“I mean yes,” I shout loudly. “Yes, Logan, yes!”

I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around his neck again as I kiss him eagerly, headily. We’ve got seven minutes of prime make out time before our friends and family arrive, and aside from kissing Logan, the only thing that I am currently able do is echo his sentiment — July fourteenth can’t come soon enough.

He smiles into my mouth, and whispers, “It’s a date.”

Four months and two days later.

The cubicle lock clicks, and the door swings wide open. Amber stares up at me from the toilet, her maid-of-honour dress taking up every inch of space around her.

“I need your help,” she says, sullenly.

I stare at her for half a second before laughter overcomes me and it takes at least fifteen seconds for it to abate.

“I thought it was your job to help me pee on my wedding day? Not the other way around,” I giggle, stepping towards her and holding out my hands to pull her up. Fortunately, my dress’s design, and the fact that I’m not pregnant, has thus far allowed me private toilet visits.

Thinking similar thoughts, Amber says, “I’m almost six months pregnant, Gem. Some days I need all the help I can get.”

Once she’s standing I make myself scarce, leaving the cubicle, and walking over to the sinks, admiring the decor as I go. This bathroom is amazing, as bathrooms go. Everything at Versailles is, nothing here is less than opulent, less than stunning, or less than mind-blowing. I still have to assure myself that I’m not dreaming. We really are here, I really am married.

I gaze at myself in one of the large, adorned mirrors, while I wait for my best friend. I doubt I’ve ever looked happier, or more put together than I do right now. My dress is simply stunning — an above the ankle, champagne-coloured, strapless number that I had to trudge through five overwhelmingly large bridal shops looking for, without success. I ended up finding it by accident while strolling through Saint-Germain-des-Prés one weekend two months ago, and it was love at first sight. It fits me so perfectly, complimenting my hourglass figure, while still remaining modest. The full, silk tulle skirt is the third softest thing that I’ve ever felt against my skin, after Logan and Samuel, and from my thighs upwards the dress is decorated with gorgeous lace-work, parts of which have been replicated for my matching champagne-coloured heels.

My sophisticated up-do, with thanks to my mother, and my classic but striking makeup are both inline with the elegant style that I was hoping to achieve today, and as I gaze at myself, I revel in the feeling of pulling it off. I’ve managed to combine elegance, poise, and total calm…that’s no easy feat for me.

Amber finally reappears, beaming as she joins me at the sinks. “You look so beautiful!” she effuses.

I smile back at her, drinking in every single second of this day, committing every element of it, even this bathroom break, to memory. I don’t want to forget a thing.

“Come,” I hold my hand out to her, “our husbands will be waiting for us,” I say, excitement coursing through me.

Outside of the pavilion, standing in the warm late-afternoon sun, facing out towards the huge grounds that we’re lucky enough to call our wedding location, stands Logan and Seamus. I practically drag Amber over to them, my eagerness overpowering her slow movements.

“Just go on without me,” she says dramatically, but when I turn to look at her, she’s smiling at my obvious enthusiasm, and nods towards Logan. “Go,” she tells me.

I give her hand a tight squeeze before releasing it, and leaving her to make her way over at a more serene pace, I start marching faster than any bride ought to. Once I’m standing behind him, I wrap my arms around Logan’s stomach and tuck my chin onto his shoulder.

“Hello, husband,” I whisper.

His hands naturally glide over mine, and I feel it instantly — his new wedding ring. I hold his hand out in front of his body to gaze at the thick, platinum band.

“Sexiest thing ever,” I grin into his neck.

And it is, it really is! I’ve never felt possessive of Logan, but I can’t deny to myself how incredible the last couple of hours have been, catching glimpses of that ring on his finger, knowing what it stands for, and knowing that it’s going to stay there for the rest of his life.

Logan laughs at my words, and turns around, his hands coming up to cup my face. “Hello, wife,” he murmurs in response, looking at me with those light-green adoring eyes, and leaning in to kiss my lips.

It’s a long, heady, delicious kiss, during which I slip my own hands inside of this custom-made tuxedo jacket, letting them roam all over his delectable body. He tastes, smells, feels, and looks phenomenal. He’s a treat for my senses.

“You look even more handsome as a married man,” I tell him when we break apart.

He smiles back at me, and I try very hard to stop time for a moment, so that my eyes might rove over this breathtaking face until they’ve had their fill. His skin is beautifully tanned due to a warm and sunny Parisian summer; his hair is a lot tidier than most other days, and I have to remind myself not to run my fingers through it (at least, not until later); his strong, masculine jaw is lightly stubbled and draws my eyes up to gaze at his full, pink lips. Watching me watching him, evokes an even broader smile from Logan, and those old friends of mine, his dimples, become etched into his cheeks. Like a thousand times before, I reach up and kiss both of them.

“And you look enchanting and surreally beautiful, Gemima. You are transcendent,” he says, giving me an appreciative look up and down.

His words thrill me, as does the memory of earlier this afternoon when I revealed my decked-out self to him for the first time. His mouth hit the floor, his eyes grew uncommonly wide, and his whole demeanour lit up. Ah, the satisfaction, I muse, remembering how I swooned on the spot. His unmistakable awe made me feel every bit the blushing bride, until my own impression of him turned me into a drooling mass of lust.

Granted, I see Logan looking good on a twenty-four-seven basis, but there’s just something a little extra about the way he looks today. He wears his medium-grey wedding tux, complete with a vest and a tie that is akin to my dress in colour, with his usual mix of Logan-charm and I-want-to-get-him-naked sex appeal. His is so classical handsome and so suited to this kind of attire, that I may have suggested that he should consider modelling men’s wedding wear professionally. He probably thought that I was joking; I wasn’t.

“Are you ready for our first dance as husband and wife?” Logan asks, sounding as gleeful as I feel.

I nod vehemently, and it’s only when we start walking that I realise we are quite alone. Amber and Seamus are already half way on their way to the marquee, some five hundred metres away, where our reception is being held. I must’ve been more immersed in our kiss than I realised, I think.

“Are you going to tell me our wedding song?” I try my luck.

“Really?” Logan starts laughing. “You’ve waited four months, you can’t wait the last four minutes?” he teases playfully.

Hmm… “I can, and I will,” I decide defiantly, but I speed up my walk slightly, intent on finding out as soon as possible. “I’ve waited four months to find out about our honeymoon, too,” I say pointedly.

“I’m actually shocked about that,” Logan admits. “I figured you’d get it out of me months ago, but I guess I can tell you now that we’re married,” he says slowly, enjoying the windup. “Next weekend we’re going away. For one month,” he reveals.

“A month? Where? What about Samuel?” I ask one after the other.