The morning opened clean and bright over Montage desert greens leaning into black rock, the Sea of Cortez drawing a silver line I could measure my breath against. This was a romantic one from the first minute, elegant in that quiet way where every choice feels inevitable.
Paige got ready by a window where the light behaved soft, directional, faithful. She looked like a model because she is one, but what stayed with me was how unforced she felt: shoulders easy, laughter close by, beauty that didn’t try. Her dress was stunning lines so precise they made space for movement and the makeup artist they’d flown in did exactly what you hope for: revealed, not disguised. Down the hall, Colby had that polished ease that photographs love sharp suit, steady hands Barbie and Ken if those dolls ever learned how to look at each other like that.
The ceremony unfolded in the Montage gardens, floral work everywhere but never shouting petals like breath along the aisle, color braided into green. Parents on both sides were attentive in a way that made the moment feel held: a mother’s gaze catching on a veil edge; a father rehearsing his smile before the processional and then forgetting to, because feeling took over. Guests settled into shade; the breeze tugged the fabric once, then softened. When Paige and Colby met at the front, the air changed temperature. Vows moved through the room like a tide no one wanted to resist. The kiss landed, and the garden answered with a small, honest cheer.
We walked the property at golden hour, letting the horizon do its work. The rocks kept their heat; the wind played with her veil and I let it misbehave. I framed them long against the water, then close his hand finding the small of her back, her mouth tipping toward his name. They laughed the kind of laugh that makes editing difficult later, because you want every frame.
By evening, the reception had that low, amber hum candlelight folding into glass, reflections pooling in the water. Speeches stitched the families together; I watched for the in-betweens: a napkin pressed to a happy tear, knuckles tapping time along a table edge, a glance traded across flowers and found without effort. When the music took the room, they didn’t perform; they just stepped toward each other and the crowd fell away. It was elegant, yes, but also uncomplicatedly joyful two people having a genuinely good time in a place built to hold it.
For the last photograph I placed them where the sea drew its line cleanest behind them. “Stay there,” I said, and they did foreheads nearly touching, her dress catching a whisper of wind, his hand resting like a promise already kept. Click. The garden exhaled. The night gathered itself. And the whole day felt exactly as it was: very beautiful, very them, and full of flowers and love.
