Celebration sex really is the best, I muse, feeling utterly sated. “It really…really sucks to be me,” I pant once more, allowing my body to go fully limp.

Logan laughs airily, his full weight on me, his hands gently caressing my thighs and backside as he comes down from his high. He pulls out of me and rolls onto his back, breathing rapidly. “You’re so damn good at that, Gemima,” he tells me.

“Me?” I practically shout. “Logan, I swear, you have more self control than a monk!” I exclaim, prompting him to burst into a fit of laughter. “OK, no, probably not a monk,” I amend quickly. Get your facts straight, Gem!

“I think,” Logan stammers, “I think we’ll have to learn to agree to disagree on that particular subject.”

I stare at him for a long moment, before shaking my head at his suggestion, making him laugh even more. In my mind, to my body, Logan is a sex-god. It’s as simple as that.

I clamber over him to reach my aromatic cup of coffee. Although astounding, the jolting movement of Logan behind me hasn’t exactly soothed my hangover. While my headache is all but gone, no doubt due to the overload of endorphins that I’ve just had, that bilious, gluggy feeling in my stomach is crying out for help, and I’m hoping that coffee will be my saviour.

When we’re both fit for movement once more, we migrate to the kitchen, wolfing down an enormous breakfast, waiting to hear back from Karen. After her confirmation that Taylor won’t be joining us this afternoon, we have a hasty shower and dress in suitable theme-park attire, Logan’s dark jeans and deep-red sweater inadvertently matching my black skinny leg pants and red and white polkadot jumper. If I’m going to Disneyland I might as well as dress the part, I tell myself. All I need to complete my Mini Mouse outfit is a headband with mouse ears on it; those shouldn’t be too hard to find, I think excitedly.

* * *

Hours later, we soak in the warm water of my bathtub, Logan sitting behind me, as I lean back against his broad chest, my head on his shoulder. His breathing is slow, steady, and even and I’m almost certain that he’s fast asleep. I move to the side slightly so that I can peer up at him. Yup, he’s out.

He looks so handsome, even in slumber, and so much more at ease than earlier when, true to his word, he accompanied us on a roller coaster, and while his bad history didn’t stop him from having a good time, his hangover definitely did. The erratic swirling motions weren’t a good mix after a night like we had, and although Logan was able to contain his nausea, I wasn’t so lucky. Surely, I can’t be the only person to have ever thrown up in those pristine flowerbeds that they have at Disneyland, I wonder, still feeling embarrassed about it. We left soon after, before I could be arrested for public vomiting, which I’m actually paranoid is a real offence.

We dropped Karen and Abby back in La Défense, confirmed with Logan’s parents that only they would be joining him on his trip to Marseille tomorrow — due to an apparently unprecedented Taylor Tantrum that happened while we were gone — and then we drove to mine. Some soothing tea put both of our stomachs to rest, and our relaxing bath has done the rest.

At least it was relaxing, until my mobile phone starts ringing loudly from within my pants pocket piled on the floor. Logan stirs behind me. Sloshing water everywhere, I hurriedly lean halfway out of the tub to retrieve it. It’s Amber.

Settling into the water once more, I answer in a hushed voice, “Hey, baby momma.”

She laughs happily at her new name, a sound that causes a broad smile to spread across my face. She then bombards me with questions about last night and I keep my answers short so as to avoid waking Logan fully. I then request that she tells me everything about her and Seamus’ double date with Layla and Patrick, and her detailed account means that I don’t have to say another word for the next five minutes.

It doesn’t sound like it was a huge success, and certainly not something that Amber wants to do again. It turns out that Layla didn’t make a very good impression on her. “She’s fake,” Amber tells me. “No one is that happy all the fucking time,” she says in explanation. When she’s finished giving me all of the gossip, she then gets down to her real reason for calling. “As of today, I’m six weeks pregnant, so this is a curtesy call to let you know that you should stop taking your pill now, and then maybe our babies will be born close together…”

I smile to myself as I consider her words, thinking over the last several weeks and realising that I haven’t had a period since before my first lunch date with Logan. “You’re right,” I mutter to Amber, “I do need to stop taking my pill, but not so that I can get pregnant. It’s time for code-red,” I say, code-red being our slang expression for period.

“No!” she says stroppily, making my smile grow even more.

“We don’t want babies,” I tell her for what I feel might be the millionth time. “But your persistence is admirable,” I compliment her. “Why don’t you start pestering Layla and Patrick to have a baby instead?” I then tease.

She lets out a huffy sigh which makes me laugh out loud. “Alright,” she finally concedes, “so you’re going to condemn my first born to be a loner,” she says dramatically, “but maybe I can convince you when I’m pregnant with the second?”

“Maybe,” I say, though I’m doubtful. Then, something on my hand catches my eye under the water, and I tell her, “I’m going to hang up, send you a photo, and then call you back, OK?”

“You don’t have to hang up to send a photo, Gem,” Amber informs me.

“I do,” I say pointedly.

She laughs, “Oh, yes, I forgot — your technology capabilities are limited.”

“Exactly,” I laugh too. I hang up and snap a quick photo of my engagement ring, momentarily marvelling once more in its beauty, before double checking and then triple checking that there are no naked body parts in the image, no reflections from the water or from any mirrored surfaces around the bathroom. Once the photo has the all clear, I message it to Amber, then I wait for twenty seconds before speed dialling her back.

When she picks up I can hear her sniffing, and I grin into my phone.

“It’s beautiful,” she cries. “Oh, I’m so happy for you, Gem.”

“Likewise,” I tell her. “That video of your ultrasound had me in tears,” I confess.

We chat for a further ten minutes about the many beautiful and blessed things that both of us have going on in our lives right now. Then, after agreeing to catch up later in the week, I say goodbye, hangup, drop my phone onto the pile of clothes next to the bathtub, and sink back under the water, relishing its warmth. Logan’s arms close around my middle.

Peering around at him once more, I murmur, “Sorry for waking you.”

“That’s OK,” he says sleepily. “I like hearing you talk to Amber,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Is code-red your period?”

“Yes,” I giggle, totally unabashed that he knows what it stands for; it’s not exactly a subtle nickname. “I should have it by the end of week,” I tell him, and he nods drowsily. Tired or not, Jerry would never react so nonchalantly about my period. He used to imply that I was unsanitary during this time of my womanhood. Immature prick!

“Is it painful?” Logan checks, his eyelids heavy, his hands caressing me just below my bellybutton, as if preparing to massage it better.

Despite enjoying his touch, I say, “No, baby, not usually.” But I can’t help grinning, “Though if you’re offering this type of massage, then I’m happy to pretend.”

He chuckles, burying his face into my neck, and breathing me in. “Anything to make you feel good,” he murmurs, before sleep claims him again.