“Go ahead, lovebirds! Open another present!” Jillian calls out between nibbles of a homemade currant scone.

While she promised to keep this bridal shower small, the pile of presents in the middle of the room is anything but. I’ve spent what feels like hours on the couch with my knee pressed against the hard muscle of Logan’s thigh, each of us taking turns peeling tape and silver wrapping paper off of packages.

With each present opened, a new wonderful feeling bubbles to the surface. Pride. Joy. Complete and utter bliss. And most of all, disbelief that this beautiful life is really mine. A loving family, a sunny winter day, and in less than twenty-four hours, the promise of forever with the incredible man beside me.

“Go ahead, babe.” Logan nods toward the pile of boxes and gift bags, which is still awfully big, despite the hour and a half we’ve been chipping away at it. “You pick the next one.”

“No, you pick,” I say. “I picked out the last one we opened.”

“Who cares who picks!” one of Logan’s cousins shouts from the kitchen, piling a plate high with what’s left of the finger sandwiches. “If we don’t speed up this operation, the bride will still be opening presents on the honeymoon.”

Logan wraps a big, protective hand around my thigh, sparking a warm humming sensation across my skin. “No wife of mine is doing anything on our honeymoon other than sitting in her beach chair and drinking as many fruity cocktails as she can handle.”

He shoots me a wink and a warm smile, but I’m too hung up on the word wife to respond. Just one more day until I officially take on that role, and while I don’t want to wish away this precious family time, I would turn the clock forward just to make him officially mine already.

“Why don’t we save some of these for tomorrow?” I say, checking the time for the first time since we sat down. It’s nearly one o’clock, a full hour later than the invitations said this brunch would wrap up. The last thing I want to do is make a bad impression on my soon-to-be relatives.

“You can’t open these tomorrow, silly,” Jillian says. “These are shower presents. Tomorrow you’ll have wedding presents. That’s a whole different can of worms.”

All I can do is shake my head and laugh. This isn’t just an outpouring of love . . . it’s an entire avalanche. Lucky feels like an understatement to describe how I feel.

Before I can slip too deep into my feelings, Austen, who has the task of keeping track of who gave which presents, holds his wide-ruled notepad in the air. “Wedding presents? Do I have to take notes on those too?”

“No, sweetie.” His mother lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make Graham be in charge of that tomorrow.”