“You okay?” Mason asks me, looking down at my white knuckles as they clutch the armrests.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. Underneath us, the plane jolts a little as it starts to taxi. I let out a tiny squeak, and Mason grabs the hand nearest him and gives it a supportive squeeze.

“Did you take your Dramamine?” he asks.

“Yeah. About half an hour ago.” I give him a tight smile. “So I should be okay.”

It’s one of the great ironies of my life that I should hate flying as much as I do, when one of my goals has always been to travel and see the world. Mason laughed like hell when I finally confessed it to him on our first plane trip together. But he’s been amazing and supportive about it, doing everything he can to make sure I’m as comfortable as possible when we fly.

We just got done paying my dad a week-long visit. We’re on a plane that’s leaving Omaha, Nebraska for Chicago, where we’ll connect to a flight that’s bound for Paris.

And our honeymoon.

Mason only told me where he was taking me last night. Back in Springville, when we were packing our bags for this trip, all he said was that I should bring the passport that he made me get a few months ago. He’s made all the arrangements himself, including the hotel, and apparently reservations at some fairly nice restaurants recommended by his team’s owner.

“Remember when we were first together, and I wanted to know where you would go when you were able to start traveling?” Mason asked me last night. We were snuggled together in the single bed of my childhood bedroom, his arms wrapped tightly around me. “Paris was the first place you mentioned. So, I figured a romantic honeymoon in Paris was pretty much a no-brainer.”

I laugh and lay my head on his chest. “I can’t believe you remember that conversation. But it’s the perfect choice, Mason. I can’t wait to see it with you.”

Our honeymoon has been a long time coming. We got married six months ago, but that was in the middle of football season, so we couldn’t go anywhere for longer than a couple of days. But now the season is over. Mason recently got re-signed to the Rockets. This time it’s a three-year contract, which means he can start to breathe again. And we can start to think about Springville as our semi-permanent home.

I moved in with Mason three months after his brother’s car accident, even though I kept paying my half of the rent until Harriet could find another roommate. To a lot of people, that might have seemed fast — except that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, we were already engaged. The story about me being Mason’s fake fiancée eventually died down, until everyone but the wackiest conspiracy theorists concluded it had never been true. Mackenzie’s reputation took a hit because of it, but she’s still working at WSPR. Apparently, she and Nathan broke up a while ago. Rumor has it she’s sleeping with Ethan, my former boss. But I don’t know if it’s true, and honestly I don’t really care.

We fly Daddy out for home games as often as we can. He and Mason get along like a house on fire. We’re working on getting him to move to Springville permanently, so he’ll be closer to us as his illness progresses. I think Mason almost has him convinced.

The flight from Omaha to Chicago is short and uneventful, but Mason holds my hand the whole time. About an hour into the connecting flight to Paris, I finally start to relax, and he tells me he’s going to take a nap.

“Thank God for first class,” he jokes. “This seat is bigger than the bed the two of us have been sleeping on for the past week.”

“Don’t sleep too much,” I warn him. “The travel guides say the way to beat jet lag is to treat this like one long day, and not go to bed until it’s nighttime when we get to Paris.”

“My little world traveler,” Mason teases me.

“Shut up,” I mutter, punching him in the shoulder. He laughs and leans back, closing his eyes.

While Mason sleeps, the flight attendant comes by to check on us and see if we’d like anything to drink. I refused the complimentary champagne they offered us before takeoff, and thankfully Mason didn’t seem to think anything of it. He still doesn’t drink in public, and I’m guessing he just assumed I didn’t want to drink by myself. I ask the attendant for a bottle of water for each of us. Then I settle in with my Kindle and open up one of the romance novels I stocked up on for the trip.

I read one entire novel, watch two movies, and take advantage of the in-flight Wifi to check my emails and mindlessly flip through social media for a while. There’s a smattering of work emails, including two from my boss, Carly Mitchell. I’ve been working as a staff sports writer for the local newspaper, the Springville Gazette, for the past nine months. It’s not quite full-time, and the pay is a fraction of what I was making at my old job. But I’m a million times happier there than I was at WSPR. And most importantly, I get to do a job that I didn’t get because of my looks.

