She: Part 2 (59 page)

“
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.

“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
.”

Logan chuckles and retracts his snooping stance, but I stay where I am, briefly taking in the splendour of it all. It’s fair to say that we’ve gone all out. From the elaborate floral centre-pieces on the four large, round tables, to the custom-made cotton napkins embossed with a G and L on them, to the wood-sprung dance floor, to the bar which happily reminds me of the one at the Hotel Beaux Rêves, every decor element oozes elegance and class. Just as well, I think, considering there are at least a handful of interior designers hidden within the mass of people.

Amélie is the most noticeable of them, mainly because of her striking white dress — the social law of never wearing white to a wedding doesn’t apply to her, apparently. She’s standing with Layla, Margaret, and Madeleine Lily, who I still have to pinch myself, is now a good friend of mine. Not long after confessing my knowledge of Pierson House’s extension plans to Amélie, Madeleine called me and invited me out for lunch, and despite my inevitable fangirling, we actually hit it off. Kind of like Logan and I, I note, except without all the love and sex.

The four of them are noticeable apart from the group comprised of Amber, Seamus, Buddy, Michel (the one groomsmen), and several of Logan’s other colleagues, including Grace, Guillaume, Antoine, Benjamin and all of their significant others. Buddy and Amélie staying away from each other is an obvious move given their ongoing hostility, but I suspect Seamus and Amber — who’s deep in conversation with Grace, probably about all things babies — are purposefully staying away from Layla too, after she and Patrick ended things a few weeks back, less than amicably.

My one brides maid, Lucie, is sitting at the bar with Pedro, Bianco, and a mixture of other guests from my work, Logan’s work, and my mom’s salon. Near them, our parents and Karen are chatting away to a very dolled up Mercy and Gilles. But perhaps more eye-catching everyone else is Abigail, Noah, and Samuel, who have formed an odd camaraderie and are sitting together on the edge of the dance floor, in what is possibly the cutest trinity that I have ever seen.

With a smile on my face, I turn around and look at Logan. He’s watching me with slightly glazed eyes, as though deep in thought.

Feeling completely content, I ask him, “What are you thinking about?”

“It’s a good day to be me,” he says immediately.

“Oh, yeah?” I giggle.

“Yeah,” he grins.

“Do you feel validated?” I ask. He looks at me in confusion, so I explain, “You were right, Logan, when you saw me and thought that I’m the one…you were right.”

He smirks and shrugs, adorably. “I knew I’d get you eventually,” he says mischievously.

“
Get me
?” I laugh. “
Jeez
, we’re married two hours and I’m already objectified,” I scoff, jokingly, even though I know that, with Logan, the opposite is true. I know he’ll value me, and honour me, and love me for the rest of our lives.
Good catch
,
Gem
, I congratulate myself.

“Some of the guys at work,” Logan gestures into the depths of marquee, “used to ask me why I didn’t date more often. I used to mumble something about being caught up on a girl and all of them would tell me the same thing: there are plenty more fish in the sea. But sometimes that’s not true. Sometimes there is just
one
,” he says meaningfully, and I beam at him. “So, yes, Gemima, I’m feeling pretty fucking smug right now,” he smiles, looking more gorgeous than at anytime other point of the day so far.

We stand staring at each other, neither one of us quite able to believe our luck. Inside the marquee the smattering of chatter dies down and there’s an audible
tap tap
on a microphone. Oh, Buddy’s going to have us all in stitches on that thing, I think fleetingly, but it’s not time for his best man’s speech just yet.

Proving me right, our wedding planner says loudly, “Mesdames et messieurs…”
Ladies and gentlemen
… “Veuillez accueillir la mariée et le marié pour leur première danse.”
Please welcome the bride and groom for their first dance
. “Logan et Gemima Leary!”
Logan and Gemima Leary
.

I simultaneously squeal and jump up and down on the spot. It’s the first time that I’ve heard someone call my by my new name, and I
love
it! Laughing jovially, Logan gives me a quick kiss, before taking my hand and leading the way into the marquee where we’re received by our loved ones with cheers and applause.

A mixture of excitement, nerves, and anticipation mounts in me as we walk onto the dance floor. My heart starts pounding and once we’re stationary I look up at Logan with wide, expectant eyes.
Jeez
, he’s handsome. So handsome that I have to remind myself, no matter the song is, I
must
keep the dancing PG.

His arms slide naturally around my back. “Are you ready to start the rest of our lives?” Logan asks me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. “I am,” I say surely.

He flashes a quick smile at me, before turning to look at our DJ for the night, and nodding once. I recognise the song within the first few bars of the music. A slow ballad finally in keeping with wedding tradition, and yet it’s also so utterly
us
. Uncommon, uncomplicated, and uncompromising
.

I smile broadly, and inch as close to him as I can possibly get. A moment later we start to dance.

“Flawless, Logan, as always,” I tell him.