Page 56 of The Wedding Menu

With a long exhale, she says, “Oh, this keeps getting better.”

She doesn’t need to tell me. What happened to all that talk about her being a witch? He doesn’t seem to be acting as if she has a wart on her nose, whether literally or figuratively.

I haul Barb along the corridor and into our hotel room, where she sets up for a nap. I’m in no mood to discuss any of this, and—if anything—I’ll show Ella I’m a better cook than she is.

I try; I really do. For two hours I read my notes, go through the lectures I prepared for the week, and force myself to think about recipes and cooking techniques instead of Ian kissing Ella. Undressing Ella. Laying her down on his bed. Turning her world upside down.

God, it’s like bugs are crawling all over me; I’m going to lose my mind.

By the time I meet them again, I’ll be a bundle of nerves, but I’m sure of one thing: I won’t let him see it.

We head down to the conference room, and as we enter, Ian leans back and rolls his chair a few inches away from Ella. He turns to me, the usual twinkle in his eyes replaced by an annoyed look.

“Hi. Come in.”

I sit, keeping my eyes down on the glossy black table that occupies most of the room. After Barb and I take out our material, silence blankets us again, the chattering from outside becoming louder as people walk past our meeting room.

“Well, let’s try to make this as painless as possible.” Ella takes out a single sheet of paper. “These will be the topics of our lectures. Prepare your material based on our plan.”

Accepting the paper she’s offering, I inhale deeply. How to Run a Profitable Restaurant, class for beginners held by Ian. French Cooking for Beginners, held by Ella. Master French Sauces, Ella.Bistro Charcuterie for Beginners, Ella. The Art of Marketing, Ian. The list goes on.

They’re much better organized than I am. They have a list of the topics they’ll cover, the ingredients needed for each class, and a level of difficulty set to a five-star scale. It’s insane.

Barb shoots me a worried look.

I won’t be rude—not when my annoyance can be mistaken for jealousy—but I also won’t bend over to please Ella. This whole meeting seems to be more about us following their orders than a collaboration, and I will never follow rules set by a member of the Marguerite’s kitchen.

“Interesting.” I set the paper down and offer her my own. It’s handwritten, not a fancy Excel sheet printed out in four exact copies. And there are no ingredients or difficulty levels, only lots of notes and ideas. Some doodles, too, because that’s what I do when I’m focused. Doodle.

With a harmonious chuckle out of her perfect cherry-red lips, Ella holds her hand out. Even her fingers are enviable. Long and elegant, with a fresh coating of pink nail polish and cute golden rings. Before she can get her claws on my notes, Ian fetches them.

My eyes meet his, and he briefly smiles before focusing on the paper, his forehead creasing as he goes through the few lines of text I’ve put together.

I don’t know what to expect. My Ian of a year ago would cheer me on over the silliest thing, though he’s also always been one to dish out tough love when needed. But a Roberts? I’d expect him to spit on the paper, crumple it into a tiny ball, and throw it into the nearest bin, then sing a hymn to the devil.

When the tapping of my fingers on the table becomes the only sound in the room, I tuck my hand out of sight, trying to hide how nervous his lack of reaction is making me.

“This is good,” he says, passing it to Ella. “We should incorporate—”

She sets the paper down, her nails clicking on the table’s surface. “No. Our ideas are better.”

“We’ll incorporate our ideas,” he repeats without looking at her. “Get rid of half our topics and introduce half of Amelie’s.”

Ella glares at him, and as he returns her hateful look, I clear my throat. Not only is this not the way I’d expect Ian to behave toward his girlfriend, but it’s hardly a positive example of a healthy relationship between colleagues. “We could join our seminars on desserts and—”

“Do what you want but stay out of my way.” Ella stands, her chair screeching against the wooden floor. Grabbing her bag off the table, she turns and leaves the room in a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume.

“Sorry about that.” Ian holds on to the papers in front of him, an awkward smile bending his lips. “She’s a little…”

“Temperamental?” I ask.

He rubs his chin. “Passionate.”

Right. Passionate. She’s rude and nasty, that’s what. Nothing like him, for sure. But then again, I struggle to see his usual joie de vivre, his exuberant enjoyment of life. I’d assumed it was me, but, considering the exchange I just witnessed, maybe it isn’t.

Barb desperately tries to break the tension, saying something about chefs being some of the most stubborn and overbearing people ever, but it’s all background noise to me, because as I shoot Ian a questioning look, he stares back in a way that’s much too familiar.

His eyes glimmer, shining like they always have. And I may be projecting, but it feels like he might have missed me. I wonder if he, too, has thought about me every single day since the last time we spoke. If he’s replayed our conversations in his head athousand times over like I have, changing the parts he regrets the most. I wonder if he has any regrets at all. I have so many.

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