“Samuel’s known for ages; he’s coming with us,” Logan grins. “We’re driving to Italy, baby.”

I stop in my tracks, gasping in a mixture of surprise and delight. “We’re…We’re…Italy?” is all I mange to say.

“Yes. You, me, and Sam. We’ll be driving all over. Seven-star hotel in Venice, farm-stay in Tuscany — a whole array of different Italian experiences,” he tells me, effusing excitement.

“Logan…” I’m speechless.

He smiles at my startled face, “You mentioned that you wanted to go, so—”

“I do want to go,” I impress breathlessly, unable to believe we’ll be there for a month and we’ll be able to have Samuel with us the whole time.

“It’s all been squared with our work,” he explains, as we start walking once more, this time at a more leisurely pace. “Michel’s more than capable to run Leary Constructions, and although Amélie took some convincing, she agreed in the end,” he chuckles.

I just bet she took some convincing, I think. I’ve only just finished working on the three towers for Leary Constructions, the biggest job that I’ve ever undertaken, and now I’m going back to school. Well, virtually anyway.

Picking up on this, Logan says, “It’s perfect timing really, seeing as you’ll be studying online — you’ll be able to access your classes everywhere we have internet, and do all your practical assignments once we’re home.”

He’s really thought every aspect of it through, I notice gratefully.

“And we leave on the weekend?” I double check.

He nods, “Just enough time for you to pack. Samuel and I are already good to go,” he informs me. “Amber knows too, by the way, and I’ve assured her that if there are any signs of premature labour, I’ll put you on the first flight back to Paris.”

Wow, he’s really thought every aspect of it through. “That sounds…” There are no words. “Logan, I can’t wait!”

“Good,” he says, looking deliciously pleased with himself, and taking my inability to speak coherently as the compliment that it’s intended to be.

“Oh, today has been dreamlike,” I sigh happily, letting every memory seep into my veins.

Logan nods his agreement. “I’d wager we’ve been married for about two hours by now,” he estimates.

“So far, so good,” I comment, making him chuckle. So far, so great, more like.

The little patch of pristine garden where our ceremony took place was like heaven to me. We stood surrounded by trees in full blossom, enticing us with their colourful sight and floral scents. It was earthy and grounding and humbling to be immersed in such natural beauty, and the topiary perfection that was dotted here and there was like the extra cherry on my already very iced cake. Sure, I might be in transition into becoming a landscape designer, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that I like topiary more than any normal person ever could. One particularly stunning, ten foot high, four foot wide, trimmed green hedge, with roses a shade somewhere between white and pink stuck into it — the closest colour our florist could get to my dress — was the perfect backdrop for our I do’s.

Logan and I decided early on in our wedding planning not to do the whole bride and groom segregation-thing. There were no his and hers bachelor parties (much to Buddy’s disappointment) but rather a decadent dinner, followed by a night out at one of Paris’s most illustrious nightclubs, followed by an overambitious attempt at camping out on Logan’s roof terrace. Fucking freezing!

There were no silly superstitions about Logan seeing me before our ceremony this morning. Our entire bridal party had breakfast together at a nearby hotel where we’re all staying. Midmorning we got ready in two adjoining rooms, and the doors that linked them remained ajar the entire time, allowing me to peer through for a sneaky perve of my future husband every once and awhile. It also allowed me to confirm that the entire male half of the the bridal party is indeed wearing the underwear that my mom ordered for them — plain white cotton boxer-briefs with the words husband, best man, groomsmen, and father of the groom written over their backsides. Yep, I’ve seen my father-in-law in his skivvies!

We threw out all the usual wedding customs, opting instead for something less traditional and more us. I didn’t walk down the aisle, there was no aisle. The thirty-something close friends and family who watched us get married, formed a semi-circle in front of Logan, Buddy, Michel, Amber, Lucie, myself, and our celebrant — a non-religious, hippie-esque middle-aged woman who just so happened to officiate Amber’s wedding as well. It was casual, as weddings go, and exactly the relaxing vibe that I’ve come to associate Logan with, and which I once thought that I would never be capable of. I’m over the moon that I am capable of it, reveling in how seamless and effortless and easy everything felt.

We kept our vows short and sweet, writing them ourselves and only sharing them with each other last night, when we sparked such meaningful responses in one another that things quickly turned amorous which resulted in a night of very little beauty sleep. Not that I minded, I remind myself.

After the ceremony and our first official kiss as husband and wife, celebration drinks were served and the scene turned into a glamorous garden party. Soon after, the thirty or so guests who aren’t part of the bridal party, were ushered off on a special guided-tour of the grounds — our innovative way of keeping them occupied for an hour — before they were shown to the marquee. At least, I hope they’re waiting for us in the marquee, and not lost somewhere on the estate.

After the garden party the entire bridal party began the longest photo shoot that I have ever been a part of. It’ll be a miracle if we end up with less than five thousand photos, I think, especially considering that the company we hired sent three photographers.

“We’re probably being photographed right now,” I muse out loud to Logan.

Logan grins and scans our surrounds for any lenses protruding out of bushes. “They’ve certainly been thorough,” he says, sounding half-amused, half-harassed.

Every photo combination known to man was attempted, and after nearly every one of which, Mary-Gene could be heard saying, “I want a copy of this one.”

“I’m sure in fifty years time we’ll be overjoyed that we’ve got so many visual aids to jog our memory,” he then adds.

“I’m sure too,” I smile at him, tightening my hold on his hand.

Ideally, Logan’s brother would have taken our photographs, but Taylor’s not here. In the months after his visit to Paris, tension between the two brothers only grew. With Taylor’s inability to utter the words, I’m sorry, Logan refused to accept his presence here today, and no amount of well-meaning interfering from Karen, Rupert, and Mary-Gene, changed my husband’s mind.

Without them knowing, I pestered Logan more than he may have liked, making absolutely certain that he wouldn’t regret his decision. However, as I’ve observed him over the course of the today it’s clear that there’s not a single thing that Logan regrets. His view, like mine, is that this celebration couldn’t have gone better…and we’ve a whole evening still ahead of us, I think excitedly.

The closer we get to the marquee, the louder the hum of voices becomes. I marvel at the sight of the large crisp white tent, vaguely wondering how they get it to stay so white. We come to a stop just beside the open, arched entrance, where we’re supposed to wait until we’re officially introduced and announced as man and wife.

Both curious to see what’s happening within, we peer around the edge of the arch but are immediately spotted by our incredibly organised, incredibly bossy wedding planner, who will be the one announcing us. He gives us an enthusiastic thumbs up and then mouths, “Two minutes.”