Seasoned With Love – Season 2
Amara's POV
Episode: 8 Three Months Until "I Do"
Three months.
When the wedding planner said it, Luke squeezed my hand like it was a victory.
When I heard it, my stomach flipped.
Three months until I become Amara Bennett.
Three months until Luke becomes my husband.
The word still feels heavy — but not in a scary way.
In a sacred way.
We're sitting at the long table in the restaurant before opening, wedding folders spread out between invoices and supplier contracts. It feels very on-brand for us.
Love and logistics in the same space.
"Amara," Luke says, studying a seating chart draft, "why is your cousin Marcus next to my Uncle Ray?"
I glance at the paper.
"Because they're both loud."
Luke looks up at me slowly. "That's not a seating strategy."
"It absolutely is."
Luke shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"Amara, this is our wedding. Not controlled chaos."
"Luke," I reply calmly, "controlled chaos is literally how this restaurant survived."
He leans back in his chair, folding his arms.
"That's different."
"How?"
"This," he gestures to the paperwork, "is one day. I want it organized."
I soften slightly.
"Luke," I say gently, "it's going to be emotional. Not organized."
He exhales slowly.
"I just don't want anything to feel messy."
There it is again.
That word.
Messy.
"Luke," I say carefully, "marriage isn't clean lines and perfect timing."
He looks at me.
"I know."
"Do you?"
His eyes don't leave mine.
"I do. I just… I want to start strong."
"You think one imperfect detail means we won't?"
He pauses.
"No."
"Then what's really bothering you?"
Luke rubs a hand over his jaw — his tell when he's thinking.
"I've built everything in my life by controlling the outcome," he says quietly. "But I can't control this day fully. I can't control weather. Or emotions. Or whether someone gives a speech we didn't approve."
I smile slightly.
"So you're afraid of unpredictability."
"I prefer preparation."
I stand up and walk around the table, sitting beside him instead of across from him.
"Luke," I say softly, "you're not marrying unpredictability. You're marrying Amara."
He lets out a small laugh.
"That's not reassuring."
I nudge him.
"I mean it. We've handled worse than seating charts."
He looks at me for a long second.
"Amara," he says, voice lower now, "are you scared at all?"
That question lands deeper than I expect.
"Yes," I admit.
His posture shifts immediately.
"Of what?"
"Not of marrying Luke," I say clearly. "I'm scared of losing space for us."
He frowns slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want the wedding to swallow the relationship. I don't want stress to replace softness."
Luke's expression softens.
"It won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because Luke and Amara talk," he says simply.
The way he says our names makes something steady in my chest.
Luke and Amara.
Not boss and partner.
Not chef and owner.
Just us.
"We do talk," I agree.
"And when we don't," he adds, "we come back to the table."
I study him.
"You're not afraid of marrying me?" I ask quietly.
Luke doesn't hesitate.
"Not even a little."
"What if I change?"
"You will."
I blink.
"You will," he repeats calmly. "And so will Luke."
I stare at him.
"And?"
"And Luke and Amara will adjust."
There's something powerful in the way he says it.
Not romantic fluff.
Commitment.
I lean my head lightly against his shoulder.
"Luke," I whisper, "promise me something."
"Anything."
"If this planning ever starts feeling bigger than us, we pause."
He nods immediately.
"We pause."
"And if you get overwhelmed?"
"I tell Amara."
"And if I get scared?"
"I listen."
Silence settles between us, but it's comfortable.
Luke reaches for the seating chart again.
"Okay," he says lightly, "Marcus is not sitting next to Uncle Ray."
I laugh.
"Yes he is."
"Amara."
"Luke."
We stare at each other for a second before both breaking into laughter.
"Compromise," Luke says finally. "Marcus sits one table away."
"Fine," I agree.
He nods in satisfaction.
"See? Functional."
I smile.
"You like that word."
"I do."
"Marriage isn't just functional."
"It's foundational," Luke replies.
I pause.
"That's better."
There's a knock at the door. The wedding planner steps in briefly to confirm the venue walkthrough next week.
"Three months will fly," she says cheerfully before leaving.
Luke glances at me.
"You still good with three months?"
I look at him — really look at him.
Luke, who worries about linens but holds me steady when I doubt myself.
Luke, who wants order but is learning softness.
Luke, who says our names like a team.
"Yes," I say firmly. "Amara is ready."
His lips curve.
"Luke is too."
He stands and offers his hand.
"For what?" I ask.
"Dance rehearsal."
"In the middle of the restaurant?"
"Yes."
"It's 10 a.m."
"Exactly."
I take his hand anyway.
He pulls me close, one hand at my waist, the other holding mine up gently.
"Luke," I say, smiling, "there's no music."
He leans closer.
"There doesn't have to be."
He hums softly under his breath, swaying us slowly between tables that will be filled in a few hours.
"You're going to cry," I tease.
"I am not."
"You are."
"Luke does not cry publicly."
"Amara knows better."
He laughs quietly.
"If I cry, you can't tell anyone."
"Deal."
He looks at me seriously for a moment.
"Amara."
"Yes?"
"When you walk toward me that day… I won't be thinking about flowers. Or seating. Or music."
"What will Luke be thinking about?"
"That Amara chose me."
My throat tightens.
"And when I'm walking," I whisper, "Amara will be thinking that Luke is waiting."
He presses his forehead to mine.
"Then we're fine."
And standing there, swaying between prep tables and folded chairs, I realize something important:
The wedding isn't about perfection.
It's about Luke and Amara choosing each other — clearly, intentionally, publicly.
Three months.
Ninety days.
And if we can plan like this — talk like this — laugh like this —
Then the marriage is already stronger than the ceremony.
End of Episode: 8