Father McKenzie beams as Emma and I approach. "Ladies, shall we make this official?"
"God, yes," Emma says. "Before something else goes wrong."
"Nothing's going to go wrong," Dax assures her, taking her hand. "We're getting married, the roads are clearing, and your best friend found her happiness. What could go wrong?"
"You did not just say that," Emma hisses. "That's like asking the universe to drop a meteor on us."
"The celestial forces are aligned," Carol Anne calls out helpfully. "No meteors today."
The ceremony is simple and perfect and completely chaotic in the best possible way. Father McKenzie speaks about love and commitment while someone's toddler provides runningcommentary from the audience. Emma's vows to David are heartfelt and snarky in equal measure. David's response makes her actually tear up, which is a minor miracle considering Emma usually cries at insurance commercials.
Then it's our turn.
Logan speaks first, his deep voice carrying clearly through the room. "Savannah, I promise to fight for you, for us, every single day. I promise to never let fear make our decisions again."
Griff steps forward, his usual cocky charm replaced by something deeper. "I promise to make you laugh every day, to never let you take life too seriously, and to love every stubborn, wonderful part of you."
Xavier's vows are precise and heartfelt. "I promise to build a life with you that's worthy of what we've found. I promise to never let you doubt that you're exactly where you belong."
My own vows come out steadier than I expected. "I promise to stop running. I promise to trust that what we have is strong enough to weather any storm. I promise to love all three of you, completely and without reservation, for the rest of my life."
When Father McKenzie asks for rings, the guys produce those stacking set of rings.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Denver and the grace of God," Father McKenzie announces, "I now pronounce you married, both couples. You may kiss your brides!"
The kiss that follows involves all three of my husbands and definitely violates several public decency laws. Emma's enthusiastic wolf-whistling from three feet away only makes it better.
The reception unfolds like beautifully orchestrated mayhem. The teenage brigade has appointed themselves as entertainment coordinators, setting up music and keeping the younger kids occupied. Griff works the crowd like a politician, charming stories and laughter out of everyone. Logan and Xaviercoordinate the logistics with the efficiency of a military operation.
I find myself pulled into conversation after conversation: Rita Castellano gushing about true love, the matchmaking committee taking not-so-subtle credit for the outcome, Mrs. Lee accepting compliments on her emergency alteration work.
"So," Emma says, appearing at my elbow with two glasses of champagne that definitely weren't part of the original reception plan, "how does it feel to be Mrs... what are you calling yourselves? Stone-Blackwell-Pierce is a bit of a mouthful."
"We'll figure out the logistics later," I tell her, accepting the champagne gratefully. "Right now I'm just trying to process that this actually happened."
"Best. Wedding. Ever," she declares, clinking her glass against mine. "Although I'm totally taking credit for the romantic ambiance."
"You mean the blizzard that trapped us all here?"
"I prefer 'divine intervention.' Sounds more intentional."
I laugh, watching Logan spin some teenager around the makeshift dance floor while Griff provides terrible karaoke vocals and Xavier adjusts the sound system with the patience of a saint.
"They're good together," Emma observes, following my gaze. "Your alphas. They balance each other out."
"They balance me out too," I admit. "I never thought I could handle three personalities that strong, but somehow it works."
"Because you're just as strong as they are," she says simply. "You just forgot for a while."
The evening winds down with the kind of magical exhaustion that comes from perfect chaos. Guests start trickling out as the roads clear, hugging and promising to share photos and demanding invitations to future celebrations.
The matchmaking committee departs in a flurry of satisfied commentary, already plotting their next romantic campaign. Mrs. Lee packs up her sewing arsenal with the air of someone who's saved the day. Even the teenage task force gradually disperses, leaving behind a venue that somehow looks better than when we started.
Finally, it's just Emma and Dax, Logan and Griff and Xavier and me, standing in the glow of twinkling lights and candle flames.
"Well," Emma says, surveying the beautiful aftermath around us, "that was definitely not the wedding I planned."
"Was it the wedding you wanted?" Dax asks, slipping his arms around her waist.
