Best Man, Better Plan

An MM Wedding Bi Awakening Romance
by Jace Wilder

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MM

Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno

Tropes: Bi Awakening, Best Man x Wedding Planner, Forced Proximity, Grumpy/Sunshine, Closeted, Coming Out, Suit Kink, Semi-Public, Praise Kink, Slow Burn

He came for his best friend’s wedding. He stayed for the planner.

Owen Hart is a thirty-year-old construction foreman who’s never been to a wedding he couldn’t endure with a bourbon and a fake smile. When his best friend asks him to be best man at a lavish vineyard ceremony, Owen shows up in work boots and a sleeveless flannel and prepares to survive the week.

Then he meets the wedding planner.

Luca Ferris is sharp, polished, devastatingly competent, and everything Owen didn’t know he wanted. One week of tux fittings, late-night planning sessions, and shared crises turns professional friction into something Owen can’t stop thinking about.

But Owen has never been with a man. And Luca — who once planned his ex’s wedding while his heart broke in a cathedral bathroom — has sworn never to fall for another man who’s still figuring himself out.

One week. One wedding. One chance to stop hiding and start choosing.

✅ Best man x wedding planner MM romance
✅ Bi awakening with genuine emotional depth
✅ Semi-public encounters in wine cellars, behind curtains, and on farmhouse tables
✅ 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional, and earned
✅ HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including first-time gay sex), strong language, bi-panic and coming-out anxiety, and depictions of internalized homophobia. Intended for readers 18+.

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Chapter One: Worst Man for the Job

The vineyard was the kind of place that made you feel underdressed just pulling into the parking lot.

I eased my truck between a pearl-white BMW and a Mercedes SUV that probably cost more than my house, killed the engine, and sat there for a second staring through the windshield at Ridgewood Estate. Rolling green hills stitched with rows of grapevines. A stone manor house that looked like it had been airlifted out of Tuscany and dropped into the Hudson Valley. A fucking rose garden with an actual fountain in the center, water catching the late-September sun like something out of a magazine no one I knew subscribed to.

This was where Devin Kessler\u2014the same Devin Kessler who once ate a worm on a dare in third grade and cried about it for an hour\u2014was getting married.

Good for him. Seriously. I was happy for the guy. Devin deserved all of this\u2014the vineyard, the stone terraces, the woman who made him light up like a goddamn Christmas tree every time she walked into a room. He\u2019d been my best friend since we were six years old, and if anyone had earned a storybook wedding, it was him.

I just wished he\u2019d picked a venue where I didn\u2019t feel like I should\u2019ve wiped my boots before breathing the air.

I grabbed the garment bag from the back seat\u2014rental tux, black, allegedly my size though I had my doubts\u2014and climbed out. The gravel crunched under my work boots. I\u2019d driven straight from a job site, which meant I was in dusty jeans, a flannel with the sleeves ripped off, and probably had drywall dust in my hair. Perfect first impression for fancy vineyard wedding week.

My phone buzzed.

Devin: You here yet? Nadia\u2019s freaking out about the seating chart and I need emotional support.

Me: Just pulled in. On my way.

Devin: HURRY. She\u2019s alphabetizing by middle name now. I think she\u2019s lost it.

I pocketed my phone, slung the garment bag over my shoulder, and headed for the main house. The grounds were even more ridiculous up close\u2014manicured hedges, stone pathways, a terrace overlooking the vineyard with wrought-iron furniture that probably cost more per chair than I charged per hour. Staff in black polos moved around with the quiet efficiency of people who did this every weekend.

I found Devin on the front steps, pacing. He spotted me and his whole face broke open into the same goofy grin he\u2019d had since elementary school.

\u201cOwen! Thank God.\u201d He jogged down the steps and pulled me into a hug that nearly knocked the garment bag off my shoulder. \u201cYou smell like sawdust.\u201d

\u201cYou smell like anxiety.\u201d

He laughed, pulling back to look at me. Devin was one of those guys who\u2019d gotten better-looking with age\u2014dark hair he actually styled now, clean jaw, the kind of easy confidence that came from finding someone who loved you exactly as you were. He looked happy. Nervous, but happy.