Carolyn’s first email is to compliment me on an article I submitted to her right before I left, speculating about whether the Springville Rockets would be bringing on a new team manager after a series of mishaps with the current one last season. Where Mason’s team is concerned, I made it clear to Carolyn when she hired me that I would only write stories about the Rockets when it wouldn’t involve any conflict of interest or potentially exploit the fact that I’m Mason’s wife. Thankfully, Carolyn was more than understanding about that, and she’s been careful not to put me in any situations that make either Mason or me uncomfortable.

The second email from Carolyn is to apologize for emailing me about business when I’m on my honeymoon, and telling me to have a great time.

All in all, I manage to keep myself awake for the entire flight. Mason, predictably, sleeps the whole way to Paris. That man could sleep through a marching band parading through his bedroom, I swear. He tells me his ability to sleep on airplanes comes from long experience traveling to away games. I don’t waste the opportunity to spend a little time staring at my smoking-hot husband, and feel a proprietary little thrill every time one of the flight attendants shoots an admiring glance his way. Which, on an eight-hour flight, is quite a lot.

A few times, I look down at my engagement ring, and the silver wedding band with diamond chips that is now nestled next to it. I think back to our wedding, and to how handsome Mason was that day. How proud my dad was to see me getting married, and how happy he was that he was still healthy enough to be able to walk me down the aisle. Mason’s parents were there, of course, beaming at both of us as we stood in front of the wedding officiant and promised to love and support each other until the end of our days.

Harriet was my maid of honor, of course. She and Mason have even struck up a sort of friendship — although he still calls her a Willy Wonka reject sometimes when she pisses him off. And in true Harriet fashion, she makes sure to piss him off as often as possible.

Derek was there, too. He’s back in Florida now, living a few miles away from his parents. After he got out of the hospital, he went in for another stint in rehab. So far, it seems to be taking. He apologized to the family of the little girl he struck, and he’s been volunteering as a speaker who goes around to local high schools and talks about the dangers of driving under the influence. He says the little girl’s family hasn’t forgiven him for what happened, but also that he doesn’t expect their forgiveness. “I don’t deserve it,” he says honestly. “I took away their daughter. It’s not their job to make me feel better about it.”

Mason and Derek are slowly mending fences. I don’t think they’ll ever be very close, but all the same I can see it makes Mason happy to have his brother back. And I know Robert and Patsy are thrilled.

Once we’ve landed in Paris and gone through customs, we follow the signs in the airport that lead us to the taxi stand. Mason pulls a printed page out of his pocket with the name and address of our hotel and gives it to the cab driver, who is very friendly but speaks almost no English. The airport is a ways out of the city, and I spend the cab ride staring out the window and watching as the buildings grow larger and more packed together. Then, the cabbie takes an exit off the highway, and all at once, we’re in the center of Paris. Everywhere I look are small, winding streets full of bakeries, sidewalk cafes, and people walking little dogs. It feels like we’re driving through the middle of a movie. I turn to Mason with wide, excited eyes to see him grinning at me in amusement.

“You look like a little kid on Christmas morning,” he says.

“Like a little kid on Christmas morning in Paris!” I correct him.

A bunch of times on the way to the hotel, I catch myself actually holding my breath because I can’t believe we’re actually here. We drive over a bridge at one point, and actually see the actual freaking Eiffel Tower off in the distance. I squeal in excitement and grip Mason’s hand tighter. He laughs and leans over to kiss my neck. His touch sends little shivers through me, like it always does. In the front seat, the cabbie chuckles and says something neither of us understands.

When we finally get to the hotel, what’s even better and more unbelievable is the fact that Mason has gotten us a room with a balcony that has a gorgeous view of the city, with the Eiffel Tower in plain sight.

“It was harder than you’d think,” Mason tells me when he comes out to join me on the balcony after tipping the bellhop. “From all the movies and posters and stuff, you’d think you couldn’t go anywhere in the city without seeing the damn thing. But I told the travel agent that a balcony with a view of it was my one non-negotiable. Like it?”

“Mason, I love this! I love you.” My eyes are filling with happy tears, but I blink them away. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

He laughs. “That’s probably because you’re half-delirious. You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”

He’s right, I am tired, but my fatigue is no match for how excited I am. I drag him back outside into the bright Paris sunshine as soon as we’ve put the contents of our suitcases in the dresser and closet. We spend the day wandering the streets of our neighborhood, and have lunch at a cheery-looking café. We stop at the windows of pastry shops, and sample intricately-made delicacies with impossible-to-pronounce names. In the late afternoon, we stroll along the Seine and stop at the outdoor terrace of a bar overlooking the river, to sit and watch the world go by.

