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“It’s been forever since day one, baby.”
Our DJ announces our arrival from inside the tent.
“I love you, Mrs. Maddison.”
“I love you, too.” I thread my hands into Eli’s hair, stealing one more kiss from him before we head in to see our friends and family. Eli takes my hand in his, intertwining our fingers, leading us into the tent.
As my eyes adjust to the new level of lighting, much dimmer than the July sun right outside, I take in my new surroundings.
The white tent is ethereal with its strung lights, swirling with the draped fabric above us. The tables are decked out with ivory linens, pops of dark green, and flower arrangements that are too stunning for words.
Our guests clap and cheer for us as Eli raises our hands above our heads in celebration, taking me straight to the dance floor. My eyes connect with Marc’s for just a moment, the proudest, most satisfied smile across his lips, as I slip my hands around Eli’s shoulders for our first dance.
“In case you didn’t hear me the first one hundred times today,” he whispers as his hands glide along the back of my dress, resting just above my ass, “you look absolutely stunning, Logan.” He nestles his head alongside mine, his lips quickly kissing the ink of my collarbone, before his face rests in the crook of my neck while I hold him.
He may be a 6’4” cocky professional hockey player, but with me, he’s soft and sweet, vulnerable, and asking for my protection anytime he needs me to hold him, which I’ll gladly do. I’ll protect this man at all costs.
As our wedding song begins to fill the tent, my husband’s lips form into a smile against my skin, just as they have every time since he first heard this song. He found it, brought it to me, told me that it felt like someone took the words right out of his mouth, and that this had to be our song.
After my first listen, I couldn’t have agreed more.
His nose grazes my cheek, hiding away from the rest of the world as the guitar strings ease our nerves.
Eli softly sings the first lyric into my ear, for no one else to hear but me.
I’ve gotten accustomed to him serenading me whenever we happen to get a slow dance in, but I’ll never get tired of his sweet voice and his even sweeter heart.
Eli spins me out from his embrace, continuing to be infuriatingly talented at everything he does, before he pulls me back in and resumes his sweet harmonic assault.
“Tonight, I’m gonna make you my wife,” he gently sings.
We hold each other for the remainder of the song, ever so slightly moving to the music as we bask in the moment together, everyone else in the room forgotten. When the last note hits, my husband’s muscular body dips me with ease before he leans down to kiss me soft and slow.
I fucking love this man.
As the cheers echo throughout the tent, Eli wraps his arms around my waist from behind, always needing to touch me, as we walk to our sweetheart table. I’m glad we chose to do a table for just the two of us instead of with our bridal parties because today is about us, and I want to remember all the small moments together.
“This is amazing.” Eli’s eyes wander around the reception tent as he pulls out my seat. “You and Mary did such a good job.”
“It was mostly her and your aunt.”
“No fucking way.” Eli shakes his head. “You’re telling me with the amount of green in this room that you didn’t have a hand in this?” He holds up the forest green linen from his gold-rimmed dinner plate.
“Okay, that was me,” I laugh, always picking that color when I have a choice.
Drinks flow, dinner is served, and our guests mingle and eat. I continue to look out towards the tables, all our friends and family having a good time, and it still amazes me to this day that I have this many people in my life.
At one point, I catch Ali’s gaze flicker to an unknowing Marc, then, later on, I watch as my best friend keeps his eyes on my little New Yorker without her realizing.
Guests come up to our table to congratulate us, taking pictures with Eli and me, but for the most part, we are left alone to eat and enjoy each other’s company. And if you think that Eli didn’t have his palm on my leg, under the table, the entire time he ate his dinner, you’re mistaken.
“Hi, Logan,” little Ian says as he walks up to our table.
“Don’t say ‘hi,’” Eli corrects the seven-year-old. “You can say ‘hey.’”
Ian rolls his eyes with a laugh, knowing even at his young age that Eli is overly protective of us.
“You look really pretty in your dress,” Ian adds.