\u201cHow\u2019s the bride?\u201d I asked.

\u201cBeautiful. Terrifying. She reorganized the entire welcome bag station this morning because the tissue paper was \u2018the wrong shade of blush.\u2019\u201d He said it with so much affection it almost hurt. \u201cCome on, I\u2019ll show you where you\u2019re staying.\u201d

He led me around the side of the manor toward a smaller building\u2014a converted carriage house with ivy climbing the stone walls and window boxes full of something purple. Inside, the rooms were clean and simple: hardwood floors, white linens, a window that looked out over the vineyard.

\u201cThis is nice,\u201d I said, dropping my bag on the bed.

\u201cNadia picked it. She wanted the wedding party close.\u201d He sat on the edge of the desk and watched me unpack, which for me meant tossing my duffel in the corner and hanging the garment bag on the closet door. \u201cYou okay?\u201d

\u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t I be?\u201d

\u201cBecause weddings make you weird.\u201d

\u201cWeddings don\u2019t make me weird.\u201d

\u201cMegan\u2019s cousin\u2019s wedding. You hid in the coat closet during the bouquet toss.\u201d

\u201cThat was a strategic retreat.\u201d

Devin gave me the look\u2014the one that said he could see through me and was choosing not to push. He\u2019d perfected it over twenty-four years of friendship. \u201cJust checking. This week is going to be a lot, and I need my best man functional.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m functional.\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019re wearing a shirt with no sleeves.\u201d

\u201cFunctional doesn\u2019t mean fashionable.\u201d

He grinned and stood up. \u201cSpeaking of fashion\u2014you need to meet Luca. The wedding planner. He\u2019s handling everything, including the tux fitting tomorrow, and he\u2019s going to take one look at you and have a stroke.\u201d

\u201cWhy?\u201d

\u201cBecause you look like you just crawled out of a construction site, and his entire brand is \u2018elegance and precision.\u2019\u201d Devin clapped me on the shoulder. \u201cHe\u2019s intense, but he\u2019s incredible. Nadia worships him. Just do whatever he says this week and don\u2019t make any jokes about bridezillas.\u201d

\u201cI would never.\u201d

\u201cYou absolutely would. Don\u2019t.\u201d He checked his phone. \u201cHe\u2019s in the ballroom. I have to go talk Nadia off the seating chart ledge. Go introduce yourself, get the schedule, and for the love of God, try to make a good first impression.\u201d

\u201cWhen have I ever made a bad first impression?\u201d

Devin just looked at me.

\u201cFair point,\u201d I said.

The ballroom was at the back of the manor house, through a set of double doors that opened into a space big enough to hold two hundred people and still have room for a dance floor. The ceilings were vaulted, all dark beams and exposed stone, with tall windows that let in slabs of golden afternoon light. Someone had started setting up\u2014round tables in various stages of dressing, a few draped in white linen, others bare. Stacks of chairs lined the walls. A trellis arch stood at the far end, half-wrapped in greenery.

And in the middle of all of it, phone pressed to his ear, one hand cutting through the air like he was conducting an orchestra of incompetence, was the wedding planner.

I stopped in the doorway.

He was pacing between two tables, his back partially to me, and the first thing I registered was the way he moved\u2014quick, precise, every gesture deliberate. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him like it had been sewn directly onto his body, slim through the waist, the jacket tapering in a way that made his shoulders look broader than they probably were. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms\u2014tan skin, lean muscle, a watch that caught the light. His hair was dark, styled with the kind of careful intention that made it look effortless, and when he turned slightly, I caught the edge of his profile: sharp jaw, straight nose, mouth pulled tight with barely controlled irritation.

\u201cNo, I specifically ordered the French hydrangeas. French. Not Dutch. The French ones are smaller and they cluster differently in the arrangements we discussed.\u201d A pause. He pinched the bridge of his nose. \u201cI don\u2019t care what you have in stock. I care what was on the order form that I sent three times, the last time highlighted in yellow with the word \u2018confirmed\u2019 in bold.\u201d Another pause. \u201cFine. Fine. Get them here by Wednesday morning or I\u2019ll find someone who can.\u201d

He ended the call, lowered the phone, and muttered, clearly and with feeling: \u201cFucking hydrangeas.\u201d

Then he turned around and saw me.

