Page 6 of The Wedding Menu

I think of arguing back with eggnog, snow, and gift exchanges, but something tells me he’d have a strong and unrelatable opinion about those too.

There’s a charming smile on his face as we silently dance to the rest of the song, and once the music stops and Barb’s mom begins her speech, he lets me go. We’ve swung to the other side of the dance floor, away from most guests, and it looks as if the realization hits him not long after it has hit me.

For a moment we both stand there looking at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Should we go back to my table? Should we keep dancing? Should we just part ways?

“You want to hear another one of my indisputable opinions?”

I nod, relieved he took matters into his own hands.

“Cake’s overrated. It’s too sweet, too bland, too dry.” He doesn’t wait for an answer and instead rises on the tips of his toes to look over the crowd of people. “But tonight’s cake was the only good one in history. We should find it and eat some more.”

I scoff, a laugh spilling out. I’m afraid to ask whether he means we should sneak into the kitchen andstealsome cake, but before I can, Martha’s voice erupts from the crowd. “Amelie! Pictures!”

Even as frazzled as she is after sweating on the dance floor for hours, she’s breathtaking. Golden-brown locks frame her round face, her catlike eyes greener than usual, and her smile filled with exhilaration. The strobe lights illuminate her dress, making the millions of golden sequins shine like she’s some sort of mystical mermaid. When she shimmies—she must have also enjoyed the open bar—the fabric flows along her movements, her curves looking as splendid as ever.

“Speak of the devil,” I say out of the side of my mouth with a friendly wave.

As she retreats into the crowd, Ian laughs. “Thatwas Martha?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s not the pretty one. She’s—” He narrows his eyes. “Yes, she’s beautiful, but… come on.”

When he points at me, waving his hand up and down, I stifle a chuckle. Being told you’re pretty is a wonderful ego boost. Even more so when it comes from a handsome and quick-witted guy like Ian, and when your own preancé doesn’t say it as often anymore. It’s one of those things that happen with time, I guess. The small, everyday gestures fade as your comfort grows.

“Thank you.” I straighten my dress, then throw a look behind me. “I’m afraid I have to…”

He waves in dismissal. “Of course. Go ahead.”

“Sorry about the cake.”

With a playful wink, he drops his hands into his pockets. “We’ll get cake at the next wedding.”

“Right.” My fingers awkwardly play with the flaps cinching my dress, and with a quick smile I offer, “It was great meeting you.”

His pearly-white teeth peek through his lips. “Likewise.”

With a little hesitation, I turn around, then back to him again. There’s an expectant look in his eyes as we peer at each other for a few seconds, and I soak in the fact that we won’t be sharing cake at the next wedding because there likely won’t be another wedding we’ll both happen to be at. And though I’ve just met Ian, the thought saddens me.

Living in a small town like Creswell, most of the people I engage with I’ve known since I was in kindergarten, and it’s refreshing to meet someone new. Meeting someone new and getting along this well is basically divine intervention. God, I can think of at least three girlfriends I could set him up with. But he’s probably not interested, right? People at our age aren’t looking for new friends, and all I am is his entertainment for tonight.

“Just do it,” he says, his smile so bright and joyful, it’s contagious.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you’re considering. Don’t think about it.”

We share another silent yet word-filled look. Iamconsidering something. He’s right. The fact that he knows only makes my decision easier.

Fishing into my bag, I take out my phone. “Give me your number. You’ve been nice enough to listen to my problems, and if it weren’t for you, I’d still think I’m almost engaged instead of knowing my boyfriend’s creative when it comes to fiddling with himself.”

He smothers a smile.

“The least I can do is get you the only cake you ever liked.”

His brows rise for a second, and—considering it doesn’t look like he knows I’m a chef—I expect him to ask follow-up questions, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the phone, taps on the screen, and gives it back with a winning grin. “There. Oh, wait.”

He walks to the closest table and stretches toward the center, causing the guests sitting at it to give him the side-eye suspiciously. Even more so when he grabs one of the flowers belonging to the centerpiece.

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