Page 5 of The Wedding Menu

I frown down at his suit, my eyes on the undulating pattern of his blue tie, and when his hand rubs between my shoulder blades, I force myself to smile. “Well, I guess youdidfix my wedding problem.”

“Your wedding problem is hardly fixed. If anything,” he says with a dismissive gesture, “Martha will be all the more selfish now.” He looks deeply into my eyes as we resume gently swinging on the spot. “Which brings me to your solution.” There’s a beat of silence. “Fuck Martha’s wedding. When Frank proposes, you book the venue, buy the dress, the—whatever it is you said before. If it’s important to you, have the wedding you want.”

I look away with a sneer. If the solution were that simple, I would have thought about it all by myself. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“She’d hate me. I’d hate it too. We can’t have the same wedding.”

He sighs, lost in thought for a few seconds, then his eyes widenas he spins us around. “Even better: elope. Just get it done and over with. No more headache.”

Once he registers my eyes bulging in terror, he whistles. “Got it. Not an option.”

“Definitelynot an option.”

His shoulder slumps beneath my fingers. “I think there’s only one thing you can do.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t partake in an archaic ritual that has, at this point in time, lost all meaning.” When my eyebrows knit, he throws his palm up. “Marriage made sense when women were a burden for their fathers and an instrument for men who wanted to continue their bloodlines.” He clicks his tongue. “The fathers would get three cows, a goat or two, and off the women went.”

“Jesus,” I breathe out, horrified. “That’syour view on marriage?”

“It is. And that’s just marriage. Don’t even get me started on weddings.”

I study his light blue eyes, which I now notice are speckled with darker spots, and wait for him to say his piece. I don’tknowIan, but I know his piece is coming.

When his warm gaze meets mine, there’s a devilish quality to his smile that’s both concerning and inexplicably attractive. “A multibillion-dollar industry that has lots to do with status and power and little to do with marriage. Fireworks, carriage rides, doves. Impossibly pretentious food, increasingly ridiculous themes, hundreds of guests you’ve hardly even spoken to in years,” he scoffs. “Weddings are for politics, not love.”

Noticing that my face has gone slack with shock, Ian shrugs. “Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know if you’re wrong, but I’m ready to bet you’re divorced.”

Shaking his head, he laughs. “Sorry, never been married. I’m just opinionated.”

“About weddings,” I insist. Nobody hates marriage that much without a very personal story. “Why’s that?”

“No reason.” He spins me around, his breath fanning over my face as I land back in front of him. Whiskey mixed with something fresh. “I’m full of great opinions about anything.”

“Of course you are.”

“I mean it. Ask me the first thing that comes to your mind.”

“All right.” The song changes to a slower ballad. “Ariana Grande?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Shamefully underrated.”

“The color orange.”

“Not nearly as good as green.”

“Really?”

“Really. Rainy days are better than sunny days, making your bed in the morning is a waste of time, pumpkin lattes taste nothing like pumpkin, and Christmas isn’t the best holiday.”

I take in a lungful of air as I stand motionless, watching him for a long while. He must be used to it, even take some pleasure out of the shock on my face, because his smirk deepens. “Christmas?” I whisper eventually. “You’ve got a better holiday than Christmas?”

“St. Patrick’s Day. Green beer, cheerful leprechauns, unbearable bagpipe music that only sounds good when you’re drunk.” He makes a humming sound that rumbles in his chest. “Hard to beat.”

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