Page 31 of The Wedding Menu

The dining room, filled with patrons chatting loudly and clinking forks and knives against their plates, feels distant, especially as every person sitting at our table seems to have gone still. It feels like time has frozen.

Ian blinks once, twice, three times. He swallows, then remains completely still. Horrified. As horrified as I am. We’ll spend the next week in this hotel, going to the same places, attending events together. We’ll sleep under the same roof. It’s much more than I could have hoped for, but that was before I knewmyIan is Ian Roberts.

The son of the man who ruined my life.

When Barb’s elbow sinks into my hip, I notice the table has gone silent and everyone is gawking at the two of us as we gaze at each other in disbelief.

“Nice to officially meet you,” he eventually says, his voice hesitant, as if he’s not sure of his own words. “Ian Roberts, co-owner and manager of the Marguerite.”

“Amelie Preston.”

People start murmuring, hopefully unaware of the staring match going on between us. Of the fact that our whole lives just shifted. I’m the daughter of his father’s sworn enemy. He’s the son of my father’s sworn enemy—actually, scratch that.

William Roberts ismyarchenemy.

Ian must know what happened to me. At this point, everyone in the business has read the article about the daughter of Hammond Preston falling into disgrace. Now he knows that’s me. He must be putting two and two together, which means he surely knows about Frank too.

The chain around my neck and tucked under my shirt feels heavy, the air saturated and thick. Ian is here, in front of me. I’ve wanted to see him every day for the past six months, and now he’s here.

And he’s a Roberts.

Pam talks of the other speakers coming in tomorrow from all over the country, then points at two of the nearest tables and explains who’s who. Her voice vibrates with an excitement I honestly can’t bring myself to share. Food isn’t that necessary, is it? Maybe I could just skip dinner and spend my night hyperventilating with my face hidden in a pillow.

“So, how have you structured your seminars?” Pam asks, turning to Ian. She’s sitting right beside him, but he doesn’t appear to hear her: his eyes are on me, a cryptic expression on his face. He’s definitely not happy, though I can’t tell if it’s because he can’t stop looking or because he doesn’t like what he sees.

Discreetly widening my eyes, I look toward Pam, hoping to redirect his attention.

“Oh—sorry. What?”

“Your seminars? There are so many interesting ones this year. I forgot what you’ll be delighting us with.”

He nods, straightening the collar of the white shirt under his sweater. “How to cook and sell affordable French delicacies that can relate to diverse palates. The Marguerite was the first restaurant to spread low-cost French cuisine on a national level, so—”

“Tsk.”

Seven sets of eyes turn to me, and it’s the first hint that my mocking noisewasn’tinternal. Barb’s strong grasp of my thigh is another great one, but Ian’s glare takes the cake. “Yes, Amelie?”

Focusing on the menu between my hands, I shake my head. “N-nothing. Sorry.”

“Right. As I was saying, we’ve—”

“It’s…” My eyes meet his, the murmurs at the table flattening out. “You weren’t.” Everyone stares at me, waiting for what will come next. “The first ones to bring French cuisine to this country.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It is. You said—”

“Isaidwe were the first to do it at affordable prices.”

The waiter pours some wine into my glass. I could—I should—let it go. Except I can’t, because despite the intensity of my feelings for Ian, I am fighting with the hateful monster that takes over my brain every time William Roberts is involved. Though not long ago I didn’t care about him in the slightest, the past six months have irrevocably changed my mind. Ian’s father is the devil incarnate. “Same thing. And you weren’t.”

His lips disappear behind his teeth, as if he’s trying to hide his amusement. “All right, then. Who was?”

“Jaques Moreau? Even my father started long before William Roberts decided he was done doing taxes and got into the restaurant business.”

The clinking of forks and knives stops in a second as the whole table stills, Barb hiding behind her menu and mouthing,Shut up.

Ian, whose eyes narrow to slits, takes a long, deep breath, then rubs his hands on the napkin at the side of his plate. A line of white teeth peeks through his lips as he fights rising laughter. “Amelie, your father’s restaurant is not affordable. It’s pretentious, ancient, tedious.” Threading his fingers through his hair, he shrugs. “But not affordable.”

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