Page 45 of The Wedding Menu

His name blinks as I wonder what to do with my hands, my heart rate spiking. He’s never done this before.

My hand trembles, and after a long moment of hesitation I answer and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi,” he says in his warm, deep voice. “Hope you don’t mind me calling. I was thinking about you.”

With a newfound lightness, I walk along one of the aisles of the shop, glancing at the items on either side of me. “No, of course not.” A couple starts making out on my right, so I turn left and keep going. “I couldn’t remember your voice, you know?”

“Couldn’t you? Way to bruise my ego.”

“It’s a beautiful voice,” I offer.

“Do you remember my face? It’s my most striking feature and biggest source of pride.”

I grab what looks like a mug but on second thought could also be a soap holder and shake my head. “Really? Not your personality? Your sense of humor?”

“Nope. With these eyes? This dashing smile? My face is the best I can offer by far.” There’s some noise of plastic crinkling. “Anyway, I figured I should check on the bride-to-be.”

“That’s nice. Thank you.”

Someone next to me picks up what’s either a lamp or a record player, the scan gun in their hand beeping obnoxiously.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m…” I check the price of the “could be mug, could be soap holder” and shiver. “I’m making the wedding registry.”

“Fuck—sorry. I can call back,” he says. It sounds like he’s got his mouth full, and the awkward-sounding words make me smile.

“No, no. Actually, I could use some company. Based on the number of guests, they suggested I find about a hundred items, and even with my list I only got to fifty. I’ll be spending some time here.” Setting down what I’m increasingly convinced is neither a mug nor a soap holder and rather a paperweight, I walk to the cooking equipment.

“Well, send me the list. I’ll call the items. You look for them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. And turn on the camera so I can help choose.”

What sounded like a terribly boring afternoon has a whole different meaning if I’m hanging out with Ian, so I don’t even think of protesting. After sending him the list, I turn on the camera and smile.

Heiseating.

“Hello.” He waves, his beautiful blue eyes framed by light wrinkles as he smiles. Setting the hot dog on the paper in front of him, he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks off some of the condiment. It’s my first time seeing him in a T-shirt, and it fits him nicely, the solid black lines of his tattoos disappearing under the gray sleeves. “Ready? We’ve got a lot to go through.”

“Hot dogs and chocolate milk?” I ask when I notice the colorful box and straw. “Like a toddler?”

He spreads his arms, his hands opening wide as he frowns gently. “Hey, I’m here to help you. And you suggested cheese nachos and champagne.”

“I was joking!”

“Well, I was not. Strawberries and champagne stink, and chocolate milk is perfect at all times. Now”—he clears his voice and grabs a tablet by his side—“we’re looking for… throw blankets.” With his nose scrunched, he focuses on me. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” I complain. “I found this checklist online and—”

“Sure, throw blankets.” He claps, back to his infectious smile. “You can throw them on Frank.”

I roll my eyes, which does nothing to stop his chuckles, but I can’t say I’m truly annoyed. Not with how I feel about Frank. Though I have the decency not to say it out loud, I would like to throw something at—onhim.

Turning around, I see pillows, and I walk in that direction, assuming I’ll find blankets. “Don’t you have something better to do on a Friday evening than tend to my wedding? Parties? Dates? TGIF and all, you know?”

“I keep my partying for Tuesdays and my dating for Thursdays. Boring days of the week,” he says, biting into his hot dog. “Friday nights are when mundane chores become epic stories.”

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