His arms encase me, his lips find mine, and he kisses me headily. It’s a kiss that makes me feel drunk, hazy, and completely intoxicated by him.

I’m breathless when we break apart. “Will you always laugh at my strange, silly quirks?” I ask him quietly.

He grins broadly and nods vehemently.

“Will you always kiss me like that?”

“Always, baby.”

“Will you marry me?” I smile.

“You stole my fucking line,” Logan laughs immediately. “But, yes, I will,” he says, his voice softer, before kissing me once more and my level of intoxication skyrockets.

“Your tablet thingy is ringing, Logan,” Karen shouts to us a moment later.

We break part, both breathing heavily.

“Alright,” Logan calls back.

Reluctantly I leave the retreat of his embrace and hurriedly step into my dress. Logan zips it up for me, as I flatten the front, giving myself a very hasty once over in the long mirror. Then I step into my heels, and my outfit is complete.

“Ready?” Logan asks me.

He holds out his hand and I take it without hesitation.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

* * *

Logan’s assurance proves true — the red carpet (which is actually blue) and its mere seven photographers from various media outlets, is no cause for concern. In fact, I find myself quite enjoying the experience of standing in front of an enormous Leary Constructions banner, having my photo taken with the man of the hour. We pose with his family, all of us unintentionally colour co-ordinated. Karen’s forest-green mini dress compliments my light-green one; Mary-Gene and Abigail have both opted for red, though Abby’s is slightly more tutu-esque than her grandmother’s conservative number; and all three men wear very similar grey-shaded suits.

Like Logan promised, we move quickly past the photographers, closer to the hotel lobby, beyond which the event will be taking place in the hotel’s ballroom. Before we make it inside, we’re set upon by a small bundle of journalists, seeking a few minutes of Logan’s time. While his family sidesteps the human obstruction, I stay with Logan as he graciously answers the questions they ask. Things like: did you ever image your company would be so successful? How do you respond to those who say your company should be more green? What advice would you give to young men and women who are just starting out? What do you say to those who are critical of the fact that one of Paris’s biggest companies is owned by an American? And my personal favourite: who are you? Which is addressed, almost disdainfully, towards me.

“The other love of my life,” Logan answers, schmoozing them all like a consummate professional.

Amongst their twitters of laughter we excuse ourselves and finally enter the privacy of the hotel. Logan’s family are nowhere in sight. They must already have been ushered into the ballroom, I think.

“So far, so good,” Logan says happily. That’s one dreaded thing that he can tick off of his list.

“Baby, this is awesome,” I beam at him, already enjoying myself so much more than I thought I would. “I’m so impressed by how…how real everything is,” I blurt out. “The banners, the photographers and journalists…it’s like you’re famous!” The finesse and organisation that’s gone into tonight is obvious before we’ve even reached the ballroom, and it gets me wondering. “Who organised it all? Was it someone at Leary Constructions?”

Logan laughs loudly, as though I’ve said something completely ridiculous. It turns out that I have, because he answers, “Gemima, never, never in my life will I order someone in my own company to put on a night of appreciation for me.”

Right, I think. Duh, Gem, he’s not vain. “The AABD then?” I ask.

He shakes his head as we cross the lobby, hand in hand, following well-showcased signs, and turn down a long corridor that leads to our destination.

“The PBA,” Logan says, but when I look back at him nonplussed, he explains, “The Parisian Building Association. Anyone who’s anyone in this industry is a part of that association.”

I think back, trying to recall the name. “Nope, never heard of them.”

“Jerry didn’t mention them?” Logan asks.

Hearing his name makes my stomach lurch. “He’s not going to be here tonight, is he?” I exclaim. But before Logan can give me a response, I add, “Because if my mom sees him she will kick his ass!” It’s an irrevocable certainty.

“And I’d do it with the greatest amount of pleasure,” my mom says, only a few metres ahead of us, standing next to the large, wide double doors, through which the loud murmur of a crowd can be heard.

She’s dressed to the nine’s, and looks incredibly sexy. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her so dressed up. Her floor-length midnight blue dress shows off her curvaceous figure, accentuating her large bosom and petite waist, and I can tell from her lively face that she’s excited by the prospect of being here.

“Barbara-Anne,” Logan smiles, stepping forward to kiss her on each cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, dear. Anything for my daughter’s new beau,” she smiles back him, and her smile is actually genuine. It seems that during the last twenty-four hours she’s grown fonder of him. Good! “Sweetheart,” she turns to me, “you look resplendent.”

“Thank you,” I smile at her. “You look beddable, mom,” I say and both she and Logan laugh.

Pleasantries exchanged, Logan then stares into the ballroom, and says, “Shall we get this over with?”

I take his hand once more and squeeze it. “This is not a lynching,” I tell him. “Everything will be fine. And you’ll still be alive tomorrow.”

“That’s good news indeed,” he laughs, and I wink back at him.

I then link arms with my mom, and the three of us walk into the ballroom.

“Holy shit!” I breathe.

This is not what I was expecting at all. A medium-sized gathering, an open bar, something similar to the function that Logan and I attended ten days ago, perhaps, but not this…

I am stunned. The room is massive — there are around fifty, huge formally-set tables which only partially fill the space between us and the raised stage, which stands a hundred metres across the room. The rest of the space is filled with people. There has got to be at least a thousand people in here! My impressed state increases instantly. No wonder Logan’s apprehensive, I suddenly see why. I take in the grand splendour of the room, everybody dressed to perfection chatting away in small cliques, and I marvel that Logan created all of this. His work, his impact, his reach is the reason that one thousand people are here tonight. It’s incredible!

“This is what it must feel like to be sleeping with a rockstar,” I muse out loud.

Logan, my rock god, manages a half-smile, whilst also looking uncomfortable. “There are more people than I thought there’d be,” he says.

His apprehension brings me back from my state of awe. “You’ll still be alive tomorrow,” I repeat, reaching up to give him a quick, reassuring kiss. It’s fleeting, and yet it does something powerful. The second our lips touch, that familiar, electric spark ignites between us and immerses us into our delicious bubble. Just he and I, despite the number of other people in the vicinity.

Logan smiles back at me as if to tell me that he feels it too, and the calmness that overcomes him spurs me onwards and urges me to kiss him again. It is so gratifying to know that I am able to quell his discomfort and insecurities just as successfully as he does mine.

“Thank you, baby,” he mutters against my lips. “Will you mingle with me?” he then says.

“I’d love to,” I beam at him.

It takes us over fifteen minutes to reach the centre of the room. It’s so busy, and Logan is greeted by people left, right and centre, everyone wanting to catch his attention. The more we immerse into the room, the more he relaxes, and his permanent hold on my hand softens. When he introduces me to people, I am met mostly with wide eyes and looks of surprise before smiles and polite greetings take their place. From this reception, it’s clear that most of the people we converse with have never seen nor heard of Logan bringing a girlfriend to an event such as this. It’s stupid to be pleased by this, yet I can’t keep myself from being so. I like knowing that I’m the first woman that he’s comfortable being seen with, especially because I know that I’ll also be the last. This night will be number one of tens or even hundreds of events that we’ll go to together over the course of our marriage, I think.