Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
The wedding planning was, predictably, a disaster.
Not because Ivy and Bash couldn’t agree. They agreed on almost everything—small ceremony, local venue, good food, none of the pretentious wedding industry nonsense.
The disaster was everyone else.
Mrs. Fletcher had opinions. Strong opinions. About flowers. About seating arrangements. About the fact that they absolutely needed a string quartet.
“We want a DJ,” Ivy said patiently.
“DJs are for children’s birthday parties,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “This is a wedding.”
“Our wedding,” Bash said. “Which means we decide.”
“Young people today have no sense of tradition.”
Mayor Whitmore wanted to officiate. Margot wanted to plan the bachelorette party (and had ideas that made Ivy blush). Leo wanted to cater the entire wedding himself (which Bash vetoed immediately).
“This is getting out of hand,” Ivy said after the fifth unsolicited opinion of the day.
“We could elope,” Bash suggested.
“Don’t tempt me.”
But they didn’t elope. Because despite the chaos, they wanted to celebrate with their community. With the town that had supported them. With the people who’d watched them fall in love.
So they made compromises.
Small ceremony at the town square—the same place they’d won the food festival award. Reception at their house—intimate and personal. Guest list capped at one hundred—close friends and family only.
Food would be a collaboration. Bash would handle savory courses. Ivy would do desserts. They’d hire help for service so they could actually enjoy their own wedding.
“This is good,” Ivy said, reviewing the final plan. “This feels right.”
“Agreed.”
“Now we just need to survive the next three months of everyone else’s opinions.”
Bash kissed her forehead. “We’ve survived worse.”
Bash’s bachelor party was Leo’s responsibility.
“Nothing crazy,” Bash warned. “No strippers. No Vegas. Just—something low-key.”
Leo grinned. “Trust me.”
Bash immediately regretted every decision that led to this moment.
The “bachelor party” turned out to be a cooking competition at Moreau’s. Bash versus five of his chef friends, judged by a panel of local food bloggers.
“You made my bachelor party a work event?” Bash asked.
“You LOVE work events,” Leo said. “Plus, this way you can’t complain about being dragged to a strip club.”
“I… actually appreciate that.”
The competition was fierce. The trash talk was brutal. Bash won (obviously). They drank good bourbon and told stories about their worst kitchen disasters.
“This was perfect,” Bash admitted to Leo later. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now don’t screw up the wedding.”
“Helpful.”
Ivy’s bachelorette party was Margot’s domain.
“I swear to God, if you take me to a strip club—” Ivy started.
“Please. I’m way more creative than that.”
The bachelorette party was a wine-tasting tour followed by a private pasta-making class at a nearby Italian restaurant. Six of Ivy’s closest friends. Good wine. Lots of laughter.
“This is amazing,” Ivy said, slightly tipsy, molding pasta dough. “You’re amazing. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Margot said. “And I’m so happy you found Bash. Even if he is grumpy.”
“He’s less grumpy now.”
“True. You’ve domesticated him.”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘helped him find his joy.'”
“Romantic way of saying domesticated.”
They laughed and drank more wine and made terrible pasta that they ate anyway.
On the drive home, Margot said, “You ready for this? Marriage? Forever with the same person?”
Ivy didn’t hesitate. “So ready. He’s it for me. My person. My home. Everything.”
“You’re going to make me cry.”
“You’re already crying.”
“Shut up.”
One week before the wedding, Bash had a moment of panic.
Not about marrying Ivy. Never about that. But about being a good husband. About being enough.
He called his mentor—not Laurent, but Chef Marie, the woman who’d taught him pastry at culinary school. The one good mentor he’d had.
“I’m getting married,” he said.
“Sebastian! Congratulations! Tell me about her.”
He told her about Ivy. About Sweet Haven. About falling in love despite himself. About building a life that felt sustainable and joyful.
“She sounds wonderful,” Marie said. “So what’s the problem?”
“What if I’m not a good husband? What if I’m too focused on work? Too damaged? What if I can’t give her what she needs?”
“Sebastian, listen to me. Marriage isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up. Every day. Choosing your partner. Again and again. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love her?”
“More than anything.”
“Does she love you? Even the difficult parts?”
“She says so.”
“Then you’ll be fine. You’ll fight. You’ll mess up. You’ll hurt each other and have to apologize. That’s normal. But if you keep choosing each other, keep communicating, keep trying—you’ll be more than fine. You’ll be happy.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
“Stop calling me Chef. We’re colleagues now. Call me Marie.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
“And Sebastian? Send me a photo from the wedding. I want to see this woman who made you soft.”
He did. And when the photo arrived later—him and Ivy laughing, covered in flour from the dessert tasting—Marie texted back: “Perfect. She’s perfect for you. Be happy.”
Three days before the wedding, Ivy had her own moment.
She was stress-baking (of course) when Bash found her at 2 AM.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Making our wedding cake. Again. The first three weren’t right.”
“Ivy, it’s 2 AM.”
“I know! But it has to be perfect! This is our wedding! What if people hate the cake? What if I’m not good enough and everyone realizes I’m just a girl who got lucky—”
Bash turned off her mixer.
“Hey—”
“Listen to me,” he said. “You’re spiraling. The cake is perfect. You’re perfect. And in three days, we’re getting married. None of the details matter as much as that.”
“But—”
“No buts. We could serve gas station cake and it wouldn’t matter. Because we’re getting married. We’re making this official. And that’s all I care about.”
Ivy’s eyes filled with tears. “I just want everything to be perfect for you.”
“It already is. You’re here. You said yes. You’re going to be my wife. That’s perfect.”
She kissed him, tasting like vanilla and tears.
“Three days,” she said.
“Three days,” he agreed.
“Then you’re stuck with me forever.”
“Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
They cleaned up the kitchen together and went to bed. And Ivy thought: This is it. Three more days and I’m marrying my best friend.
She couldn’t wait.
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