The venue was gorgeous, if she said so herself.

Emmy had spent weeks on this. Weeks of coordinating with florists, adjusting centerpieces, calling the venue to confirm the dress code for the hundredth time, ironing out napkin folds, dealing with the caterer's incompetence, and narrowly avoiding a crisis when the DJ said he'd only play Top 40. She'd fought him on it until he agreed to include a "vintage Throwback corner" for the older crowd. The place looked like a dream — fairy lights draped across the archways, peonies and baby's breath cascading down the sweetheart table, champagne towers glinting under crystal chandeliers.

And the groom's best man had the audacity to show up in a brown blazer.

Not navy. Not charcoal. Brown.

Emmy stood in the corner nursing a glass of champagne, watching the ceremony wrap up from the back of the venue. Her pastel green dress hugged her frame, her blonde waves pinned back with a small flower clip, gold wire glasses perched on her nose. She looked perfect. The venue looked perfect. Everything was perfect.

Except him.

Will Calloway — the groom's best friend — stood near the bar laughing with a group of men in blazers that looked like they'd been pulled from a donation bin. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shoes were wrong — completely wrong — and his sleeves were rolled up like that somehow saved it.

Emmy's eye twitched.

She knew the guest list like the back of her hand. She'd personally approved names, cross-referenced with the groom's plus-ones, vetted every single person. She had NOT approved a Will Calloway. She'd never heard that name in her life.

Who the hell was this man?

The reception kicked into full swing, and the bride — Emmy's best friend since sophomore year of high school — was whisked away by a cluster of family members, laughing and holding her bouquet like a microphone. She hadn't even had time to properly introduce herself to the groomsmen before someone's cousin pulled her into a photo op.

And just like that, Emmy was alone in the corner.

Alone. With a champagne glass. And a man in a brown blazer who was now walking directly toward her.

He moved with the kind of easy confidence that made women at the bar turn their heads. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of soft muscular build that suggested he actually used his body for something other than sitting in an office all day. His jaw was sharp, his hair a little messy in that intentional way that probably took twenty minutes to achieve. He had the look of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

He stopped in front of her, drink in hand — at least he had that going for him — and tilted his head.