Page 36 of The Wedding Menu

Golfers would feel right at home.

Amelie:

Right. I don’t want that.

Ian:

No shit. Golf is boring.

With a groan, I walk toward the villa’s entrance. I’ll never find a location that isn’t either impossibly big or absurdly expensive or just a total dump, will I?

Throwing a last look behind me, I text him that I’m driving and make my way home. Once the door of the apartment closes behind me, I find a missed call from Martha, and the usual weight settles in my chest. It’s been two weeks since her text, and though she’s been moaning through most of it, I haven’t given up my dress.

I haven’t seen or talked to Frank, either, since his visit, but I’m trying not to think about that too much.

Thankfully, something—or rather someone—has been keeping me distracted.

Fetching my phone, I take my usual place by the armrest of the black leather couch and notice Ian answered my last text ten minutes ago.

I know it’ll say what he always says when I tell him I’m driving.

Ian:

Text when you’re home safe.

Though I obviously appreciate his presence in my life, it also makes Frank’s shortcomings bigger by comparison. Ian is so sweet, so thoughtful and available. But no one is so damn perfect. There’s a catch, and I’m dead set on finding it right now.

Amelie:

Are you unemployed?

Ian:

No. I work for the family business. Why?

Amelie:

You always answer all my texts within minutes. Even at night. Don’t you sleep?

Ian:

You always text me late at night. Don’tyousleep?

Yes, but I’m a chef; I often fall asleep at three or four in the morning.

Amelie:

I don’t always answer immediately.

Ian:

I sleep. When you text, I wake up.

“Oh, come on,” I say to myself. I roll my eyes and walk into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of white wine and filling a glass. “Just be despicable already. Show me your true colors.”

Amelie:

You don’t need to do that. Wake up to answer.

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