She Agreed to Help Plan a Wedding, Not Knowing the Billionaire Groom’s Friend Would Love Her
A Buttercream Beginning
Harlo Avery didn’t expect to drop a three-tiered wedding cake onto a billionaire’s custom Italian loafers. But that’s exactly how she met Vance Monroe.
“Move!” she yelled as she stumbled through the country club’s swinging kitchen door. Her arms were wobbling under the weight of the elaborate cake.
But the tall man in a dark suit didn’t move. The cake slid, her heel twisted, and three layers of buttercream and edible gold collapsed onto the most expensive shoes she’d ever seen.
There was a pause. Then a low voice said, “Well, that’s one way to make an entrance.”
She looked up, horrified. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and way too calm for someone now covered in frosting. His dark hair was effortlessly styled, his jaw was sharp enough to cut diamonds, and his eyes were even worse.
They were staring at her like she had just landed from another planet.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, grabbing handfuls of napkins from the dessert table. “I swear I didn’t mean—”
“You must be Harlo,” he interrupted, brushing fondant off his sleeve.
She froze. “How do you know my name?”
Vance gestured toward the ballroom. “You’re the wedding planner’s assistant, right? The one helping with my best friend’s wedding.”
Her stomach dropped. “You’re the groom’s friend.”
He nodded, his lips twitching into something vaguely amused. “Vance Monroe. Best man. Also, apparently, your first casualty of the night.”
She wanted to crawl under the table again. “I am so, so sorry. This was supposed to go to the tasting room. I didn’t realize someone would be just standing there.”
He stepped forward and gently took the napkins from her hands. “It’s just cake. Relax.”
But nothing about him said “relaxed.” His suit looked like it cost more than her entire monthly rent. His watch gleamed, and when he moved, people stepped aside. Still, she tried to smile.
“Well, you’re being awfully cool about it. Most guys would have started yelling.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Last week, a horse sneezed on me during a polo match.”
She blinked. “Wait, you play polo?”
He gave a casual shrug. “Sometimes. For charity, of course.”
Before she could respond, a woman in a headset appeared behind her. “Harlo, you were supposed to have the cake sample in the tasting suite ten minutes ago. What happened?”
Harlo turned red. “I, uh… there was a slight frosting incident.”
Vance spoke before the woman could explode. “Entirely my fault. I got in the way.”
The woman glanced between them, clearly unconvinced, but she nodded and disappeared back into the ballroom. Harlo exhaled. “Thank you, seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. Then he tilted his head. “Tell you what. Let me buy you a drink tonight as an apology.”
She stared at him. “You want to buy me a drink after I ruined your shoes?”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
The drink turned into two. They sat at the edge of the venue’s rooftop bar with city lights glittering below. She learned he was from New York but had grown up in Connecticut.
He ran a firm that invested in green energy startups. Yes, he’d been a billionaire since thirty-two. He learned she was originally from Portland.
She had moved to LA last year to chase a fresh start. She only took this wedding assistant gig as a favor to her cousin Quinn, the actual wedding planner.
“It’s temporary,” she said, sipping her cocktail. “I’m trying to figure out what I really want next.”
He leaned closer. “What do you want?”
She hesitated. “Something that feels like it matters. Something that’s mine.”
Vance’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “I get that.”
The air changed. She felt it—that low, thrumming tension. It was the kind that made your skin warm and your pulse quicken. She looked away first.
“I should probably head back down,” she said. “There’s still a lot to prep before the rehearsal tomorrow.”
He nodded, but his voice was quiet. “I’ll see you around, Harlo.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the way he said her name or the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long. But something about it made her heart skip.
Over the next week, she saw him everywhere. Every time she turned around at the venue, he was there. He was helping the groom with tux fittings or managing last-minute travel details.
He was somehow always nearby when she was juggling flower deliveries or flipping through seating charts. Every time, he made her laugh.
He teased her about her overstuffed planner and brought her a coffee exactly the way she liked it. He listened when she muttered under her breath about centerpieces being delivered in the wrong shade of ivory.
“You know this isn’t your job, right?” she said once, after he helped her carry twenty floral arrangements into the ballroom.
“I like being useful,” he said.
“Don’t billionaires have, like, assistants for this?”
“I do,” he said. “But she’s not nearly as fun to argue about peonies with.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. There was something about him. Sure, he was polished and powerful, but he didn’t act like he was above anything.
He listened, laughed, and noticed things. She hated that she noticed him, too, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be behind the scenes.
This wasn’t her love story. It was someone else’s wedding.