For one second\u2014maybe two\u2014his eyes moved over me. Down and back up. Not slow, not obvious, but thorough. My boots, my jeans, the sleeveless flannel, my arms, my chest, my face. It was the kind of look that cataloged everything and gave away nothing, and it landed on me like a physical thing, like a hand pressed flat against my sternum.

Something jolted through me. A skip in the current. I didn\u2019t have a name for it.

Then his expression shifted\u2014professional, smooth, a smile that was warm without being warm\u2014and the moment sealed itself shut like it had never happened.

\u201cYou must be Owen.\u201d He crossed the ballroom toward me, hand extended. \u201cLuca Ferris. I\u2019m coordinating everything this week.\u201d

I took his hand. His grip was firm, his palm cool and dry against mine, and his fingers were long\u2014elegant was the word, though I wouldn\u2019t have used it out loud. Up close, he smelled like something citrusy and clean, bergamot maybe, layered over cotton and coffee. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and sharp enough to cut.

\u201cOwen Hart,\u201d I said. \u201cBest man.\u201d

\u201cI know.\u201d That quick smile again. \u201cDevin talks about you constantly. He said you\u2019d probably show up looking like you\u2019d been dragged here against your will, and he wasn\u2019t wrong.\u201d

I looked down at myself. \u201cI came from work.\u201d

\u201cClearly.\u201d He said it without malice, almost with amusement, but there was an edge there\u2014a precision to the way he spoke that made everything feel like it was being measured. He released my hand and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. \u201cHere\u2019s the schedule for the week. Tux fitting tomorrow at ten, bachelor party setup Wednesday, rehearsal Friday, ceremony Saturday, reception Sunday. I\u2019ve blocked time for the best man speech run-through on Friday afternoon.\u201d

\u201cSpeech run-through?\u201d

\u201cYou are giving a speech, aren\u2019t you?\u201d

\u201cYeah, but I don\u2019t need to rehearse it.\u201d

One eyebrow lifted. Fractionally. It was devastating. \u201cHave you written it?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ve got ideas.\u201d

\u201cIdeas.\u201d He repeated the word like I\u2019d said I was planning to wing a TED Talk. \u201cWe\u2019ll schedule the run-through.\u201d

He handed me the paper. Our fingers brushed\u2014his index finger slid across the side of my thumb, brief and incidental and absolutely meaningless\u2014and I pulled my hand back too fast. Like I\u2019d touched a hot pan. Luca\u2019s eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face. If he noticed the flinch, he didn\u2019t comment on it.

\u201cAny questions?\u201d he asked.

A dozen. None of them about the schedule. I was suddenly and acutely aware of how close he was standing, of the way the late afternoon light hit the side of his neck, of the fact that his tie was slightly loosened and I could see the hollow of his throat. My brain snagged on that detail and held it, turning it over like a coin, and I didn\u2019t understand why.

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cWhere\u2019s the bar?\u201d

His mouth curved. \u201cIt\u2019s three in the afternoon.\u201d

\u201cAnd?\u201d

\u201cThere\u2019s a wine tasting room in the east wing. Help yourself. But if you show up to the fitting hungover tomorrow, I will make your tux intentionally uncomfortable.\u201d

\u201cIs that a threat?\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s a promise.\u201d He held my gaze for one beat longer than necessary, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the tables, already pulling out his phone for the next call. Over his shoulder: \u201cNice to meet you, Owen. Try not to break anything this week.\u201d

I stood there, paper in hand, and watched him go. Watched the way he moved through the room like he owned it, already talking to someone else, that sharp voice softening into something charming and persuasive. He adjusted a chair as he passed it, a tiny correction, automatic and precise, and kept walking without breaking stride.

My pulse was doing something weird. Too fast, or maybe just too loud\u2014I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in the center of my chest. It was the kind of feeling I associated with the moment before a fight, or the first drop on a roller coaster. Adrenaline without a clear source.

I told myself it was the drive. Three hours in the truck, not enough water, too much coffee. That was all.

