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The whole wheel took about 30 minutes, and by the end, I felt like we’d time-traveled through every impulsive decision we’d ever made.

Which, fittingly, led us right to Yard House for dinner.

The place was packed with the kind of energy you only get on a Saturday night in Vegas—half the tables were filled with birthday parties or friend groups in sequins and stilettos, and then us, a bride-to-be and her scruffy cowboy fiancé, looking like we just rolled in from a dusty rom-com.

Our waiter lit up when he saw my sash. “Congratulations!” he said, already pulling out his phone.

“Hold up—I’m gonna get you guys some shots on the house.”

And just like that, two lemon drop shots and one slice of chocolate cake appeared, with “Congrats!” written in icing. I’m pretty sure I cried, just a little.

“This is the best day of my life,” I whispered.

“You haven’t even seen me in a suit yet,” Jon replied, kissing the side of my head.

Dinner was a glorious blur of burgers, fries, more shots, and that ridiculous cake.

I stole half of Jon’s truffle fries and declared myself a culinary genius.

He stole half of my burger and said something that may have been a marriage proposal or just him trying to get more sauce. Either way, I said yes.

We walked back to Harrah’s hand in hand, the Strip buzzing with chaos and Elvis impersonators. Back in the room, I kicked off my shoes and flopped onto the bed like a Victorian fainting bride.

“I’m starving again,” I groaned. Jon looked at me, deadpan.

“You literally just ate a half-pound burger.”

“I’ve been drinking. That resets the stomach.”

This is how we ended up ordering room service and receiving what can only be described as a pizza the size of Mars. It came in a box so big Jon had to tilt it to get it through the doorway.

“Are you feeding a soccer team?” The delivery guy asked.

“No, just two drunk lovebirds,” Jon replied without missing a beat.

We each ate a slice—maybe two—and then my brain decided it was time for the next logical step: a steamy shower to sober up. I tugged Jon by the collar into the bathroom like some sultry soap opera villain.

“Shower. Now. It’s tradition.” He raised a brow.

“Pretty sure that’s not how traditions work.”

“It is tonight. ”

The steam fogged up the mirror almost instantly, and the minute the water hit my back, I sighed like I was melting.

Jon stepped in behind me, arms wrapping around me as the hot water poured over both of us.

My crown was long gone, my hair a mess, but he looked at me like I was a damn goddess.

His hands traced slow circles down my spine, and I leaned into him, the rhythm of our bodies syncing in that quiet, private kind of way that feels both reckless and tender.

Every kiss tasted like moonshine and anticipation.

Every touch was deliberate like he was reminding me that this—we—were real.

When we finally crawled into bed, skin warm and hair damp, we wrapped ourselves in the blankets, bodies tangled and limbs too lazy to separate.

We watched Blue Bloods reruns until the dialogue stopped making sense, and eventually, we passed out, full of cake, lust, and the dumb kind of love that makes you fall asleep smiling.

The next morning came with a surprisingly little hangover, which I considered a New Year’s miracle. We downed greasy breakfast burritos from a café downstairs and drove straight to the Marriage License Bureau. The woman behind the counter barely looked up as she stamped our papers.

“Congratulations,” she said, sliding five glossy stickers toward us that read “Married in Vegas” in red and silver letters. I peeled one off and stuck it to Jon’s flannel shirt.

“Official now.” He smirked and kissed the side of my head.

“Guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Only for life.”

From there, we wandered downtown to book our slot at the Love Story Wedding Chapel.

The place looked like a rhinestoned fever dream—heart-shaped archways, a pink neon sign that said Happily Ever Vegas, and a guy named Lou who wore a powder blue tux and took his job very seriously.

“Y’all are gonna look fabulous,” Lou said as he scribbled our names into the 3 p.m. slot for January 4th.

“I feel the energy. I feel the love.”

We left with a confirmation receipt, a bag of rose petals, and a ten-minute speech on soulmates from Lou that included at least three quotes from The Notebook. Around 6 p.m., we drove to McCarran Airport to pick up my parents. My mom texted us as soon as they landed: Mom:

"We’re at baggage claim. Tell Jon he better be ready for a hug."

We pulled up and I spotted them immediately—my dad in a linen shirt like he was on a cruise, and my mom holding her phone up like a tourist who had never seen a ceiling before. I waved out the window.

“We did it,” I whispered. Jon leaned across the console, grinning.

“Time to tell ‘em.”

They loaded into the back of the truck, and once we pulled away from the curb, I turned in my seat and said, “Sooo… we got the license today.” My mom blinked.

“Wait. You mean…?”

“We’re officially booked to get married. January fourth. Love Story Wedding Chapel. There will be cake.” My dad just laughed.

“Of course there is.”

Back at Harrah’s, the hotel gods smiled down on my parents and upgraded them to a luxurious suite with a strip view, a marble bathtub, and a couch that looked more expensive than Jon’s truck.

Jon and I waved goodbye as they unpacked, and we crossed the street to Hell’s Kitchen for dinner.

I still had my sash in my purse but decided to give it a break for one night.

We dined on beef Wellington and lobster risotto, clinking glasses of wine like we were fancy people who didn’t eat Funyuns in bed the night before.

After dinner, we wandered back into Harrah’s and tossed a few bucks into the slot machines. Jon won $20 on a machine with a cartoon buffalo. I lost $40 on a sparkly mermaid-themed slot that I was emotionally attached to for no reason.

“I think I’ve peaked,” I said, staring at the spinning reels.

