Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~3 min read
The plane lands in Venice and I can barely contain my excitement.
Holden kept the honeymoon destination a secret until we were at the airport. When he finally told me “Italy,” I actually squealed.
Two weeks. Just us. No work, no family, no responsibilities.
Heaven.
“Welcome to Venice, Mrs. Reid,” Holden says as we step off the water taxi at our hotel.
“Thank you, Mr. Reid.”
The hotel is on the Grand Canal. Historic building, romantic rooms, views that take my breath away.
Our room has a balcony overlooking the water. Gondolas drift past. Church bells ring in the distance.
“This is perfect,” I say, stepping onto the balcony.
Holden wraps his arms around me from behind. “Yeah?”
“Beyond perfect.”
“Good. Because we have two whole weeks of this.”
We spend the first day just wandering. Getting lost in narrow streets. Finding hidden piazzas. Eating gelato and pizza and pasta.
Everything is beautiful. Ancient. Romantic.
That evening, Holden surprises me with a gondola ride.
“Really?” I ask as we approach the dock.
“When in Venice.”
“That’s so touristy.”
“We’re tourists.”
He’s right.
The gondolier—an older man with a singing voice—serenades us as we drift through the canals. The sun sets, painting everything gold and pink.
“Thank you for this,” I say, leaning against Holden.
“For what?”
“For planning this. For keeping it secret. For making it perfect.”
“You’re worth it.”
We pass under the Bridge of Sighs. Legend says couples who kiss beneath it will have eternal love.
Holden kisses me.
“Just to be safe,” he murmurs.
“We’re already married. Twice.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
Day two, we visit St. Mark’s Basilica. The mosaics are stunning. Gold everywhere. History in every corner.
“This building is older than our country,” I say, staring up at the ceiling.
“By about 700 years.”
“That’s insane.”
“Makes our problems seem pretty small, huh?”
“What problems? We don’t have problems.”
“Exactly.”
We spend hours exploring. Museums and churches and palaces. Then we find a tiny restaurant down a side street—the kind only locals know about.
The pasta is the best I’ve ever had.
“We should move here,” I joke.
“And do what?”
“I’ll plan Italian weddings. You’ll represent Italian athletes.”
“Neither of us speaks Italian.”
“Minor detail.”
He laughs. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
That night, back in our hotel room, we stand on the balcony watching the canal.
“One week down, one to go,” Holden says.
“Already? Time is flying.”
“Good thing we have a whole lifetime after this.”
“True.”
We stand there. Content. Happy. Together.
This is what honeymoons are supposed to be. Not just a vacation. But a pause. A breath. A chance to be just us before real life resumes.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For choosing me. For marrying me. For this.”
“Thank you for saying yes. Both times.”
We go inside. Make love with the windows open and the sound of the canal below.
This is perfect.
This is us.
This is forever starting now.
END OF CHAPTER 24
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