I headed for the wine tasting room.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of introductions and logistics. The other groomsmen\u2014Jake and Tommy, friends from college\u2014arrived around five and immediately started giving me shit about everything: my truck, my shirt, my inability to name a single grape variety during the tasting.

\u201cIt\u2019s wine,\u201d I said, taking another sip of something red. \u201cIt tastes like wine.\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019re a Neanderthal,\u201d Jake said cheerfully. He was already on his third glass and had started using words like tannins and mouthfeel with zero irony. Tommy, who\u2019d been Devin\u2019s roommate sophomore year, was on his phone showing us pictures of his new baby. The kid was cute. Everybody\u2019s lives were moving forward.

Dinner was in the main dining room\u2014the full wedding party minus a few people arriving later in the week. Nadia was radiant and slightly manic, her dark eyes bright, her hands always moving, adjusting things that didn\u2019t need adjusting. She hugged me hard when she saw me.

\u201cOwen. Thank you for being here.\u201d

\u201cWouldn\u2019t miss it.\u201d

\u201cLiar. Devin said I had to bribe you with an open bar.\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s slander.\u201d I paused. \u201cThere is an open bar though, right?\u201d

She laughed and kissed my cheek and went back to her seating chart, which had evolved from a spreadsheet into something that looked like a war-room conspiracy board.

Everyone laughed. I reached for my wine and, for no reason I could explain, looked across the room.

Luca was at a side table near the kitchen door, laptop open, barely eating. His jacket was off now, hung over the back of his chair, and his tie was fully loosened, collar undone by one button. He was frowning at his screen, one hand dragging through his hair\u2014the first time I\u2019d seen it less than perfect\u2014and his lips were moving silently, mouthing numbers or names or complaints about hydrangeas.

He looked tired. Not the kind of tired you could fix with sleep\u2014the kind that lived under your skin, in the set of your jaw and the tension across your shoulders. The kind that came from caring too much about too many details for too many people.

I wondered when the last time someone had taken care of him was.

The thought arrived fully formed and uninvited, and I didn\u2019t know what to do with it. I blinked, looked away, and reached for the bread basket.

\u201cYou good?\u201d Devin asked.

\u201cYeah. Great.\u201d

He studied me for half a second, then let it go.

After dinner, the party migrated to the terrace with wine and whiskey. The night was warm enough to sit outside\u2014late September at its best, that golden-hour quality lingering past sunset, the vineyard darkening to silhouettes against a sky going purple.

I leaned against the stone railing, bourbon in hand, and let the conversation wash over me.

Something ached in my chest. Not jealousy, exactly. Something adjacent. A wanting without a shape. The sense that there was a frequency everyone else was tuned to and I\u2019d been holding my dial on the wrong station for years, close enough to hear static, never close enough for the music.

\u201cLong day?\u201d

I turned. Luca was beside me at the railing, a glass of red wine in his hand. He\u2019d appeared without sound, like a well-dressed ghost. Up close, in the dim terrace light, the sharp angles of his face softened slightly, and I noticed things I\u2019d missed before: a thin scar through his left eyebrow, the faintest dark circles under his eyes, the way his collar stood open against his neck in a way that made something low in my stomach tighten without permission.

\u201cYou\u2019re going to look good in that tux tomorrow,\u201d he said. Quiet, half into his wine glass. Almost like he hadn\u2019t meant to say it out loud.

My face went hot. Full-on, collar-to-hairline heat, the kind I couldn\u2019t blame on the bourbon. \u201cI\u2014thanks.\u201d

\u201cDon\u2019t thank me. Thank whatever gym you clearly attend.\u201d He pushed off the railing, professional mask snapping back into place so fast I almost thought I\u2019d imagined the last thirty seconds. \u201cI should get back to work. Early morning tomorrow.\u201d

\u201cOwen?\u201d

\u201cYeah?\u201d

\u201cWrite the speech. Don\u2019t wing it. He deserves the real words.\u201d

He disappeared into the manor before I could respond.

I stood at the railing and finished my bourbon and watched the dark vineyard and tried to figure out why my heart was hammering like I\u2019d just sprinted up a flight of stairs.

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