Page 35 of The Wedding Menu

I nod. It feels like I don’t have a choice—though, really, I guess I do.

“Can I have a kiss now?”

I press my lips against his, but I’m hardly feeling it, and when he leans closer for a second peck, I stand and walk into the corridor. “Frank?” I call. He turns to me, and with a frown I say, “One more rule.”

“Anything you want.”

“Please, keep it to yourself. If you do sleep with someone, I don’t want to be informed.”

I step into the wooden gazebo in front of me, then lean against the railings and look down at the pond where a swarm of red fish is thrashing around. Most of the spaces available at this venue are way too vast for our fifty-guest wedding, but it might also be the best location I’ve seen so far.

My phone vibrates, my pulse racing as I check Ian’s answer to my pictures.

Ian:

Nice. Better than that shack from last weekend.

Amelie:

But that terrace…

Ian:

No terrace. You can’t get married next to a bowling alley.

A light chuckle bursts out of my mouth. Though Ian is the anti-wedding man whose kryptonite is marriage, he’s been nothing but supportive since we started texting. I’d even go so far as to call him a friend. And I’m ashamed to say I might have been takingadvantage of it, texting him at odd hours with potential flower, menu, and photographer options.

Amelie:

Are you sure I’m not bothering you with this?

Ian:

Don’t ditch me right before we get to the good part.

Amelie:

What’s that?

Ian:

When you tell me what’s wrong with this place.

Amelie:

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Ian:

Pff. Please.

Fine, he’s right. Despite the cold September day, I can just imagine how perfect this garden would look like during my March wedding. The indoor spaces, though… they’re so luxurious and stuffy—nothing like the simple ceremony I envision. Nothing like the Kent Farm, which Martha has already stolen.

Amelie:

Isn’t it a little too country club–y?

Ian:

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