Page 130 of The Wedding Menu

He gazes at the screen, his lips parted. Slowly, his thumb scrolls down, reading the slew of texts I sent him, dating back six months. “You texted.”

“Of course I did.”

His hand moves to his mouth, his eyes wide-open as he scrolls more and more. “You texted me pickup lines.”

“Every day for six months—except for one Saturday when I ran a fever so high, I didn’t text you because I could see you in the roomwith me.” As he keeps scrolling, I stroke his soft, gorgeous hair. “And I called, too, every once in a while. Just to check if I was still blocked.”

His eyebrows rise higher and higher as he goes through the texts, as if he’s not even listening to me. He smiles, then chuckles at one of the pickup lines—I’ll have to ask which one it is—and shakes his head, until eventually he sets the phone down. “Amelie, I never blocked you.”

“Hmm… yeah, you did. See how there’s no checkmark next to the text? That means I’m blocked. And if I call you, it goes straight to voicemail. Another sign I’ve been blocked.” At his questioning look, I shrug. “I might have done some research.”

“Why would I block you?” He shakes his head, then hops off the bed as he points at my phone. “Do you have the right number?”

Frustrated, I sigh. Yes, I have the right number. Does he really think I’d spend months texting him pickup lines, hoping he’d decide to talk to me, without being sure?

Once he’s back on the bed, I show him his contact. His lips purse, so I know it’s just fine. With a dubious shake of his head, he quickly taps on his phone, and eventually he lets out a puff of air. “You—you’re blocked.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I don’t remember blocking you.”

Well, that’s weird. It’s not exactly something you forget. Racking my brain, I think of a possible explanation, and judging by his pensive expression as he unblocks me, he must be doing the same. “I called you a few hours after you left the wedding, once I had dealt with the guests, and I was already blocked.” Tracing the curve of his neck with my hand, I sigh. “You weren’t really looking like yourself that day. That’s probably it.”

He nods, his forehead furrowed in confusion. “Yeah, I guess. I can hardly remember driving back home. Then I got so drunk,I… that’s probably when I did it.” He sets his phone down, then quickly grabs it again. He taps on it a few times, and when my phone beeps with a text, he releases a deep breath. “Just checking.”

With a smile, I move both phones out of the way and nestle against his chest. He looks so sad, I almost wish I didn’t tell him. “It’s okay, Ian. We’re here now.”

“But if it wasn’t for the ICCE, we wouldn’t be here. You would have moved on eventually, and tonight would have never happened.”

I pull him closer until his arms lock around me. “You don’t know that. Maybe fate would have brought us together some other way.”

“Fate?”

I nod. “Fate. Destiny.”

Nose buried in my hair, he inhales deeply, and I can’t help a huge smile from taking over my face. Then he says, “Maybe fate brought us here, but I’ve worked pretty hard for everything else that happened, and I’d like some recognition.”

My heart is filled with such happiness, it might just burst. After all that’s happened, I never thought we’d be here, but we are.

For the moment I choose to ignore the prickly feeling at the base of my throat, the question echoing through my mind over and over again.

This thing between us—does it have an expiration date?

“You can use store-bought beef stock for making your espagnole, but use a low-sodium or unsalted stock. You don’t want to concentrate the saltiness, especially if you plan to use the sauce to make another one you’ll also reduce. Season at the end instead.”

I glance at the nodding faces and strain the sauce, showing the audience how smooth it is as it falls into the bowl.

“And—”

The door opens, and Ian pokes his head inside. “Hi,” he says, his eyes landing on me. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

“Of course.”

Barb takes my place as I leave the room, and once the door is closed behind me, Ian’s lips are glued to mine. The taste of coffee and Ian is so good, they should make a candy out of it. “Is everything okay?” I ask when he lets me lean back a little. Not that I mind the interruption. I wasn’t that invested in the lecture to start with; who would be, when there’s a man like Ian I could be with instead?

He tugs at my hand as he walks toward the hall of the hotel. “Everything’s okay,” he says. He keeps strutting away and dragging me along. “But everything will be even better when I bottom out inside you.”

Oh. My stomach clenches, my body flushing so fast and hard, I might just spontaneously combust. “We’ll have to use your room,” I say, the thought of contradicting him not even on my radar. “My keys are in my bag—back there,” I say, pointing to the room I just came out of.

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