"Vance, can you grab the champagne from the cooler? We’re running low at the head table," Isabella called over the hum of the wedding reception, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as she hurried toward him. She held a clipboard in one hand, her dark curls bouncing with every step, her cheeks flushed from the chaos of the evening.

Vance, the groom’s best man, was leaning against the bar, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. He glanced at Isabella, the wedding planner, who was effortlessly commanding the room despite the chaos. Her fitted navy dress hugged her curves, and her sharp green eyes darted around, assessing every detail. Vance couldn’t help but notice how her lips pursed in concentration as she scanned her clipboard.

"Sure thing," he said, pushing off the bar. "But you owe me a dance later for all this manual labor." Isabella raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on her lips. "We’ll see," she replied, already turning to address a waiter. Vance watched her for a moment, then hesitated, his hand brushing hers as he reached for the clipboard. "Isabella," he started, but the DJ’s mic screeched, cutting him off.