“You peaked when you agreed to marry me in a bar.”

We took our winnings (and losses) back upstairs and curled up in bed. I pulled the blankets up to my chin, and Jon flipped on the TV. Blue Bloods, again. Because of course. As the opening theme played, I sighed, deeply and happily.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m glad we did this our way.” Jon slid his hand over mine.

“It’s the only way I know how.”

And that night, as we drifted off with the flicker of Tom Selleck’s mustache in the background and a whole Vegas wedding ahead of us, I realized something. This might be the most chaotic love story ever and it was perfect.

We woke up to golden morning light slipping through the blackout curtains and the unmistakable sound of my stomach growling like a wild raccoon. Jon cracked one eye open and groaned into the pillow.

“You hungry or is that a demon trying to escape again?”

“Both,” I mumbled, grabbing my phone.

“But mostly just starving. I want something massive. Something sinful.”

“Like your taste in men?”

“Exactly.”

So, we ordered a massive breakfast burrito from Guy Fieri’s Vegas Kitchen.

This thing was a meat-lover fever dream: sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, nacho cheese, and some kind of spicy aioli that made my eyes roll back in my head like I was catching the Holy Spirit.

Jon moaned like he was at church too. We ate it in bed in total silence, the way you eat something sacred.

By the time we wiped the last bits of burrito grease off our faces with hotel napkins, it was already late morning, and we had one mission before dinner—retrieve the wedding cake.

We hit valet and headed to the far side of Las Vegas where Fred’s Bakery lived like a hidden treasure.

My parents decided to skip the adventure and opted to explore the Strip on their own.

They had big plans—slot machines, mimosas, and the world’s largest chocolate fountain at Bellagio. Very on-brand for them.

We drove halfway across town, winding through neighborhoods and side streets until we arrived at Fred’s.

From the outside, it looked like nothing special.

But when we walked in, the scent of almond extract and sugar hit us like a nostalgic punch in the face.

And then we saw it. The cake. It was perfect—two tiers of red velvet amaretto magic, covered in smooth white buttercream icing, with “Jonathan & Delilah” piped in black and red lettering across the bottom tier.

On top sat a pair of playing cards: the king and queen of hearts, tucked into the frosting like a little Vegas love note. Jon got misty-eyed.

“It’s like it knows us.”

“I’m gonna cry on this cake,” I warned, already taking a thousand pictures.

“Do not drop it.”

“You don’t drop it. My hands are steady like a sniper.”

We gently carried the cake out to the truck like it was a newborn child and carefully placed it on the floor of the back seat, surrounded by towels and an emotional force field.

Back at Harrah’s, we maneuvered it up the service elevator and placed it in the hotel mini-fridge, which we’d already cleared out like cake-loving professionals. It barely fit.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

“That was the most stressful part of the wedding.” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Says the woman who still has to do her hair, makeup, vows, and not trip walking down the aisle tomorrow.” I threw a pillow at him, but he caught it and pulled me into bed instead.

We collapsed into a nap, a pre-wedding siesta that felt half romantic, half necessary for survival.

When we woke up around 5 p.m., the sky outside had turned a dreamy pink-gold and the Strip was already buzzing with neon energy.

I pulled on a white dress with delicate lace sleeves, slipped back into my rhinestone crown, and draped the “Bride to Be” sash across my chest like a beauty queen on a mission.

Jon looked up from tying his boots and grinned.

“You ready?”

“I was born ready. And slightly overdressed.”

We grabbed the truck from valet and drove to Maggiano’s Little Italy, right across the street from the Trump Hotel—which, fun fact, was now infamous for a guy blowing up his Tesla there two days earlier. Vegas was nothing if not dramatic.

Dinner felt like something out of a fairy tale.

We got a cozy booth, tucked near the window with a view of the Strip, and the waitstaff treated us like royalty.

My parents joined us, my mom in a glittery shawl and my dad already two glasses into the house Chianti.

We clinked glasses, told the story of the Great Cake Retrieval, and ate enough pasta to put a small country to shame.

Jon quietly slipped away mid-meal and returned with a bottle of champagne.

“For the cake cutting tomorrow,” he said, placing it beside me with a little bow.

“We’re doing this right.”

After dinner, we piled into the truck and cruised down the Strip, windows down, the lights of Vegas twinkling around us like a live-action postcard.

We caught the Bellagio fountains just in time, the water bursting into the air in choreographed waves as Andrea Bocelli’s voice filled the night.

I leaned into Jon’s shoulder, the wind catching my crown slightly crooked. “Can you believe we’re doing this?”

He turned, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.

“I’d marry you tonight if you let me.” I smirked.

“You’ll get your chance tomorrow, cowboy.”

We dropped my parents off at the front of Harrah’s, waved goodnight, and headed straight to our room. The Strip still glowed outside our window, but inside it was calm. Cozy. Ours. I set an alarm for 8 a.m. and stared at the screen like it was my last countdown before becoming a wife.

“Sephora appointment’s at ten,” I murmured as I plugged in my phone.

“I gotta get my face snatched.”

“And you’re gonna look stunning.”

“Hair’s at one. Dress at two. Vows at three.” Jon smiled, pulling me into his arms as we sank into the bed.

“Then forever after that.” And as I lay there, head resting on his chest, I could feel his heart beating steady beneath my cheek.

My eyes fluttered closed with the comfort of knowing tomorrow, I’d be marrying the love of my life.

In Las Vegas. With a cake in the fridge and a crown on the nightstand.

Not exactly traditional. But perfectly us.