The music is loud, the dance floor is crowded, and Bradley has just finished nursing his second whiskey of the night when he sees you.

You’re standing near the bar, still in your bridesmaid dress, laughing at something one of the other girls said. It’s effortless—the kind of laugh that turns heads, the kind that makes people want to be in on the joke.

Bradley wasn’t planning on meeting anyone at Bob Floyd’s wedding. He came to celebrate, to shake a few hands, to drink just enough to get through the slow dances without looking like a fool. But then there’s you.

And now?

He’s standing there, watching you over the rim of his glass, wondering why he suddenly feels like he should say something.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he moves.

He leans against the bar next to you, nodding toward the dance floor, where a group of groomsmen are attempting, and failing, to lift Bob into the air.

“So, what’s the over-under on Bob ending up on the floor in the next ten seconds?” he asks dryly, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I’m thinking we should have medics on standby.”

And just like that—the night gets a whole lot more interesting.