Planning Forever
"She plans Somali weddings for a living—knows every tradition, every vendor, every way to make a day perfect. He hires her for his sister's wedding and keeps finding reasons to meet. By the time his sister says 'I do,' he's planning his own wedding—to her."
I plan weddings. I don't have them.
Eight years of other people's perfect days. Eight years of helping brides find their dresses, grooms find their vows, families find common ground.
Then Dalmar Abdi walks into my office.
"My sister's getting married. I need help."
"That's what I do." I gesture to a chair. "Tell me about her."
He sits. Leans forward. And starts talking about someone who clearly isn't his sister.
"She's fierce." His eyes light up. "Stubborn. Independent. Knows exactly what she wants."
"Your sister sounds wonderful."
"She is." He pauses. "But I wasn't talking about my sister."
"Then who—"
"You." He holds my gaze. "I saw you at my cousin's wedding last month. You fixed a catering disaster without anyone noticing. You calmed down the bride's mother with one sentence. You're exactly what my sister needs."
"That's very flattering."
"It's not flattery." He leans back. "It's why I'm here."
The wedding is in three months.
Three months of meetings, tastings, venue visits. Three months of Dalmar showing up to every appointment even though the groom could handle most of it.
"You don't have to come to every meeting," I tell him.
"I want to make sure everything is perfect."
"For your sister?"
"For everyone involved." His eyes hold mine. "Including you."
I have rules.
Don't get involved with clients. Don't blur professional lines. Don't let handsome brothers with warm eyes make you forget why you do this.
I break every rule.
It happens at the venue visit.
Empty ballroom, golden light through the windows, just us walking through where his sister will dance her first dance.
"Can I confess something?" he asks.
"You've been confessing things all month."
"This is different." He stops walking. "I've been coming to these meetings for me. Not for Amira."
"I know."
"You know?"
"You've asked about my favorite flowers, my coffee order, my morning routine." I turn to face him. "None of that is relevant to your sister's wedding."
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I was enjoying it."
He kisses me in the empty ballroom.
Where two hundred guests will celebrate his sister's love in six weeks. Where I'll coordinate centerpieces and speeches and first dances.
Where I'm falling for the bride's brother and breaking every professional boundary I have.
"Dalmar—"
"Tell me to stop and I'll stop."
"Don't stop."
We keep it secret until after the wedding.
Professional. Appropriate. No one needs to know that the wedding planner is seeing the bride's brother.
But the wedding happens. It's perfect. His sister cries happy tears.
And at the end of the night, when everyone's gone home, Dalmar finds me cleaning up the venue.
"You do this alone?"
"I always stay until the end."
"Not tonight." He takes the centerpiece from my hands. "Tonight, you have help."
"You should be celebrating with your family."
"I am." He pulls me close. "You're my family now."
We don't make it out of the venue.
In the same room where his sister just got married, he lays me on the empty dance floor.
"This is ironic—"
"This is perfect." He undresses me in the golden light. "This is exactly where I wanted you."
He makes love to me where weddings happen.
Where vows are exchanged and futures are promised. Where I've watched a hundred couples begin their lives together.
Now I'm beginning mine.
"Dalmar—yes—"
"I love you." He pushes deeper. "I've loved you since you fixed that catering disaster."
"That's oddly specific—"
"That's when I knew."
A year later, I plan my own wedding.
Same venue. Same vendors. Same attention to detail.
But this time, I'm the one in white.
"You look incredible," my assistant says.
"I've done this eight years." I smooth my dress. "I finally get to have it."
The doors open.
Dalmar waits at the end of the aisle.
And the wedding planner becomes the bride.
Finally.
Perfectly.
Forever.