stepping back.

“I want to see you again after this weekend,” he said. “No dancing around it. No pretending we’re avoiding each other on purpose.”

Her heart tightened. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

His eyebrows lifted, hope flickering behind the question.

“Okay,” she confirmed, smiling slightly.

Jackson let out a slow, relieved breath.

“I’ll take that win.”

As they stepped back into the warm glow of the reception tent, Harper realized something simple, undeniable, and terrifying:

She wasn’t falling for the best man.

She had already fallen.