The Wedding Planner's Own Day
"Perfect Moments has planned over a thousand weddings. When a groom's father keeps asking for her input, she discovers her own perfect moment has been waiting."
I've planned nine hundred seventy-three weddings.
Nine hundred seventy-three days of joy—none of them mine. I'm Beverly—fifty-eight, founder of Perfect Moments, forever the planner, never the bride.
"I need your opinion on something."
The groom's father stops me at the rehearsal dinner. Marcus Webb—widowed, distinguished, asking questions that feel different.
"For the wedding?"
"For life." His eyes are serious. "Can we talk?"
The wedding is his son's.
But Marcus has been at every planning meeting, every tasting, every decision point.
"Your son is lucky," I note.
"My son has my blessing. What I don't have is a reason to stay once this is over."
"Stay where?"
"In this city. In these conversations." He moves closer. "In your orbit."
"Marcus—"
"I know. The wedding is tomorrow. This is terrible timing." He takes my hand. "But I've watched you create perfect moments for others for six months. And I can't stop wondering—when do you get your own?"
"I'm the planner—"
"You're a woman who deserves to be celebrated." His thumb traces my palm. "Let me."
The wedding goes perfectly.
Of course it does. But through the ceremony, the reception, every moment I orchestrate, I feel Marcus's eyes.
"Dance with me," he says when the father-son dance ends.
"I'm working—"
"You're always working." He extends his hand. "Take one moment for yourself."
We dance while the newlyweds beam.
His arms around me, proper but present.
"When this is over," he whispers.
"When what is over?"
"Tonight. The contract. When I'm just a man asking a woman to dinner."
"Yes." The word escapes before I can stop it. "Yes."
Dinner becomes breakfast.
His hotel room, room service, pretending this is a normal beginning.
"I've wanted this since the first meeting," he admits.
"The seating chart meeting?"
"The meeting where you solved three disasters in ten minutes." He pulls me close. "I've never seen anyone so capable of creating joy while having none."
"That's harsh—"
"That's honest." His hands cup my face. "Let me give you joy, Beverly. Let me plan something for you."
He undresses me slowly.
Like removing the decorations from a venue, revealing what's been hidden beneath the work.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm not—"
"You're the most beautiful thing at any wedding you've planned." He kisses my shoulder. "And no one's ever told you."
His mouth worships me.
Down my body, finding what I've never had time to share.
"Marcus—"
"Just feel." He settles between my thighs. "For once, just receive."
When he enters me, I feel celebrated.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. This is the perfect moment."
"This is just the beginning."
Afterward, in his hotel bed, he holds me.
"Marry me."
"We just—"
"I've been planning weddings with my son for six months. I know what love looks like." He pulls me closer. "I see it when I look at you."
"Marcus..."
"Plan our wedding, Beverly. Make it perfect. Then live it."
Wedding nine hundred seventy-four is mine.
The hardest to plan—how do you organize your own joy? But Marcus helps, deciding alongside me.
"To the woman who finally gets her day," he toasts.
"To the man who made it possible," I counter.
We kiss while the guests cheer.
Some planners never stop working.
Some find someone who makes them stop.
And some perfect moments aren't for clients.
They're for the woman who deserved one all along.
Finally.
Completely.
Perfectly.