By dinnertime, jet lag is definitely starting to take its toll on me. Instead of going to a restaurant for dinner, we opt to eat in and make an early night of it. We find a bakery and a cheese shop down the street from our hotel, and a little corner market where we buy fruit, a bottle of wine, and some sparkling water.

Back at the hotel, we bring our feast out on the balcony and look out at the city as we eat. Mason opens the bottle of wine and starts to pour me a glass.

“Just a drop,” I say, stopping him. “I’m already tired. It’ll put me right to sleep.”

He pours me just enough to wet the bottom of my glass and we toast.

“To my beautiful wife,” he says.

“To my handsome husband.”

“Just handsome?” he winks. “You left out sexy, virile, fantastic in bed…”

“Cocky,” I add.

“Hey, it’s not cocky if it’s true.” He points his glass at me and takes a sip.

I stand up from the little cafe table. “I’ll be right back. I have a present for you.”

“A honeymoon present?” He frowns. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Um, hello?” I spread my hands. “You got me Paris, with a view of the Eiffel Tower. I think you’re covered.”

I go inside and rummage around in my carry-on bag until I find the small, flat package I’m looking for.

“You know,” Mason says to me when I go back out on the balcony, “I didn’t think I’d like Paris that much. But I could get used to this.” His eyes twinkle. “Hell, my last name is French. We’d fit right in. Ever thought about living in France, doll?”

“Well,” I say slowly, “I think there’s gonna be a problem with that.”

“What?” he smirks.

“Open your present.”

I slide it across the table to him. He pulls at the thin ribbon tied in a bow around the package, then shreds the pale yellow tissue paper underneath.

The familiar red, black, and white colors of his team peek through the wrapping. Mason holds up his present, a look of bewilderment on his face.

It’s a Springville Rockets onesie. With Mason’s number on it, and Robichaud on the back.

“I don’t think they play football in France,” I murmur. “And it looks like we’ll be starting our team in about eight months. So you see, relocating could be a bit of a problem.”

“Holy shit, Anna.” He looks at me like I just told him we won the lottery. “Holy fucking shit! How long have you known?”

“Just a couple of days,” I say. My voice has suddenly gone wobbly. “So, you’re happy, right?”

“Happy?” Mason’s up and at my side in an instant. “This is the best fucking day of my life.” He’s grinning at me like an idiot. “We’re gonna have a baby!” he yells at the top of his lungs, informing the entire city of Paris of our news.

“Mason!” I cry, putting my hand over my mouth and snorting. “You’re going to get us literally kicked out of the city of Paris.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m just fucking excited. Jesus, I feel like I just did a line of coke.” He stares at me, giddy. “Hey, I have an idea!” he blurts out, coming over to me and lifting me out of my chair.

“What’s that?” I ask, laughing.

“Let’s fuck to celebrate!”

Mason carries me inside, and we “celebrate” vigorously, and repeatedly, until it’s long past dark.

“Anna,” he breathes against my neck. I shiver. “You’re gonna be a mom.”

“I know,” I whisper. “And you’re gonna be a dad.”

“I bet this will be just the bargaining chip we need to convince your dad to finally move to Springville,” he continues. “What grandpa could resist the prospect of moving closer to his first grandbaby?”

I laugh happily. “I know. If only we’d thought of this months ago, we could have saved a fortune on plane tickets.”

Mason pulls back to look at me with a face that is suddenly dead serious. “You know I’ll do the best job I can, right? This is a big deal. I am gonna be the best goddamn dad any kid has ever had.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I plant a kiss on his lips. “I think you’re gonna kill it as a dad, Mason.”

Outside our window, the Eiffel Tower lights up like a beacon.

“This is amazing,” I breathe. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

Mason pulls me close. “Happy?”

I nod. “Unbelievably. I love you, Mason.”

“I love you, Anna. Forever.”

We sit there in the dark, Mason’s words echoing in my mind. Forever. I can’t believe how incredibly lucky I am that I get to spend the rest of my life with this man. The story of how we got together might not have been the most traditional, and most people will never know the real truth of how it all happened. But I wouldn’t trade a second of any of it for anyone else’s story. All of it brought us to where we are today. And I couldn’t possibly be happier with anyone else than I am with Mason Robichaud.