I follow Austen’s smile toward the top of the Christmas tree behind us. Somehow, these idiots managed to swap out the star with our bride and groom wedding cake topper. It’s lopsided and dumb, and somehow also fucking delightful—so very much like my family.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my cousin pick up Matt’s guitar to quietly tune it, and my distracted thoughts settle as the soft music begins, signaling the entrance of the bride. My stomach constricts with eager anticipation.

Here comes the love of my life.

When the barn doors open, my entire body lights up like a bonfire. There she is. Summer, an absolute vision in white. With a long lace skirt floating around her and a plunging neckline that has my head swimming, perfect is an understatement for the woman before me. My bride. My wife. She knocks the wind out of me more than any puck ever has.

Grandpa Al is looking pretty dapper himself in a modest tweed suit and tie, albeit a little wobbly as he walks her down the aisle. It’s less of a giving away of the bride in this case, and more of a welcoming home. When Summer places her long, elegant fingers in mine, I want to freeze time and hang on to this moment forever.

“Hi,” she whispers soft enough so only I can hear. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I whisper back.

I could say it a thousand more times, shout it for everyone to hear for hours on end. But instead, I say the only thing that’s more powerful than I love you.

I say, “I do.”

And when the minister says, “man and wife,” Summer Tate becomes my family. My forever.

The reception passes by in a blur of well wishes and teary-eyed smiles. Though I somehow manage to hug everyone and thank them for coming, I can’t think about anything other than Summer’s hand in mine. Her wedding ring is cool against my fingers, and with every touch of her palm to mine, pride swells in my chest.

This woman is my wife. My wife. How I managed to pull that off, I’ll never know. I’ve certainly changed a lot from the grumpy bastard she first met.

I can’t tell you a single thing any of my brothers said in their speeches. But Summer occasionally giggles and wipes away tears with the corner of her napkin during the speeches.

“Congratulations, man,” Graham grunts, smacking a hard hand against my shoulder. He nods to the bar. “Can I get you another beer?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Graham grumbles something about the nutty tones in the latest batch overpowering the other flavors, but I tune him out in favor of gazing across the candlelit tabletops at my wife. She’s laughing with my mother, probably swapping embarrassing stories about me.